6. Serena
Of all the imbecilic, idiotic, foolish things I have ever done, sex with Devin included, kissing Wolf in full view of his tattoo shop after he refused to consider taking me on as a client is at the top of the list.
My lips tremble at the memory of his mouth on mine. It was a chaste, juvenile kiss, nothing that screamed sensual or experienced. God, he must think I’m such a moron for throwing myself at him like a desperate schoolgirl with a crush.
Slamming my hand against my steering wheel, I wince at the sound of my horn going off and the middle finger I receive from the car in front of me. Nothing is working out the way I planned. At first, when I arrived at the studio for my pottery class, I was relaxed and hopeful. The methodical practice of molding the clay, coupled with the feel of the silky earthenware between my fingers, was euphoric, and I enjoyed diving back into a hobby long abandoned. That euphoria was eradicated by nerves and butterflies the moment I caught sight of Wolf and Aubrey standing at the window at Ink and Needle, watching me with amused expressions. I have no idea why I grabbed an umbrella; it’s a sunny, balmy, thirty-degree day with no chance of precipitation.
No, that’s a lie. I do know why I grabbed the umbrella: it was an added layer of protection against the unnerving stares of the tattoo shop owner and his trusted receptionist.
Pressing down on the gas pedal, I push my old car from forty to forty-five, inching toward the actual speed limit and the highest speed I’ll permit my car to travel. Not because I’m afraid of driving but because I’m afraid my car is going to combust if I push her too hard.
It seems to be a theme in my life: taking things slowly until I rush forward and situations blow up in my face. Devin, Dylan, Wolf, and the tattoo. It’s like I willingly and knowingly put myself in a position to be either embarrassed or disappointed. And I’m sick of it.
I am so fucking sick of it.
I feel anger start to build in my gut, traveling up until my heart is racing and thoughts and emotions are wrapped around my throat, suffocating me. My mind travels back thirty minutes to the tattoo shop and Wolf’s dual denial. Admittedly, I shouldn’t have kissed him; it was impulsive and just stupid. My anger isn’t directed toward his physical repulsion; no, it’s aimed at the arrogant way he turned me away as a client, as though I didn’t know what I wanted tattooed on my body. As though I wasn’t aware tattoos are painful and virtually irreversible. My social skills may be lacking, but my analytical abilities and deductive reasoning are firmly in place, and they’re both telling me that Wolf is an asshole.
A hot, well-built, tall, and imposing asshole, but an asshole nonetheless.
I mentally slap myself for not being more assertive in my consultation and not projecting authority and certainty regarding the design and the size. I have no idea why I said, “I think,” or why I dissolved into a mumbling idiot the moment my wants were challenged and questioned. I don’t think I want butterflies to decorate my back, an illustration of the freedom I’m trying so hard to find. I know I want them; I want the pain of the needle, the mental clarity that comes with decisiveness. I need it. And if Wolf’s not going to give it to me, someone else will.
My mind moves from Wolf’s imposing form and gruff personality to the vitriol spewed by Dylan and Devin, and my anger continues to rise. Not for the first time in the weeks following their verbal assault, my heart aches. These two boys, whom I used to regard as two of my closest friends, have not only disappointed me but discarded me as though I’m damaged goods, useless and used. My dad has continued with his tirades, his accusations that I intentionally hurt my “sister.” It’s bullshit.
I release a laugh, not able to help the bubble of giggles that break from my throat. Four months ago, I barely ever uttered a curse word or even thought of one in my internal contemplations. Ava and Celeste, and their inventive language and insults, have irrevocably changed that, changed me. Though I know that I’ll never be as close to them as they are to each other—I’m the late addition third wheel—their friendship has shown me just how kind people can be. How people, other than my mom, can care for me and support me even when I mess up or become so full of self-doubt and shyness.
Losing myself in the monotony of driving, stopping, driving, I can’t help but think, next semester is going to be different. I am going to be different.
If I wasn’t so cautious with my driving, I’d be concerned that the forty-minute drive from Ink and Needle back to my apartment passed by too quickly. I was on autopilot as my mind raced through the past few months, mindless as I operated a vehicle on public roadways and could have caused harm not only to myself but also to others.
“Stupid,” I mutter, shifting into park and unfastening my seatbelt. Throwing my head against the headrest, I look up to the roof of my car and stare at the staples holding it together. Last year, the adhesive on the fabric lining my interior wore off, causing the gray fabric to fall like a curtain, a veil separating me and my outdated, run-down car from the rest of the world.
Specifically from safety checks at the DMV. To correct the issue myself and not bother my mother with my problems, I had Dylan help me staple the fabric with his dad’s staple gun. The memory is tainted, the afternoon spent with my former best friend now bittersweet, and his jokes and taunts cruel rather than funny.
“Asshole,” I whisper, filling the sedan with all the anger and resentment I’m feeling. I sought Wolf out to feel better, not ruminate in the memories that hang like a specter haunting its burial ground. Clearly, my voyage was a dismal failure.
Blinking back my tears, I swing my door open and reach behind the driver’s seat, grabbing my bags and spare books, before slamming it shut. Readjusting my things, I’m startled by the hand on my shoulder and the chuckle that follows my inadvertent jump.
“Rena, you could qualify for a pole dancing competition with that jump,” Ava’s voice sings out.
“You mean ‘pole vaulting.’” I smile at CeCe’s biting tone; her pregnancy, miscarriage, and relationship with her large Italian boyfriend, Dante, have done nothing to mellow out the aggression in her tone.
“Whatever. Now, Rena, tell us why you’re late.”
Whipping around, I stare at Ava and CeCe in confusion. “Late? We didn’t have any plans today.”
Ava waves her tattooed arm as though my comment is insignificant. “No, but you’re always in your apartment on Fridays by five. It’s five-thirty, and you’re just parking your cute little car. So tell me, where have you been”—she pauses, looking me over and biting down on her lip—“dressed like Inspector Gadget? Is that dirt in your hair?”
Only Ava would classify the rusted pile of metal as “cute,” but dammit, I must have gotten clay in my hair. “No, it’s clay. I was at that pottery class I told you about.”
CeCe’s eyes narrow, smelling the half-truth. “That class ended earlier this afternoon. Where did you go after that?”
“Just ran errands.” I clear my throat and swallow down the nerves that tickle my esophagus. “Anyway, what are you both doing here?” I avoid CeCe’s gaze, instead focusing on Ava’s face, lit in excitement.
“Movie night. Well, a competition night. There’s a new series of The Great British Bake Off that just dropped, and I need to be surrounded by Paul Hollywood’s essence. So, let’s freaking go, I have cheeky bakers to watch.” Ava doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and walks toward the front of my building before stopping abruptly, large fabric bags swinging in her arms. “I brought ingredients to make roasted chicken and an orange olive oil cake. I’m not eating that bullshit cardboard pizza again.”
“She is such a food snob,” CeCe scoffs. Turning, I see that she’s shaking her head, though a small smile is on her face as she watches Ava charge across the parking lot and into my building. Her green eyes meet mine, and she sobers, one red eyebrow rising. “Now that it’s just us, what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”
“What? No, of course not.” I shake my head, emphasizing my rejection of her words. “I was just running errands like I said.”
CeCe doesn’t answer and continues to look at me with her unnerving stare. Like Jenga blocks, I fall, opening my mouth before I even realize what I’m going to say. “I went to Ink and Needle for a tattoo. I didn’t get one. Wolf was there. That’s where I was.”
Her mouth pops open, the only sign that my words surprised her. “You wanted another tattoo?”
Nodding, I explain, “Ever since I got the tattoo on my ribs, I can’t help but remember how freeing it felt to have something permanently etched on my skin, a decision that I made by myself. Since I was a little girl, being jostled back and forth between my parents’ houses, schools, and extracurriculars, I have never been in control. It sounds silly to say that a tattoo has given me so much clarity, so much excitement for the first time in so damn long, but I felt like an adult for the first time in my life. I thought that if I went back and explained to your cousin what I was looking for and what I wanted, he’d be able to help me.” I pause, shaking my head in frustration. Releasing a sigh, I continue, “But he told me that I didn’t know what I wanted, that I seem unsure. So, I left without another appointment.” I seal my lips shut, keeping the disastrous kiss to myself. Even now, after his rejection, my lips tingle at the brief pressure I felt, how damn good he smelled as I jumped up like a rocket to capture his mouth.
“Hey,” CeCe soothes, her features softening. “I understand what you mean; we’ve all been through some shit, yeah? I’m sorry that Wolf didn’t help you out, but maybe it’s for the best. It’ll just give you more time to feel certain about your decision before you go through with it. He’s a dick, but he does know what he’s talking about, sometimes at least.”
“Yeah,” I choke out, considering her words. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s get inside before Ava reorganizes my spice cabinet again.”