14. Xavier #2
She turned around and pulled up a rolling stool to sit in front of me.
She sterilized the skin over my heart with an alcohol wipe and started drawing the purple stencil from memory, her dark eyes locked on my chest, refusing to look at a reference photo.
I watched her concentrated face before forcing myself to look at the ceiling.
"Why are you getting a ring tattooed over your heart?" she asked over the buzzing machine.
"Is that the question you want to ask me right now?" I countered.
She paused the machine and looked up.
"Why the hell do you still have my engagement ring?" she demanded.
"The ring, this tattoo, all of it, it's for Eliza," I lied.
I'd boarded the plane with the ring fully intending to hand it back to Sloane.
I wanted closure, to shove the velvet box into her hands and announce: Here.
This is your wreckage. I'm finished carrying this ghost. And then I'd walked into that cramped cellar, watched her freezing hands trace the velvet box, seen the devastation on her face, and I couldn't do it.
I hadn't been ready. I still didn't know what the hell I wanted.
But what I knew with terrifying certainty was that I didn't want to give her back the ring. I hadn't wanted to hand it over in the cellar, and I didn't want to hand it over now.
She fired the machine back up, the needle buzzing against my skin.
"Why would you propose to a brand-new girlfriend with the same custom ring you already proposed to someone else with?" she challenged.
I kept my eyes on the ceiling tiles.
"The ring is a masterpiece," I defended.
"I worked through every exhausting hour of my residency to afford the stones.
It cost more money than I had. I'm not going to toss it into the ocean because there are toxic memories attached to the metal.
" I took a slow breath. "Anytime I look at that box, my brain replays the courier dropping off your package and reading that note.
I don't want to keep carrying that. I want to rewrite what the ring means.
Instead of agony, I want it to stand for something present. Something good."
She swallowed hard over the hum of the needle.
A suffocating silence filled the room.
"That's a logical plan," she finally whispered. She didn't lift her eyes from my chest when she said it.
The rest of the session dragged on without much conversation. She worked the ink, and I kept my eyes up.
"What reference are you even using for this?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.
"I have it memorized," she answered. "I don't need a reference."
I lowered my head to look at her. She refused to look up.
Her dark eyes stayed fixed on my chest, her brows pinched, her mouth pulled into a tight line of concentration.
Neither of us had moved on. I knew it in my bones, and she knew it too, but because there were two innocent casualties in this mess, we were going to force ourselves to act like responsible adults.
We were going to pretend we were bigger than the trauma we were feeling.
I was lying half-naked in a chair in a Hawaiian estate room with her bare hand resting over my racing heart, and I didn't feel big at all.
She wiped the excess ink away. I stood and walked to the vanity mirror to inspect the fresh black ring over my heart. The lines were clean and precise.
"This is phenomenal work," I admitted.
She looked up at my reflection. "What do you mean by that?"
"I just mean it's good art. I never thought you'd—"
She walked over and smacked my bare bicep. "I'm a professional tattoo artist, Xavier."
"I'm aware of your job title," I laughed. "I just didn't realize you were this talented at the execution."
"How do you think I built a thriving studio?"
"I assumed you coasted on your irresistible charm," I teased.
She let out a bright laugh, her tense shoulders dropping, and I forced myself to look away before I did something stupid.
"Why tattoo art, anyway?" I asked, leaning against the vanity.
"Because I project a dangerous bad-girl energy," she deadpanned.
"Be honest with me."
She considered me for a moment, dropping the armor.
"I studied graphic design in college," she said.
"I was good at the corporate work. But I wanted to build something that was mine.
Something disconnected from the expectations placed on me, or whatever corporate vision my father had dictated for my life.
Tattoo art felt like a rebellion. So I learned to sling ink.
" She paused, a shadow crossing her eyes.
"It was one of the first independent steps I took to cut my father out of my life. "
I laughed, triumphant.
"Good for you," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Hell yeah," I confirmed. "I'm proud you finally did it. That tyrant controlled too much of your life already."
She started sanitizing and packing up her kit.
"What was the final straw?" I asked. "With your father. What finally gave you the courage to stop bending the knee?"
"I can't pinpoint the exact day I decided," she answered, keeping her eyes on her equipment. "But I made the choice. That's all that matters."
"That's more than enough," I agreed.
The hallway outside erupted with loud, echoing voices, Violet's unmistakable exhausted pitch leading the charge, followed by Simon's deep rumble.
I grabbed my shirt off the bed, pulled it on, and fastened the buttons.
We both stepped out into the bright corridor. The whole hiking group had returned. Violet's face was flushed red from the elevation, Simon trailing protectively behind her, Eliza and Andrew walking in together at the back of the pack.
I turned to Sloane. "I'm going to go check on Eliza," I murmured.
She gave a single, tight nod.