Chapter 43
SADIE
The tattoo shop is cleaner than the café in Dusty Hollow.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t vines climbing the posts outside the door or sleek marble floors inside.
There are beautiful pieces of art hung throughout, and I find myself mesmerized by a painting of a woman wearing snakes and butterflies as her clothes.
“Sadie?” a woman asks, interrupting my wonder.
I turn and see a petite woman with piercings sparkling from her ears, nose, and lips. She has long dark hair braided to one side, bright green eyes, and she’s wearing a black tank top showcasing both her arms covered in vibrant tattoos.
“That’s me,” I finally reply.
Milo texted Emmitt—who I’d noticed had a few tattoos—asking where he’d recommend for a first one. He texted back with a link to this place, and Milo made an appointment for me.
“I’m Holly, your tattoo artist,” she says as she walks around the front desk with a clipboard. “If you can fill out this paperwork, we’ll talk about what you’re wanting today.”
I glance over at Milo. “What about this guy?”
His eyes widen. “This is your thing.”
I shake my head. “No, no, no. You’re not getting out of this. The list is our thing.” Then I look back at Holly. “Do you have time for both of us?”
She smiles. “Wednesday is a slow day, so I can make time.”
“It’s not necessary,” Milo interrupts.
“It’s very necessary,” I argue. “He needs a clipboard, too.”
She laughs before going back to the desk and clipping another set of paperwork to a second board. She hands it to Milo. “I’d do what the woman says.”
“This doesn’t feel like consent,” Milo jokes as he takes the clipboard and pen from Holly, filling it out anyway.
I elbow him and then turn my attention to my own paperwork.
When I hand it back over to Holly, she asks, “So, what are you thinking?”
What am I thinking?
How do you know what you want permanently inked upon your skin?
“Um . . .” I sink my teeth into my lower lip, sorting through pages of memories until I find the version of myself when I didn’t feel heaviness on my shoulders but something hopeful and light.
I once read of something that symbolized both joy and transformation—a beautiful representation of a new beginning. Sometimes even referred to as a wish-granter. Like a genie but with graceful wings.
“A blue butterfly,” I answer with a wide grin. Then I reach my right hand across my chest until my fingers rest on the back of my left shoulder. “Here.”
“That’ll look beautiful,” Holly answers. “Let me sketch up something really quick for you, and we’ll check placement.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I feel Milo’s eyes on me and turn to see him grinning. “You’re really doing this,” he says.
“Do it for the plot, Hot Shot,” I tease. “What are you thinking? Big dragon on your arm? My name across your chest?”
“I was thinking something bold. Something meaningful. Like a stick figure that says I survived Sadie’s list.”
I laugh. “Cute.”
He smirks. “What else did you expect?”
“So—” I let the word hang.
“So.”
“I really liked your teammates.”
Milo puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, they’re good guys.”
I let a few seconds pass before I say, “You seemed to belong there.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
But I’m not sure I believe him. I was there when Milo first picked up a football. I saw the way his world expanded, just like mine does when I pick up a book. He read the game like he knew its secrets. It’s why everyone in Dusty Hollow knew his future would be way outside our zip code.
Holly reappears quickly from the back with a small paper in her hand. “Okay, Sadie. I kept it simple. This is just the outline, then we’ll fill it in with a bright blue and some shading. What do you think?”
She shows it to me and I nod, my pulse beginning to knock harder against my wrists.
“Let’s check placement,” she says. “If you can just slip your strap down your arm . . .”
I take the thin yellow strap of my sundress and slip it down my shoulder, looking behind me at Milo watching. He’s gazing at me intently, his eyes heavy. My stomach dips.
Holly presses the butterfly on my skin. “This is a stencil so you can see where it’ll be. If you hate it, we can wash it off and try again.” She peels the plastic off, leaving the outline of a butterfly on my shoulder, then hands me a mirror. “Thoughts?”
My lips spread into an easy smile as I see the reflection of the butterfly fluttering on my own skin. “It’s perfect.”
“Great. I’m going to get my space ready. There’s a large mirror over there if you want to look at it some more.” She points toward an ornate golden mirror on one of the walls.
I walk over to the mirror, then turn my back toward it to continue to admire the outline.
“Last chance before it’s permanent,” Milo says as his grin joins mine in the mirror.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Milo gets closer, his left hand now on my waist as his body grazes up against mine, only the static of fibers separating us. His breath is hot on my shoulder as he glances at the butterfly. “It’s very you. Why a blue butterfly?”
“I read once that a blue butterfly symbolizes transformation and new beginnings,” I explain.
“Like your list,” he says softly.
“Like our list,” I amend.
The air in my chest evaporates as I tilt my chin upward, thinking about his lips and the way Milo can burn fear away as if it never existed at all. I search his eyes, only finding certainty in them.
“Still think it’ll look good when I’m eighty and wrinkled?” I ask.
“You’ll always look good to me, Sadie.”
The butterflies come to life in my stomach, attempting to reach the one on my shoulder.
“Sadie?” Holly interrupts. “I’m ready if you are.”
Milo drops his hand from my waist, and as he steps back, my skin cools.
“Ready,” I answer, almost breathless.
I follow Holly and Milo trails me. She gestures toward a leather chair that is tilted forward. “If you want to sit here.”
I straddle the chair, my chest pressing into the leather of the seat.
“You can sit over here,” Holly tells Milo.
He takes a chair to my right, and I lay the left side of my face against the seat so I can see him. “Hi,” I say softly.
“Hi.” He grins, and I can feel the comfort of it settle through me from my head to my toes.
“All right, Sadie. You’re going to hear a buzzing noise, and I’ll let you know when I’m starting,” Holly explains.
“Okay.”
The vibration of the tattoo gun comes to life. Anticipation begins to tighten my throat and ache in my veins. Then I feel Milo grab my right hand with both of his.
“I’m here,” he murmurs.
I smile at him, thankful.
“Okay, Sadie. Here we go,” Holly announces before I feel the needle jab into my flesh.
It’s a sensation I’ve never felt before, painful and yet intoxicating, knowing this decision I made for me will forever be on display on my skin.
“Doing okay?” Holly asks.
“Doing great,” I answer, letting my smile melt against my cheeks.
Milo’s eyes glisten, and I breathe into the sting as Holly continues to outline the butterfly. She pauses every so often, wiping at my skin.
“Almost done with the outline,” she mutters from behind me. “Then we’ll reset for the color.”
I nod. Milo squeezes my hand.
When Holly stops, there’s a sense of relief for a moment until she says, “Okay, so color might be a little more painful. You did amazing, though. It’s small, so it shouldn’t take too much time.”
“Okay,” I say as Holly wipes at my shoulder.
Milo’s hand is warm around mine. “Is it looking okay?” I ask him.
He tilts forward, standing slightly so his chest hovers above me. “You wanted a chicken, right?”
“It’s not a chicken,” Holly says, her tone flat.
Milo grins. “It looks great,” he says before his lips brush against mine for a fleeting second.
“Remember when Emma wanted chickens?” I ask.
“We had to raise them for a while because she found out she was allergic to the chick fuzz.” He chuckles. “They were cute even though they were so messy in your garage.”
“You named one Joe because it was grouchy, even though it was a girl.”
“It always pecked me!” His grin widens.
“Who built the coop?” I ask.
“Grant did,” Milo answers.
“That’s right,” I muse.
“I’m going to start color,” Holly announces.
“Okay.”
The buzzing sound begins again, but this time the needle feels like it’s plunging deep in my flesh, the movements more like when a child wraps their whole hand around a crayon and scribbles on a coloring page.
I must wince, because Milo squeezes my hand before he leans toward me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “But it might distract me if you tell me a story.”
He nods before I watch his eyes search for something in his mind.
“A good one,” I add.
He chuckles. “Okay.”
“And quickly.”
He shakes his head. “Five years ago, my dad was released from prison.”
The pain instantly dissipates from my shoulder, as if Holly isn’t there at all.
“What?” My eyes widen.
“Grandpa must not have told you.”
I shake my head softly. “No, he didn’t.”
“He found me quickly. It wasn’t hard to do when I was playing pro. Showed up at a game.” Milo pauses, looking away for a second before his eyes meet mine again. “He wanted my help. Wanted to change. Or so he said. It didn’t take long for me to realize he didn’t want to change at all.”
I squeeze his hand. “Milo . . .”
He shakes his head again. “It’s okay. I thought . . . I hoped . . . Well, I was disappointed when I learned my money to help him went toward things that continued to hurt him.”
“Where is he now?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. When I quit giving him money, he disappeared.”
“Milo, I’m so sorry.”
“I am too,” he replies.
“You’re not like him, you know.”
He gives me a half smile. “There’s always a cost to our choices, even if those costs look different.”
I hold his gaze, and there’s something tender but strong in his eyes.
“All right, we’re done here,” Holly interrupts, and I realize she’s wiping at my shoulder. “Want to take a look?”
She holds out a mirror and I sit up to take it.
The butterfly in the reflection is beautiful.
It’s a vibrant blue but softened with some shading, like the color was brushed on with watercolor instead of ink.
The wings stretch just enough to follow the curve of my shoulder, delicate but intentional, each line clean and sure.
The edges fade slightly toward the tips as if it’s about to lift off my skin.
Tiny veins thread through the wings in darker strokes, adding depth I hadn’t expected. Up close, it looks intricate. From a distance, it’s simple. Hopeful. Free.
The skin around it is flushed and a little swollen, a faint halo of pink that makes the color stand out even more. It feels warm and tender, not exactly out of pain, more like a lingering sting after a good cry.
“It’s . . . perfect,” I whisper, surprised by the thickness in my throat. Not just because of how it looks, but because of how it feels to see something so soft and alive marked onto me. It feels like a quiet declaration of bravery.
Then I look at Milo and with a playful smile say, “Your turn.”