Chapter 2
amelia
. . .
Infinite Baths by Sleep Token blares through my AirPod in my right ear as my tattoo machine vibrates through my fingertips and up my forearm.
The constant whir of the tattoo gun soothes the parts of me that I almost always keep hidden, only showcasing the sharp, jagged edges that still haven’t softened since the divorce.
First divorce underneath my belt at twenty-six years old, love that.
I sit perched on my stool with my boot nestled underneath my thigh.
The latex gloves are tight on my hands as I wipe away at my client’s tattoo in progress.
Her ribs rise and fall beneath the stencil lines; bold florals wrapping around her side, delicate petals curling over the curvature of her bone.
It’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.
“You still good?” I ask, not looking up.
She nods. “Yeah. Just… trying not to cry.”
“You can cry,” I say, “just don’t flinch.”
She laughs nervously, and I dip the needle back into the ink cup, brushing off excess against the rim.
I lean over my client’s side, carefully outlining the last petal of an orchid blooming from a skull.
It stretches across her ribs in graceful lines, a delicate placement that requires precision and patience.
Her breath comes in shallow pulls, with her chest rising just enough for me to work between them.
It’s a rhythm I’ve mastered.
Something about the way the skin pulls, the way ink sinks just beneath the surface, and the subtle drag of resistance; it calms me.
Until my phone vibrates, taking me out of my trance.
I choose to ignore it.
Then it buzzes again.
Who the actual fuck is texting me right now?
I exhale quietly through my nose and glance at it, expecting some scheduling emergency or maybe Mia sending me another meme of that cartoon lizard. Instead, I see a number I don’t recognize and a text that makes me squint.
Unknown Number
Do you believe in ghosts?
Huh?
Unknown Number
Because I’m 90% sure the chicken nuggets I ate last night are haunting me.
I stare blankly at the screen.
My client’s still lying unmoving on the black leather chair. I finish the outline, wiping gently, and set my machine down for a moment to respond.
Amelia
Who is this?
Unknown Number
Maverick Hayes. You know, the gorgeous one. Not the serial killer, unless you’re into that, then surpriseeeee, it’s your lucky day.
I’m going to kill Catalina.
Maverick
Anyway hiiiiii. You like snacks? I just tried to make homemade Pop-Tarts and almost lit my kitchen on fire.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, my gloves squeaking slightly as I flex my fingers. I should’ve known. He had that look in his eye the last time I saw him; he thrived on impulse and attention.
Mia, the studio owner, glances at me from across the studio, blowing a massive pink bubble before snapping it loud enough to make my client flinch.
“Someone sexting you?”
“No, just an emotionally unstable quarterback I barely know.”
Mia perks up, her grey-blue eyes lighting with interest. “Wait, is he famous?”
Before I can reply, the flat-screen above the front counter cuts to a breaking TMZ segment.
I scoff, seeing the news segment.
There he is.
Maverick Hayes, shirtless, surrounded by what looks like an entire bachelorette party, with one girl definitely licking his neck.
He’s grinning like a man who’s never known consequence, holding a bottle of Don Julio up.
His other arm is wrapped around someone’s waist, and another girl is dancing on his lap.
He’s yelling into a mic before tossing his hat into the crowd.
The shop practically swoons.
Tiff from the front desk clutches her chest. “Oh my God. He’s so fucking hot.”
“I’d let him choke me.” Jasmine squeals.
“He can ruin me.” Lyla, the apprentice, says too quickly.
Mia whistles low and looks at me. “Come on, Amelia. You sure that isn’t your type?”
“I’m sure,” I reply flatly, “my type isn’t men who go viral for acting like human wrecking balls.”
Mia grins. “You say that like it’s not sexy.”
“I say that like I’ve been shattered,” I snap, turning back to my client’s ink. “By a man who left me with nothing but a stack of legal papers and nothing to my name.”
Mia quiets for a beat, her pink hair falling over her face.
Everyone in the shop knows I don’t talk about my ex, not really, but they know the facts; I was married, at eighteen, like a fucking idiot.
It ended ugly. Shocker.
I lost the apartment, the furniture, the money, and somehow most of my friends. It took everything I had to rebuild myself—working double shifts, taking walk-in customers, and living out of my car for a while to get ahead.
Now, I no longer date.
My phone buzzes again.
Maverick
Do you think squirrels have group chats? What if they’re talking about me right now as I feed them?
Maverick
Also, I named one Amelia. She bit me. I respect that.
Just as I’m about to throw my phone across the room, it rings. I glance down at the caller ID.
Ugh, I could kill her right now.
“Catalina,” I say dryly, “are you high? Or just stupid?”
There’s a pause, then her singsong voice.
“Well, hello to you, too, babyyy.”
“Why the hell would you give that man my number, again?!”
“He said he needed it!” she argues. “Also, I wasn’t really paying attention, and he asked nicely.”
“He’s texting me about ghost nuggets and squirrels, Catalina!”
“I mean, that’s kind of endearing—”
“He said one bit him, and he respected her!”
She giggles. “Okay, but that’s Maverick for you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Next time I’m in Tennessee, I’m going to strangle you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Catalina, you know I don’t date. I don’t even make eye contact with men unless they’re paying me and sitting very still.”
She laughs. “Oh, I kn—”
I hang up, cutting her off.
She deserves that much.
My phone chimes, another text coming in.
Maverick
Hey, quick question. If you had to pick a weapon in the apocalypse, what would it be? Mine’s a shovel. Multi-use.
Maverick
Also, I’ve had six espressos. Send help.
I let out a slow, soul-deep sigh and type back.
Amelia
I’m going to use a pitchfork, specifically to stab you.
He responds immediately.
Maverick
Kinky. Let’s circle back to that later.
I push my key into the lock, jimmying it until it opens. I walk into my apartment, and instantly my body feels drained, as today’s work catches up to me. My fingers are stiff from holding a machine all day, my lower back aches, and my neck hurts from constantly craning it.
The second I shut the door, I exhale.
Home.
I’m hit with the faint scent of oakmoss and amber, probably from a fading incense I lit earlier in the day. My space is softly lit by glowing neon signs—one above my kitchen that reads ‘Don’t Text Him’ in bright red.
My apartment is a clash of personality and comfort. A black-and-white checkered rug’s sprawled across the living room floor, half-covered by a sage-colored velvet couch draped in mismatched, checkered pillows, and a bright smiley face plush nestled in between them.
There are plants on every surface, my precious crystals, trinkets of whale sharks I’ve been collecting, and a small disco ball spins lazily near the window, reflecting soft flecks of light across the walls.
Curled up in my rattan chair is Rex, my hairless Sphynx, wearing his green dinosaur hoodie with tiny plush spikes down the back. He slowly lifts his head and blinks at me, as if I’ve ruined his night just by breathing.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I breathe out, dropping my purse on the kitchen stool. “You slept for fourteen hours in a heated blanket while I was elbow-deep in someone’s sternum for seven of them.”
He meows loudly.
I flop into the hanging chair beside him, letting the woven seat creak beneath me. My limbs ache in the best way, earned exhaustion. My hair’s a mess, my eyeliner’s smudged, and I’m just about to doomscroll on TikTok until I rot when my phone buzzes in my lap.
Maverick.
I stare at the screen, it’s fucking late.
For a moment, I think about declining, but something about the quiet hum of the room and the weight of his name glowing on my screen makes me hesitate.
I answer.
“Seriously? What now? Did a possum bite you?”
There’s a pause on the line. No jokes, his voice is quieter than usual when he speaks.
“I need to talk to you.”
I sit up slightly in the chair, narrowing my eyes. “So text me, like you’ve been doing nonstop.”
“No,” he says, “I mean in person.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
My fingers tap against the armrest, waiting.
“I can come to Los Angeles tomorrow,” he continues, his tone low and serious. “Or… I’ll fly you out to Tennessee. Whatever you’re comfortable with. This isn’t something I want to do over the phone.”
My jaw clenches.
Something about the way he says it, the way all the usual humor has disappeared, makes my stomach twist.
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I’m serious, please.”
I don’t speak as I watch the faint glow of traffic lights blinking beyond my balcony. My thumb traces the edge of my phone as Rex climbs into my lap, curls up into a little ball, and begins purring.
Tennessee.
A state I haven’t set foot in since saying goodbye to Catalina.
“No.”
I quickly hang up, feeling like a complete asshole.
But I’m not flying across the country.
I toss my phone facedown on the skeleton head nightstand next to my sage couch, then make my way into the kitchen to feed Rex.
Rex jumps off my lap and meows at me with attitude while I dish out his food, and I ignore him.
I ignore the tightness in my chest, the way Maverick’s voice is still echoing in my head.
Please.
He sounded like he meant it, which makes it fucking worse.
I barely get to breathe before my phone vibrates again.
Mom.
Ughhh. I almost let it go to voicemail, but guilt gets the better of me. I quickly grab my phone and press the green button to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Amelia, did I wake you?”
“No.” I press my fingers into my temple, massaging the dull ache. “Just got home.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, honey. I never see you.”
That’s because I don’t want to see you; you only ever bitch about my relationships. I think to myself, it’s sad, but she really doesn’t care about my well-being, just whether she’s ever going to get grandkids.
“You live in Glendale, not across state lines.”
She laughs gently. “I know, I mean, you’re all alone out there.”
I groan, flopping onto the couch. “I’m not alone. I have Rex.”
“Honey, you’re alone, emotionally.”
I stare at the ceiling, already knowing where this is going.
“Have you thought about getting back with Jax?”
There it is, always bringing him up.
“Mom…”
“I’m just asking. He was so nice, and he always made such an effort.”
“I’m not talking about this.” I snap.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Okay, get some rest,” she says, “I love you.”
“Love you too, mom.”
I quickly hang up, throwing myself on my couch.
Throwing my head back against the soft, velvet cushions, I let out a long, ragged exhale.
If she truly understood what six long years with him felt like. Being gaslit until I doubted even my own breath, dealing with the cheating, and when I would confront him, it was always denial.
“Maybe if you put some more effort into your appearance, I wouldn’t have to look elsewhere.”
His voice flashes across my mind, causing me to shudder in disgust.
The constant lies, and how he made me feel invisible unless I was useful. He emotionally abused and manipulated me, always making it seem like I was the crazy one.
Fuck him.
My phone buzzes again.
I groan, digging it out from between the cushions, squinting against the bright light of the screen.
Maverick
Dollface. C’mon. Just hear me out.
Maverick
I swear it’s not that crazy.
Maverick
Okay, it’s kinda crazy, but I need youuuuu
I stare at his messages, choosing not to answer.
I’m not ready to dive into whatever wild scheme he has planned.