Epilogue Two
Theo
"This was a bad idea when we did it before, and I think it's even worse now," Shea said, entering the house behind me.
"It's not a bad idea because Jordan is fully licensed, unlike Hailey."
Shea snickered. “I should track her down and thank her.”
“I tried—she’s in prison.”
Shaking his head, Shea gazed around the place, taking in Jordan's cozy yet modern living room. I heard clanging from downstairs, which meant that he was setting up for our session. I took Shea's hand and brought it to my lips, brushing a kiss across the knuckles. "Can you trust me, baby?"
He didn't respond right away, so I stuck my tongue out and lapped at a couple of his fingers. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, but still no words. I sucked his index finger into my mouth, and that's when he finally reacted.
His resolve was getting stronger. I'd have to figure out some other way to break those walls down. Now, though, Shea knew exactly what I was doing. He made no move to tug his hand free. "Of course, I trust you."
Footsteps sounded from down the hallway, and Jordan appeared through the door that led down to his studio. He was drying his hands on a paper towel and despite the carefree man that Shea got to know during camp, he was all business now. "You two ready?"
Instead of answering myself, I glanced at my husband and crooked a brow. Though he fought it, the corners of his lips and the sparkle in his eye gave away his smile and with one barely noticeable nod, we let Jordan lead us downstairs.
On the weekends, Jordan rented a booth at a studio downtown but for larger or more private pieces, he worked out of his basement.
He was fully aware of the irony in tattooing in his basement and as he'd described to me before, felt an odd sense of pride in people showing off his work and saying it got done in someone's basement.
As we descended into the studio, Shea glanced around at the artwork along the walls. At the bottom of the stairs, his eyes caught onto one art piece in particular, and a slow smile spread across his face.
It was the first tattoo Jordan had done when he opened his own studio.
Concurrently, it was the first piece I got after opening Playhouse.
It was actually how we'd met—he was a new artist trying to start out on his own, and I wanted to celebrate.
Dotted amongst Jordan's various art prints were real photographs of tattoos he'd done, once he'd hired photographers to capture just the right way.
I remembered that day vividly, standing topless in a wheat field while some stranger snapped around me, promising to keep my chest out of the shot.
In the end, she made good on her promise.
She'd found the perfect angle behind me, instructed me to put my hands through my hair and snapped away.
She'd captured the perfect ripple of muscles beneath my skin, sun highlighting the right points of the tattoo.
Jordan claimed it was the single piece that got him all his fame, but I think he just liked to say that.
However, it held Shea's attention, and I began to think that maybe we could recreate it.
On our own.
Though maybe not in a field—I'd gone home with so many bug bites that day.
"Who's first?" Jordan asked, distracting us.
"I'll go," I said before Shea could even give me the look.
I whipped my shirt off and laid down on the sanitized chair, closing my eyes as I relaxed onto the pillow.
In a way, tattoos were my therapy. There was something serene about the soft buzzing of the gun, and the focus on the pain kept my mind from swirling around other things.
In the past, that thing was Shea, but I didn't have to distract myself from the pain of missing him anymore.
Now, I simply held out my hand, and he was right there.
"Cold," Jordan warned right before spritzing my skin with alcohol.
As obnoxious as he could be, when he was tattooing, he was near silent, only speaking when necessary or when spoken to.
I knew from experience his favorite clients were like me—the ones who took the opportunity to relax and let him work.
Jordan shaved the area, then wiped it down one more time with the green soap. With Jordan on my left side, I curled that arm behind my head and closed my eyes.
"Shea, you can pull that stool over if you like."
"I’m fine," Shea responded, squeezing my hand.
I'd gotten more tattoos since we met, but Shea still only had the one. Back then, a shot of cheap vodka and a bottle of Bactine got him through it. I wasn't sure how he'd take to a proper tattoo. From personal experience, they were far less painful but that wasn't always the case.
Besides, you couldn't drink during a proper tattoo. I'd even seen Jordan breathalyze people before a session.
I felt the paper peel away from the stencil and Jordan moisturized the skin and pulled it taught. He instructed me to remember to breathe, and then the process began.
Our tattoos were only small, but meaningful.
Jordan completed mine in less than ten minutes and then flipped the room around to do Shea's.
My boy seemed nervous but with a tender hand and a reminder to breathe once the tattoo started, he was fine.
Though at one point, he pried those pretty blue eyes open and stared at me, tears in them.
"You need a break?" Jordan asked.
Shea shook his head, swallowing hard. No, his eyes weren't full of pain.
Instead, they shone with pure emotion. "I'm okay," he said, voice thick as he breathed through a sensitive spot.
Shea didn't know it, but even though our plans were spur of the moment, Jordan suggested something that I couldn't possibly turn down.
He finished ninety-nine percent of the tattoo himself but when it came to that last one percent, he wiped off the tattoo for visibility.
While Shea had his eyes closed, Jordan quietly gestured for me to take his place.
I leaned down to brush a tender kiss across Shea's cheek. "Keep your eyes closed for me, baby."
Shea's brows furrowed in confusion, but he obeyed.
I washed my hands and Jordan helped me into a pair of black gloves.
Quietly, he explained the foot petal and the right way to hold the gun.
It was heavier than I expected, but only took a few seconds to gain control.
From behind me, Jordan asked, "You ready, Shea?
" After a nod, Jordan instructed him to open his eyes.
He blinked to adjust to the light, then searched the room for me. "What are you doing?" he asked me, a soft laugh bubbling from his lips.
I choked back smart remarks about marking my territory. This moment was too emotional for that… and we’d be able to do that later.
"Proving that you can always trust me. Now stop laughing or it'll be shaky."
Under Jordan's directions, I added the finishing touches to Shea's tattoo—a single dot, and a line to cross the last letter. I may have taken a few extra moments to wipe him clean, enjoying the feeling of his tender skin beneath my touch.
“All finished,” I said quietly.
"Let me give you one more wipe down," Jordan said to me. "Then you two can have a look."
Shea and I stood together in the mirror facing each other. His shirt was still off, me in just my binder. "Wasn't as bad as you thought, was it?" I asked.
Smiling, he shook his head. "Two tattoos… my mom would have a coronary."
"Oh, what a shame—ow!" He'd just smacked me in the chest. But he knew I was right.
"What do you guys think?" Jordan asked from where he cleaned up behind us.
"They're perfect," Shea muttered.
"I agree."
After a few awkward tries at getting pictures ourselves, we decided that these were tattoos that needed a professional hand.
And a week later, that's exactly what we did: With me in a white bandeau, and Shea in matching linen shorts, we went back to that wheat field and stood side by side.
The photographer worked her magic again and captured a stunning angle with the stars scattered across the night sky behind us, our hands joined, and our tattoos in perfect view.
With that picture, we announced our marriage to the world:
"I was born sick, but it was worth it."