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Gavin
Eight years ago
Today isthe happiest and saddest day of my life.
November twenty-first.
Mine and Cora’s anniversary. If we were still together, today would be our seventh anniversary. If it were a wedding anniversary, I would buy her something made of wool or copper. We would be corny like that, buying gifts according to outdated anniversary traditions. Finding unique ways to celebrate our time together.
But we haven’t celebrated an anniversary together in over five years now. Not that I plan to celebrate this date as anything except ours. This day, until the day I die, will be ours.
Fuck.
I want to call her. Am desperate to hear her voice.
Would she still sound the same? Is she happy? Does she miss me like I fucking miss her? Some days, I don’t have it in me to breathe, let alone exist in the world. Every time I talk with Micah, I ask vague questions about Shelly in the hopes he will give me a hint of something regarding Cora. But he gives nothing away. And it fucking sucks. He knows I won’t come right out and ask, so he dances around my inadvertent questions.
Rather than hunt for a gift I will never give Cora, I opt for something else. Something permanent that will add a piece of her to me. A lifelong reminder—not as if I need one, but somehow this enhances our bond. With things booming in my career, I have gone back and forth for weeks about this. But it is my fucking body and I will do with it what I please.
I walk into the tattoo shop and walk up to the reception area. A young woman with fluorescent green hair peeks up from her magazine. She swivels the lollipop in her mouth from left to right a few times. “What can I do for you?” She pops the lollipop from her lips, licks them, then puts the lollipop back in her mouth. Don’t know why, but it annoys the shit out of me.
“I have an appointment with Talon,” I say.
She scans the screen before clicking the mouse. “I need a copy of your ID and for you to fill out this paper.” She hands me a clipboard. While she makes a copy of my license, I read over, fill out, and sign the form. She hands me back my license. “He’ll be with you in a minute. You can have a seat.” She points to a leather couch off to the side and goes back to her magazine as if I never walked in.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
A few minutes later, a burly man greets me and introduces himself as Talon. His arms are sleeved with a mishmash of tattoos. Muscles twice the size of mine. A bald head with full facial hair. And he towers over me by at least five inches, which is saying something considering I am six-two. Intimidating is definitely an adjective I would associate with this guy.
Talon leads me to a small cubicle with a black leather seat. He tugs a lever and flattens the table. “Have a seat, man. Here’s the image you sent me.” He slides a paper toward me. “This is what you want, right?”
“Yeah, between my shoulder blades,” I reply.
Talon nods. “Is the size good? Or you want it bigger?”
I study the image a moment. Go big or go home, right? “Let’s go a little bigger. Whatever you think will look best with the space.”
He walks away and I stare around the booth. The short walls are littered with photos of other tattoos Talon has done. They range from intricate to minimal. Symbols and portraits and watercolor and quotes. Some with tons of color, others done with thin lines of black ink. Seeing all these photos—a portfolio of sorts—is reassurance this guy has done enough tattoos to not fuck mine up.
When he walks back into the booth, he shows me the new, larger version of the tattoo. “Look good?”
“Perfect. Thanks, man.”
Talon directs me to take off my shirt, lay on the table, and find a comfortable position for my arms. He tells me how long he thinks the tattoo will take and that we will take occasional breaks, if needed. After everything is prepped and ready, he dips the tattoo gun in the ink and presses a peddle. When the buzz erupts next to me, I startle.
“You have any other tattoos, man?” Talon prompts.
“Nope. This is the first.”
“Virgin skin,” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye and wide grin on his lips. “My favorite.”
The buzz cracks again and a sting pricks my skin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Sweat breaks out across my skin as adrenaline floods my veins. As he moves the needle over my skin, a blend of pain and thrill courses through me. Each line of ink he impregnates my skin with, I grow one step closer to Cora. She is the only reason I would mar my skin with something so permanent.
An hour into the tattoo, Talon asks me why I am getting a Lord of the Rings tattoo.
Not many people in California know Cora’s and my history. I have mentioned things about her to Alyson and Layla, but never her name and never too much detail. Cora is my heart. Something I have no intention on spreading like free samples. Even though we have been apart for years, I hug her essence close to my chest and protect it with every breath.
“My soul mate.” It’s all I say.
