22 Everleigh Make Way For The Feeling—Chance Peña #3
I’m taken to another room to be pricked with a needle to test for an allergic reaction to the ink, then given a bunch of forms to complete.
By the time it’s all done, Leo’s wrapped up with new vines coiled around the timepiece on his right arm, marking the beginnings of intricate foliage that’ll creep up his entire shoulder.
“Nice.” I grip his wrist, turning it back and forth.
“You ready to do this yourself?”
“Mine’s going to be a lot smaller than yours.”
“For now,” Leo taunts.
“Over here, Eden.” With a devious look, Thierry pats the inking bench. “Let’s have a look.”
I walk over to sit cross legged on the leather bench while he studies my rough sketch, pulling out an iPad to begin sketching his own digital version. The imperfections in my amateur design vanish, transforming the bare-bones outline into an ephemeral creature enveloped in lush, lifelike florals.
“You’re talented,” I coo over his work.
“It’s what you pay me for.” His tongue pokes between his lips, forehead furrowed in concentration. “Mind if I go a bit wild?”
“Be my guest.”
Taking the falling petals that Maverick added, Thierry creates curling roots that offshoot the design. It looks like the butterfly is tearing its way free from a sarcophagus, shedding dead florals to transform anew.
“How do you feel about text?” His forehead wrinkles.
“Like what?”
“Something calligraphic, super dainty. Just under the wing portion here.”
Following where he traces, I’m undecided. Committing to this was hard enough. I can’t think of a meaningful word too.
“I dunno what to add.”
“Do you trust me?” Thierry questions.
Hesitating, I wrestle that little voice once more, sourcing its own box. “Yes.”
“Then let me surprise you. Trust me, it’ll fit what you’re creating.”
“Okay . . . ugh, what the hell. Go for it.”
“Fantastic.” He turns away to finish up the design out of sight. “Alright, I’ll need access to your whole arm if you can pop it out of your shirt. Preferably without Mr. Protective threatening to punch me again.”
“Just doing my duty,” Leo shouts from his perch across the room. “Want some company, sweetheart?”
I shake my head. “No, I want it to be a surprise.”
He looks crestfallen but nods, settling into the seating area with Maverick. His jaw does harden a little when I flash my bra while attempting to slide my arm free, but he softens when I stick my tongue out at him.
With the design transferred onto my inner arm using thermal stencil paper, Thierry makes me promise to keep my gaze fixed on the ceiling so I can’t peek at the finished piece. It takes every ounce of trust I have to put my faith in him.
The pain isn’t too bad. Certain spots cause me to wince or suck in a breath, but the low, vibrating burn is actually satisfying. I can imagine the old me being sliced away by the needle tip, making way for ink that reaffirms my commitment to taking control.
“How’s it looking?” I whisper nervously.
“Trust, Eden. You’re in good hands.”
“You’re kind of obnoxious, you know?”
He splutters an amused laugh. “Most tattoo artists are. We scar people for a living.”
“And we pay you for the privilege.”
“Yes, you do,” he snickers.
After a couple of hours, I’m getting antsy. Thierry twists and turns my arm at several angles, studying his work to finish off any small areas. Even the guys are bouncing up and down in the seats, itching with impatience to see the final result.
My skin feels tight and hot. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t understand the addiction. It’s strangely satisfying, feeling the ink take root beneath the skin, scorched into place all in the name of self-expression.
“Ready to take a look?” Thierry straightens, rolling his shoulders back.
“Yes! Yes!” Both Leo and Maverick leap to their feet.
“Hold off, you hooligans. Eden gets first look.”
Allowing him to help me sit upright, I lift my arm to study the inflamed patch of skin above my inner elbow. Where bare flesh once laid, an elaborate scene spells out liberation in permanent ink.
The butterfly is ethereal, recreated in meticulous detail that softens and melts into delicate florals succumbing to nature’s decay. Curving beneath the lower arch of the wing is a single, calligraphic word.
My breath hitches, throat closing up and stinging with emotion. Thierry watches my reaction closely as I study the letters.
Metamorphosis.
He clears his throat, oddly serious. “To transform, to shed, to begin anew. Just like the flowers evanescing to make way for a new, beautiful life form to emerge from its chrysalis.”
“It’s perfect,” I croak. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thanks for the trust.”
While the guys come closer to study Thierry’s handiwork, my eyes trace over the words, encased in medical plastic wrap. To transform. To shed. To begin anew. All things I want more than anything and never thought possible. Not in this life.
But I was wrong.
I can begin again.
Leo meets my eyes, reaching out to stroke a fingertip under my chin. I blink back tears, allowing him to witness the seismic shift that’s rattling my bones as a vibrant kind of hope takes root somewhere inside.
I don’t have to shrink anymore.
And . . . I can finally choose myself.