Chapter 32
Annabelle
Six weeks later
The tattoo studio is the cleanest place Ethan has ever stood in, which is the only reason he’s not pacing. He is, however, inspecting everything like he’s about to give it a cleanliness rating out of ten.
I booked it myself. That matters to me, that I made the call, gave my name, chose the time. After four years of acting on grief, I wanted one thing in this new life that started with me picking up a phone.
“You don’t have to do this,” Callan says. He’s said it three times. For a man who marked me with a pen and meant it like scripture, he’s gone strangely careful now it’s about to be permanent.
“I know I don’t.” I squeeze his hand. “But I want to.”
The artist is a calm woman with grey at her temples and steady hands, and I’ve sent her the design ahead, so she already knows. I sit and lift my top, baring the skin on my lower back.
“Last chance to bottle it, Tinks,” Ethan says, but his eyes are dark and fixed, and he doesn’t mean a word of it.
“A butterfly,” the artist confirms. “Here. And the names worked into the wings.”
“The names worked into the wings,” I agree.
Because that’s the thing I worked out, lying in Ethan’s bed with their three names drying on my skin in marker pen.
I spent four years thinking love was the thing that gets taken from you.
Mum, taken. Me, slowly taking myself. I built a whole person out of needing nothing, so nothing could be ripped away.
And then three monsters walked into my drowning and refused to let me sink, and somewhere in the middle of the blood and the marker pen and the steak fed to me on a fork, I stopped bracing for the loss and started living in the having.
I’m putting my mother’s butterfly on my body forever, something she never let herself be seen wanting. And I’m inking their names in its wings, Ethan, Aidan and Callan.
The needle starts, and it bites, and I breathe through it the way I’ve learned to handle everything with three men braced around me like a wall against the world.
“You’re shaking,” Callan murmurs.
“I’m all right.” And I am.
The needle’s steady hum is the only sound in the small room. It’s a rhythmic, mechanical sting that anchors me to the chair.
I close my eyes and let the pain bloom. It’s a clean sort of hurt. Not like the hollow ache of the last four years, but something transformative. My mother wore her butterfly to hide. I’m wearing mine to be found.
I feel the shift in the needle as she begins the fine work—the names. Three syllables that rewrote the map of my world. They are the ink under my skin and the air in my lungs. They are the violence that keeps me safe and the tenderness that keeps me sane.
When she finally stops, the silence feels massive. I sit up, my skin hot and throbbing, and look into the mirror she holds up. It’s beautiful. The butterfly is delicate, its wings intricate and dark, but the names are the real strength of it. They aren’t a brand anymore. They’re a choice.
“Perfect,” I whisper.
She goes through the cleaning instructions, and I listen intently, knowing that I don’t have to. The guys will take care of it for me.
When she’s done, I stand and gingerly let my top fall down. Ethan is there instantly, his hand on my waist, his thumb brushing the spot where the ink starts. I’m not a librarian waiting for a tragedy to finish her. I’m a woman who has found her monsters, and I’m never letting them go.
I’m home.
Outside, Margaret is waiting for me in the cafe across the road. She gives me a stern look as I hobble in, the tattoo forcing me into submission whether I like it or not. “Annabelle,” she says, primly. “This had better be good.”
“It is,” I say and sit, leaving the guys to hover at a nearby table.
Margaret gives them the stink eye. “You could’ve quit yourself, you know. I expected that much at least from you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. The last few years have been rough, and I needed someone to deal with life for me.”
“The library isn’t the same without you,” she says, masking her sniff as she takes a sip of tea.
“I’m sure it’s a happier place with me gone.”
“Pah,” she says. “The kids miss you.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Don’t,” I say. “You’ll make me cry.”
“Good,” she says. “Maybe it will make you come back.”
“I can’t do that,” I say sadly. “Not now. Not yet. I need to take care of me now.”
Her expression softens. “I get that.” She sets her teacup down with a sharp clink. Her eyes flick to the triplets. They look out of place among the scones and floral tablecloths. Ethan is watching the door. Aidan is staring at a man who sits too close. Callan is focused entirely on me.
“I suppose you found what you were looking for,” Margaret mutters.
“I wasn’t looking for it,” I reply. “But it found me anyway.”
She reaches across the table. Her hand stops, hesitant, before she pats my wrist. “Don’t be a stranger, Annabelle. Just because you have your hands full with those three doesn’t mean you can’t visit an old woman.”
“I won’t,” I promise. I mean it. I want to keep a piece of the world that doesn’t involve death or burning buildings.
Ethan stands up. The movement is quick and silent. He doesn’t say a word, but the message is clear. It is time to go. My body aches from the tattoo, a constant, throbbing reminder of my choice. I stand up and give Margaret one last smile.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
“I have people for that now,” I tell her.
I walk out of the cafe. The cooling autumn air hits my face.
Ethan opens the car door of the brand new SUV that fits all of us inside.
Aidan and Callan climb in after me. The street is busy, but it doesn’t touch me.
I am tucked away in their shadow. I am the heart of their darkness. And for the first time, I’m not afraid.