Page 9 of The Image of You

I had forgotten about Tommy. I’d text him later.

“Fine.” I shifted in the uncomfortable bed. “I, ah, I need to, um—”

“What?”

“Um—” I indicated the door behind her, and I was shocked at my inability to say it out loud. I huffed. “I need to hit the head.”

“Oh, of course.” She nudged the cart out of the way and lowered the bed. “You may be dizzy. Stand up slowly.”

Swinging my legs out of the bed, I stood, surprised to find she was right. The floor tilted, and I reached out. Alex’s arm came around me, and I leaned heavily into her, blinking for a moment to clear the white spots flashing across my eyes and get my equilibrium back. “Whoa,” I breathed out.

She looked up at me from my side. “Are you always this stubborn?”

I grinned down at her. She was like a pixie, tucked perfectly under my arm. I hadn’t realized just how tiny she was until I stood beside her. “You’re just a little thing, aren’t you?”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “I’m big enough to take on the likes of you, buddy.”

Buddy?

I chuckled all the way to the can. I kept chuckling as she handed me a set of scrubs to change into, asking me briskly if I needed help. I let her off the hook, finished up, and got dressed myself, gingerly brushing my hair away, wincing at the sight of my bruised forehead in the mirror. Another scar to add to the collection. My longer, wavy dark-brown hair was matted in places with blood and bits of gravel, the random shots of silver showing in the bright light. I could see the bruise was going to extend down, the color already forming around my eye socket. My eyes were bloodshot and sore, the eyelids heavy. The golden brown of my irises were barely visible, and I looked exhausted. I splashed some cold water on my face, the temperature feeling good on my cheeks. I ignored the rest of the mess—it would have to wait until I could go home and shower.

I faked being dizzy so I could put my arm around Alex again on the way back to the bed. I liked how she felt next to me.

“Can the IV come out now?”

“Yes. Sit down, and I’ll take it out.”

She helped me sit on the bed, and I noticed her looking at the ink that ran up and down my arms. Her eyes were wide as she took in all the tattoos revealed on my skin. The whole time she removed the IV, her eyes kept drifting toward the images. I was puzzled at the feeling of wanting to share this part of myself with her. I was usually more reserved.

“You can touch them if you want,” I offered, when she finished securing a small square of plastic covering the injection site.

She stepped closer, transfixed, as she traced the various designs with her fingers. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, as she traced the swirls and patterns.

“Do you like them?” I asked curiously.

She nodded. “Do they mean something?”

I shrugged. “Yes and no. They’re all symbols of legends and myths.” I traced the dragon’s tail. “My father used to read to me a lot,” I explained. “Medieval stories.” I pointed to the sword. “King Arthur, dragon slayers, that sort of thing. I got my first one at eighteen.” I grinned at her. “They are rather addictive.”

“So I’ve heard. The work is beautiful.”

So was she.

“But you don’t like needles?” She sounded puzzled.

“Tattoos are different. The hum of the machine, the slight bite of the ink—it’s not the same as a sharp jab of a normal needle. Hard to explain, but it doesn’t bother me.” I winked. “And I never look until it’s done and the blood is wiped away.”

“Ah.”

“Do you have any ink, Nightingale?”

“No,” she whispered. “I’d like one someday. But it would have to be hidden.”

“Hospital policies?”

“That’s one reason.”

I was curious about her other reasons, but I let it go. “What would you like to get?”