22. Booker
Booker
Somehow, maybe against my better judgment, I find myself standing in front of Maya’s tattoo shop as the sun sets two days later.
The bell atop the door gives away my arrival, and I’m thrown into déjà vu as I lock eyes with the owner of the most beautiful golden curl’s I’ve ever seen.
Well, the most beautiful everything I’ve ever seen.
Maybe Drew was right. Maybe Maya’s right. I can let myself have this one thing.
Maya stares at me with wide, shocked eyes. A slow smile forms on her pretty lips as I stand in the doorway, hands in my pockets, not speaking because I’m waiting for her to tell me to leave; that Christmas morning was too good to be true and she doesn’t want me here.
The longer I stand there, the bigger her smirk grows. “What are you doing here?”
“I want a tattoo.” Great job. Have you ever formed sentences before, Booker? “I mean, I wanted to see you, and I want you to…do my tattoo.” Not much better.
“Okay,” she replies, pride in her tone. “You can come over here, then.” She gestures to her station. “I don’t have another client tonight.”
“So…what are you getting done?” she asks, still smirking, as if she’s in on a joke I’m not privy to, but when I shoot her a questioning glance, she only throws me a nonchalant shrug.
Sitting down, I pull out my phone, bringing up a photo of an intricate skeleton, surrounded by geometric lines, a hand, and an anatomical heart.
“I had the tattoo planned…before,” I start, acknowledging how I ran last time I was here.
“But I think I want to add some lettering into the mix. What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, inspecting my phone. “What does it mean?”
Leaning back into the chair, I decide not to reply, not feeling brave enough to say what I’ve been thinking about all night and all day out loud.
“Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. Are you sure you want me to be the one to do this? It’s very detailed. I can get Derrick instead—”
Cutting her off, I say, “I want you to do it Maya. Only you… I’m here for you.”
Her mouth opens, then promptly shuts, not knowing how to respond to my declaration. I can’t say that I blame her; my attitude toward her over the last few months has been severely bipolar.
“I’ll draw up your stencil really quickly. Can you text me that photo?”
I do as she requests, and get lost in thought as I wait.
Drew’s words on the bus struck a chord with me.
Then, after getting the call about Colt, reality hit me in the face like a brick.
Everything could be taken away at any moment.
Maya’s been chipping away at my icy exterior, little by little, with every interaction we’ve shared.
And her words when she came over Christmas morning…
she was right. My mother would hate how I’ve been torturing myself.
If Colt’s accident taught me anything, it’s that a split second can change your life, and what would I have to show for it? Bruises and a guitar.
I’ve been existing without living. I have nothing to show for my time on this earth besides the ability to hit a puck into a net.
I haven’t let myself do a single fucking important thing with my life. I have no bigger plans other than hockey. I have no love, adventures, passion to tell stories about.
My entire existence has been reduced to apathy and ice.
So, I’m here, letting Maya Winchester permanently mark my body the way she’s permanently marked on my soul.
She spends the next few minutes uploading the photo to her tablet and sketching, doing what she does best.
I admire her from my seat, looking at her openly in a way I’ve never truly allowed myself to look before, outside of the time in the locker room.
Her hair is pulled back in a long, messy pony, a couple of stray curls framing her cheekbones.
She’s wearing that pair of gold-framed glasses that suit her so well.
She didn’t wear glasses as a kid, but I like the way they look on her now, drawing attention to the freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Her brown eyes are focused, squinted slightly behind her lenses.
I always loved her eyes, so warm and joyful.
My stare travels down, and less innocent thoughts pop into my head as I grant myself a moment to appreciate her body. She’s soft, sexy. I can almost imagine being suffocated by those thighs.
Enough.
I cannot give myself an erection and then ask her to tattoo my leg. That’s probably considered harassment in most places.
“You said you wanted to add something to this design?” Maya asks, finishing her initial work-up.
“Yeah. Could you do the words ‘memento vivere’? It means—”
“Remember to live,” Maya finishes, and I nod, mildly surprised she’s familiar enough with the Latin phrase that she could translate it instantaneously.
Maya turns, standing, grabbing the hem of her shirt, and my heart skips a beat. What is happening?
She lift her shirt on the left side of her body enough to expose her ribcage, just below her bra line.
Etched into her smooth pale skin are the exact words. Memento vivere.
In the shower, I had her facing away from me. I was too preoccupied with the rest of her body to study her tattoos.
Lowering her shirt, she asks softly, “Do you still want them?”
I nod my head again, without hesitation, knowing what she’s really asking. Do I want to have a tattoo that matches hers?
Silently, she goes back to her tablet, adding the words to the stencil.
As she’s finishing up, I stand and remove my sweatpants, exposing the gym shorts I have on underneath.
We get through the rest of the prep in a heavy but not hostile silence; she asks me professional questions about size and placement, and I try not to overheat at the sensation of her hands on my skin.
When the first touch of the needle hits my skin, I lean my head back and shut my eyes, letting myself relax into the burn. No going back.
“I’m sorry, Maya. I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you all these years. I…I’m not good a this…at speaking my mind. But I want to fix this. I want us to be…well, I just want us to be better, if you’ll still have me.”
She’s silent, mulling over my declaration as she traces the dark lines of ink into my muscle.
“I’ve been a dick, but I thought I was doing what was best. I thought I couldn’t have you.
I couldn’t let myself be close to you, again.
She died, and I couldn’t take advantage of my mom’s death by letting myself have you…
I was relieved we weren’t going to be siblings.
Before the accident, I didn’t know how to separate the little crush I had on you from wanting my mom to be happy with your dad.
And then she died, and I didn’t have to worry about it anymore…
the worst solution possible to the problem, and I was so guilty. ”
“Jamie…” Maya rests a hand gently on my arm. “You aren’t taking advantage of anything. You were just a kid, and you had a childhood crush? That’s no one’s fault. I’m sorry she passed, but it was an accident that nothing could’ve prevented.”
I nod in agreement, understanding now that she’s right, even though the guilt I’ve been holding on to all these years is going to take some time to fade.