Another Epilogue Covered In You
Delilah
“Are you sure you want to do this, Lilah?”
“Oh my god, Vee. I’ve had months to think about it. If I was going to change my mind, I would have changed my mind. Stop stalling.”
“Ugh, fine.” Ivy rolls her eyes, but even her irrational fear of inflicting pain on me in any way couldn’t stop the smile from creeping across her face. With my hand and arm positioned as she needs it and the stencil applied perfectly to my skin, I’m ready for my very first tattoo.
Some people might say that getting your first tattoo on your hand of all places isn’t the smartest move in the world, but fuck it.
I’m a thirty-something mother of two who just stopped breastfeeding after a full year and is pumped to have her body back to herself.
I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.
The buzz of Ivy’s gun hums in the air, and though she winces slightly her hand is steady as she brings the needle to my forearm to begin the first line.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chants under her breath as the needle glides across my skin, leaving an inky black curve behind as she works her way up and across the top of my hand.
“I’m fine, Vee. You’ve seen the size of our babies. A little tattoo burn is nothing after pushing those two bowling balls out of my vagina.”
“Don’t make me laugh!” Ivy chastises, though neither of us can help our giggle fit.
The truth is that the tattoo hurts worse than I expected, but I’d never tell Ivy that.
If she knew the way the nerves in my hands were lighting up at the needle’s assault, she’d stop completely and leave me with nothing more than a few black lines and swirls permanently inked in my skin.
So I close my eyes and let the sound of the tattoo gun and the bite of the needle wash over me.
Eventually I sink into the sensation and before I know it, Ivy is shaking my shoulder.
“Only you would fall asleep during your first tattoo,” she says with a smile as I blink my eyes open.
“I fell asleep?” I ask, my voice raspy.
“You sure did. Which is interesting considering I’m the one who was up at three in the morning with Hyacinth while she repeatedly showed me how well she can blow raspberries. You’re all finished, love. Want to see?”
I look down at my hand that’s been wrapped up in cellophane, distorting the view of the artwork underneath.
“Wow, what a beautiful blob,” I deadpan, and Ivy flicks my sternum.
“It’s the blood and ointment. Look.”
Ivy unwraps the plastic, revealing the black and hunter green artwork.
Vines that start on my left forearm extend up my palm, wrapping around my ring finger and to the first knuckle of my pinky.
Five pointed leaves climb each vine, extending towards my fingertips, each one a deep, rich green highlighted by bare skin and teal ink to resemble vines.
She’s wrapped my skin in ivy.
“Vee,” I gasp, staring in awe at the work etched into my arm and hand. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I think it might be my best work yet,” she says with a grin, her freezing cold fingertips drawing small circles on my bare knee.
“Ivy,” I breathe, naming the love of my life in front of me and the plant she tattooed into my skin. “Look at that. Now I’m covered in you.”
Tears pool in my eyes and Ivy grabs my face, caressing my cheeks in her palms as she pulls me in for a kiss that I can feel down to my toes. A meeting of lips so soft and sensual and life-sustaining, I can’t help but wonder how I breathed before her.
An hour later, Ivy and I stand under the wooden huppah carved by my father and brother, Sadie at our side and Hyacinth on Ivy’s hip.
She’s dressed in a sleek pants suit, the color a bright and vibrant pink the same shade as the Dahlia flower that my name is derived from.
I’m in a tea-length phthalo green gown, the long sleeves covering the plastic-wrapped ink on my arm.
We say vows and make promises to each other and to our daughters.
Ivy slides a ring onto my finger and I do the same for her.
And after we kiss while our guests head to the reception, Ivy opens the bottle of red wine she stole from Earl’s fridge on our very first mission and we toast to the man who had to die—metaphorically, at least—so that we could end up here, bathing in the incandescent glow of our love.