CHAPTER ONE
It’s been two months since I first told Dex Foray that I loved him. Two months since we’ve lived together, as an actual couple, in his Seattle apartment. And two months since Rebecca Sims joined us as our welcomed third wheel in the Experiment in Terror show. It goes without saying that they’ve been the best two months of my life.
But, like most things, it hasn’t been perfect. My relationship with my family is now awkward as all hell—I mean more so than it used to be, and that says a lot. I’ll talk to my mom and dad maybe every two weeks, and it’s just one of those please shoot me in the head kind of moments where you’re grasping for shit to say and your mouth is moving and suddenly you’re talking about the weather or the latest celebrity scandal or things you can’t even remember just to keep the conversation going, just so it doesn’t lag and you don’t have to address the giant flaming pink rollerblading elephant in the room.
Yeah … about that giant flaming pink rollerblading elephant. That would be that I left my parent’s house, where I had spent most of my twenty-three years, and decided to move in with my partner. Dex. The guy that my parents absolutely hated because I had an ill-timed fling with him back when he had a girlfriend (no judging), and he turned into a dick right after I slept with him (please no judging), and I ended up miscarrying his baby (okay, the judging is inevitable). I’m not saying any of that lightly because it pretty much ruined the fabric of my being and introduced demonic possession into my life experiences, but I mean, you can kind of understand why my parents think Dex Foray is public enemy number one.
Obviously, they don’t approve of my new life. I can tell that from the things they aren’t saying and the questions they aren’t asking. They don’t even wonder when or if I’m coming home; it’s just such a non-issue that it’s become an issue. At least for me. I want them to care. I want them to say something, even if it’s just to scream at me.
The only person that I talk to truthfully on a daily basis (even if it’s just mainly through texts) is my younger sister Ada. She’s happy for me, happy that things are going well with Dex (even though she often starts the conversation with, “You guys still together? Yes? Okay cool,”) but she doesn’t pull back from telling me how badly she wants me to come back home, even just for a visit.
The thing is, I’m totally scared. One part of me wants to go back, to try and smooth things over and make things right. Maybe if they see Dex again, months later and in a better context, they’ll learn to like him. To see the things I see. To see how well he treats me. And I want to see Ada and hug her and make her feel like she doesn’t have to face my parents alone. But the other half of me thinks it could be a mistake—that they’d never open up to him, and I’d regret even trying to make amends. I could make things worse.
I needed a sign.
“Ouch, Jesus,” I swore at the stabbing pain at my wrist. I glared up at the burly, bearded tattoo artist who was glaring back at me.
“Try not to flinch,” he said gruffly, his gloved hand hovering over my bared wrist.
“You’re almost done, honey,” Rebecca said in her soothing British accent, patting my other hand. “Few more minutes. Looks fab.”
I sighed and tried to relax my body. Now that I wasn’t daydreaming, everything was very real. I was with Rebecca, lying on my back in a Seattle tattoo parlor, getting some ink on my wrist. My first tattoo, and though it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, it was still extremely uncomfortable. It probably didn’t help that it was on one of the more sensitive areas. I was just lucky I decided to go with one color of ink—blue—instead of getting it filled in.
Oh yeah, I was getting a tattoo of an anchor. Cliché, I know, but I got it for Dex. After all, he had a tattoo inspired by me on his shoulder, and I figured it was only fair. And, you know, he was my anchor. When he’d given me the anchor silly band back on D’Arcy Island, that stupid little gesture meant so much to me. Then, when I’d ripped it off after, well, the “incident,” I’d missed that symbol. Through all the ups and downs we’d gone through, in the end, he was still my rock. And an anchor was a hell of a lot sexier than getting a big ass boulder tatted on you.
“He’s going to be so surprised,” Rebecca said as the tattoo machine resumed its buzzing.
I ground my teeth together against the vibrating prickles. “Uh huh. I hope so.”
I asked Rebecca to accompany me here so I wouldn’t have to go through it alone. I wanted it to be a surprise for Dex, so I just told him we were going out and doing girly things. I know his dirty mind was probably imagining us heading to some International Pillow-Fighting Convention, and a tattoo parlor was the last place he’d think of. I wasn’t really the tattoo type—my interests in life were so wavering and fleeting, but my love for Dex was as permanent as ink. I wanted him to know that.
“Okay, you’re done,” the man said, lifting away the needle, the room growing temporarily quiet without the constant buzz.
“For real?”
He grunted in response and motioned for me to sit up. I slowly did so and stared at my left wrist. It wasn’t bleeding like I thought it would be since I’d felt him periodically dabbing it with cloth as he worked. The tattoo was shiny and raised, the skin around it red, but it looked beautiful. Simple but beautiful. And I suddenly felt infinitely cooler.
I looked up at Rebecca for her approval as the artist started wrapping it in black plastic. Her matte red lips were stretched into a smile, her eyes sparkling with delight. In fact, she looked borderline ecstatic which I found almost odd.
“He’s going to love it,” she said. “Really, really. It’s going to mean so much to him.”
I smiled. “Good.”
It’s not that Dex didn’t know how I felt about him. After what happened to us in New Orleans, and how he’d almost died right before my eyes and I almost lost him in so many ways, I’d had verbal diarrhea of the lovey-dovey kind. But for some reason, at times I could tell it was hard for Dex to believe me. When I told him I loved him, he had a knack for turning it into a joke, like, “You say that to all the boys,” and while he played it off in his cheeky way, I could tell it came from somewhere. I hoped the tattoo would ease that for him.
Like I said, they’d been the best two months of my life, but things weren’t perfect. It’s hard to truly appreciate things when somewhere in the back of your mind you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.