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When the kiss breaks, I scoot back an inch and take the ring out of the box. She juts her left hand toward me and I slip the link to forever on her ring finger. The second it rests in place; the sun brightens the world more. I slam my mouth back on hers and kiss her as if she has already slipped a ring on my finger. The sooner, the better.
Forever will never be long enough with Cora. No matter how many lives we live, we will always find each other. Eternally.
After we dial down our public display, the couple from down the beach walks over and congratulates us. They offer to send us the video they recorded plus a few still pictures and I instantly jump on their offer, thanking them. We talk with them a few minutes before we shake out the blanket, fold it, and walk back to the car.
The second we get in the car, Cora’s stomach grumbles and we decide to grab breakfast. As we head back toward Clearwater, I stare at the engagement ring on her finger. She isn’t left-handed, but now she proudly drives with her left hand on the wheel. Every time the sun catches her ring just right, a halo flashes on the interior roof of the car.
Like an angel. My angel. My future wife.
After all these years, I wasn’t sure if we would find our way back to each other. But we did. And I wasn’t sure if I would see this day. This exact day. The day when Cora and I were back together and she wore my ring on her finger.
/> And now that the day is here, an odd flutter ripples beneath my ribcage. The sensation light and exhilarating and eternal. Does she feel this fluttering right now? The exultation of finally living the life you were destined to live.
We pull into a parking lot and hop out of the car. Although we are both dog tired, there is enough adrenaline coursing through our veins to keep us both up all day. I sidle up to her left and slip my hand in hers, loving the way it feels when the ring grazes my palm. Until it comes to fruition, I imagine no other moment or emotion or experience topping this.
After we eat breakfast, Cora starts driving us back toward her house. As much as I want to lay in bed with her curled in my arms, there is something else I want to do. “Do you mind if we make another stop?” I ask.
She glances over at me a second, then faces the increasing traffic. The wind whips her hair across her profile as I inhale a hint of her frankincense-gardenia scent. “Yeah, sure. Where to?”
“I’ll give you directions,” I tell her.
I guide her through traffic for four or five miles before telling her to pull into a parking lot. When we park, she peers up at the sign, shakes her head, and laughs. “Really? Again?”
Laughing right alongside her, I shrug. “What can I say? There’s just something I need to do before we go home.”
Cora cocks a brow at me and I know it is due to my casual reference to home. But she won’t argue with me. For us, home has never consisted of four walls, a floor and a roof. Home has always been when we are together. “Alright.”
We get out of the car and walk up to the storefront. I open the door and Cora’s eyes scan every inch of the tattoo shop. Luckily, this shop is open more hours than most due to the number of artists. I walk up to the counter and the woman that looks up at me shakes her head. She is the same woman from yesterday. Hot pink hair, the front half rolled up and pinned close to her scalp, the back half left loose to her shoulders. She blows a bubble from her gum and lets it pop like it’s second nature.
“Everything okay?” she asks. No hello or how are you. She must assume something is wrong with the tattoo I got yesterday.
“Everything is fantastic,” I say and she rolls her eyes. “I’d like to get another tat.”
“Oh,” she perks up. “Well, the same artist who worked on you yesterday isn’t here right now. You cool with that?”
“That’s fine. It’s nothing extravagant.”
After a few minutes, I fill out the same form again and give her my ID. Once the formalities are out of the way, a woman comes out of the back. Her right arm is decked out in a full sleeve of ink. From what I can tell, it appears to reach her back as well. Her hair is a rich, dark brown and she has it pinned in a messy bun with a folded bandana tied at the top. She has this whole 1950s pinup girl/rockabilly vibe going on.
“Hi, I’m Autumn,” she introduces herself and shakes my hand. “Looking for something specific today?”
“Gavin. Nice to meet you. Yeah, I want to get a wedding band tattooed on my ring finger.”
Beside me, Cora sucks in a sharp breath. No doubt she wasn’t expecting that. “Gavin, you don’t need to do that,” she says.
“I know, baby,” I tell her. “But I want the world to know I belong to you. And no one else. Always.”
Cora nods and doesn’t utter a sound. The tattoo artist, Autumn, guides us back to her booth and has me sit in the chair. Currently, Cora and I are the only patrons in the building. Not having people coming and going right now is nice and odd at the same time. When the gun sparks, Cora startles next to me. I reach out and she takes my hand.
Twenty minutes later, I stare down at the thick black band at the proximal end of my fourth finger. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as a thick boulder of emotion lodges in my throat.
“What do you think?” Autumn asks.
I clear my throat and croak out, “It’s perfect.”
Cora stares at me in awe and sheer amazement. Then her eyes flick to Autumn. “Have time for me?” she asks.
“Yeah, sure. Just fill out the paperwork and give me a moment to sanitize the station.”
