Empty Promises (The Promises Series Book 3) (9 page)

He laughs. “Okay, well, you don’t mince your words. Shit. You know what you want?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t find anything in your books that incorporates it completely. I want something that means life goes on. I was thinking of a silhouette of a tree, like this one,” I show him the picture in his book. “But I want to fuse it into a circle, you know, like the circle of life? Does that make sense?”

He smiles, seemingly impressed with my choice. “It does, although I’d have bet my bike that you were in here for another fucking butterfly. What is it with chicks and butterflies?” he asks with a grin, and I decide I like him. Even if he does look like he could tear me apart with his pinky finger.

“Right.” I giggle nervously and Blair snorts.

“I love that you just said that! She wanted a butterfly until she saw the tree,” Blair tells him and I feel the heat in my cheeks rise instantly. I spin around and she’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin. I want to throw the tub of Vaseline that’s sitting next to me at her, but I can’t because she’s telling the truth.

I assumed that getting a tattoo would be a touch on the uncomfortable side; I’d already prepped myself for the fact that it wasn’t going to tickle.
But holy hell does it hurt!
My first clue that this was going to be about as much fun as Chinese water torture should have been when I said I wanted the tat on my ribs, just under my left breast, and Gus whistled. I thought he was whistling because… Well, if I’m being honest, because he thought it was hot. But no, it was to signify that if you're going to get a tattoo anywhere, your ribs are about the most painful place you can choose. The tattoo gun had barely warmed before I was reciting the periodic table song in my mind to try and take my mind off the fact that I’m actually paying him to hurt me this much. I quickly run out of stupid things to recite and look over to Blair, hoping she can keep me occupied. She’s facing away with her hands cupped over her ear as she stares at the ground.

“Blair, what are you doing?” I shout.

She answers without moving an inch. “I can’t look. And the sound … damn, it’s worse than the drill they use at the dentist. Just shout at me when you’re done.” She shudders.

Gus lets out a low rumbling sound, which I’m assuming is a laugh.

“Bet you wish all your customers were as mentally stable as us,” I say sarcastically through gritted teeth as he drags the tattoo needle across my sensitive skin. It feels like he’s burning me rather than piercing the skin with a needle.

“Trust me, you two are a walk in the park. We get some … let's call them
interesting
people in here.”

“Feel free to tell me about them to take my mind off this torture.”

There he goes again with the rumbling laugh. “Last week this couple came in, I guess around your age, maybe a little older,” he begins. “The chick is all hyped up and says, ‘Hey, I’d like to get a tattoo of my boyfriend's name, but I’m scared of needles. Is there anything you can do? So I say, ‘Well, not really. We could try cooling cream first. It would numb the skin a little but not totally.’ It’s pretty normal for us to get people coming in who don’t like needles. I mean fuck, unless you’re a junkie, who does? So anyway, the chick’s like, ‘Huh, yeah, no, I don’t think so. Just show me the needles. I’ll faint, and then you can do the name while I’m out,’ like that’s an entirely normal request.” He rolls his eyes.

He says the female customer’s part in a high-pitched girly voice, which coming out of him is so weird and completely hilarious I can’t help but grin.

“I tell her that I think that’s probably illegal but she’s already walked over to my table and picked up a needle, still in its steri-wrapper. I go to take it off her and before I get there, she’s opened the packaging, then boom—she’s flat-out cold on the tile floor. I grab my phone to call for an ambulance because this chick didn’t faint like a girl. She hit the deck like a sack of rocks, and then get this.” He stops tattooing me for a second to look at me. “Her douche of a boyfriend turns to me and says, ‘Dude, can’t you just do it now?’ I’m looking at him, standing there with his girl decked out, thinking
is this guy for real
.”

“Oh my gosh. Was the girl all right?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

“I think so. The EMT’s took her to the hospital as a precaution since she’d banged her head.” He shrugs and then starts the gun up again, pressing it back to my skin. “Her dickhead boyfriend was pissed at me for calling them because it was going to make him late for some basketball game or something. The dude was lucky he didn’t end up in the back of the ambulance, too.” He smirks.

“There we go,” Gus says, sliding away from me on his roller chair to look over his handy work. “I’m impressed, Emily. Most grown men I tattoo on the ribs don’t sit as still as you just did. 'Though she be but little, she is fierce.’” He winks.

“Wow, did you just quote Shakespeare to me?” I ask, failing miserably at masking the surprise in my voice. Gus doesn’t look like your average 1600’s playwright aficionado.

“You sound surprised. Anyone ever tell you not judge a book by its cover, Emily? You might miss out on a great story.”

“Oh, um, I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“Relax, I’m not offended. I’m majoring in English lit, so I spent all last semester reading Shakespeare.”

“Holy crap, you’re still in college?” I blurt out.

“Okay, now I’m offended!” He laughs.

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m just shocked. I thought you were older—”

“Keep digging, sweetheart.”

“Gee, Em, you’re acting almost as awkward as me!” Blair chimes in, and I look over wide-eyed, silently willing the floor to open up and swallow me.

“I’m twenty-three. Guess it’s time to break out the anti-wrinkle cream already, huh?” Gus says playfully. “Stand up and take a look.” He points at the tattoo and I grin, eager to see what it looks like.

“Wow.” I turn to my side and look at my reflection in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Again with the surprise.” He shakes his head. “You’ll give a guy a complex.”

“It was most definitely a compliment, Gus. Thank you.”

“Um, is that all blood?” Blair asks, pointing to the trashcan filled with the tissues that he’s used while inking me.

“What? There’s hardly anything there. Ribs barely bleed,” Gus answers.

“Yeah, it’s enough. I need some air … I’ll be outside, Em.” Suddenly, she’s gone.

“Tiny wasn’t joking when she told you she doesn’t do blood well, huh?”

“Apparently not.” I smile. “Okay, so do I just pay on the way out?” I ask as he tapes me up and hands me a leaflet on how to take care of my new ink.

“You know what? It’s on me.”

“What? No way. You can’t,” I say dismissively.

“Sure I can, just smile and say thank you.”

“No, really. I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything, but I don’t like feeling like I pulled the cancer card. I’ll pay—”

“Seriously, you’re not pulling anything. It’s on me because you impressed me with how badass you are—not even flinching as I worked on your ribs. I’ve made two dudes cry today tattooing theirs.” He smiles. It’s so genuine that I don’t dare turn him down again.

“Wow, thank you then, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, Emily. See you around,” he says softly.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s highly unlikely he’ll ever see me again, so I don’t. “See you around, Gus.” I catch the look he gives me as I round the cubicle to leave.

He knows.

August 24
th
, 2013

Dear Diary,

Eat. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat.

I’m sure I’ve ended up stuck in some weird time loop for the last week. You know, like the movie “Groundhog Day” where you live the same day over and over.

I feel sorry for myself today.

When I was at Dr. Zahn’s she told me that it sounded to her like I was in the grieving stages of my diagnosis. I asked her what it was that I was supposed to be grieving, because grief happens when you lose someone, and I’m not dead … yet. And when I am, I can’t exactly mourn myself. She shook her head and smiled at me before sitting back in her chair. Her demeanor was relaxed and not at all like a therapist taking notes. She made me feel like we were just hanging out and talking like old friends.

She began telling me that grief is an overwhelming emotion, regardless of whether your sadness comes from experiencing a physical loss or from a terminal diagnosis like mine. Apparently it's normal—expected, even—that I might feel numb and disconnected from my friends, family, or life in general. She asked me if I felt like I was unable to continue with my everyday, regular routines. My first instinct was to say no. It’s not like I’m having suicidal thoughts and don’t want to carry on. If anything, it’s the opposite; I don’t want anything to end. I told her this, and she said that’s not what she meant.

“Are you having the ‘what’s the point’ feelings every time you do anything?”

I don’t exactly think, ‘what’s the point’ because, for me, the point is to live. But I am tiring of things, my emotions are all over the place, and I’m back on pretty heavy-duty pain medication. As much as I hate to admit it, I do feel like maybe I’m just waiting to die. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to sit and let death claim me. I want to be that girl who dies doing something epic; not in a hospital bed, off my face on drugs. When I said this to her, she hugged me. I’m pretty sure that’s not normal patient/therapist protocol, but I think we’ve bypassed that now.

She finished by telling me that grief is the natural reaction to an impending loss. That it’s a very personal experience, and that even though I may not be in control of the ultimate outcome, I am in charge of the journey. She’s an extraordinary person, Dr. Zahn. She inspires me.

I’m in charge of my own journey.

I like that.

I walk into my bedroom with a towel wrapped like a turban around my head.

“Is it done?” Blair asks, looking up from my desk chair. She’s been helping me catch up on my homework.

I beam. “It is.”

She stands, stretching and contorting her spine in an exaggerated arch like a lazy cat awakening from a long nap. She’d turned up a few hours ago in denim shorts and a red plaid shirt. I greeted her in the kitchen dressed in my own denim shorts and a blue plaid shirt. Dad shook his head and asked if we called each other in the morning so that we could coordinate properly. Mom nudged him and told him that we’re like those twins who have telepathic abilities. Dad shivered dramatically and looked at us both like we were creeping him out.

“Are we scaring you?” we both said in unison, and Dad spit the OJ he was drinking back into his glass, looking at us with eyes as large as saucers. “Jinx, double jinx! You get the pinch I get the wish!” we shouted, facing one another and then attempting to nip each other’s arms.

“You weren’t scaring me, but now you are.” He’d left the room, still looking back at the two of us like we’re unsettling him.

“Ignore him, girls. He spends too much time watching the paranormal channel,” Mom mused before picking up her coffee and retreating after Dad.

“We do have a knack for coming off as similar,” Blair said. So, after we’d finished studying, I pulled the dye I’d bought at the drug store out and told her I was going to change things up a little.

And here I am, poised and ready for my reveal.

“Are you going to show me or not? Wait—does it look bad? Is that why you're stalling? We can always fix it, you know. I’ll drive you to a salon—you can wear a baseball cap and hoodie. We’ll don shades and go on a covert mission!”

“Easy, tiger. I think you’re getting way ahead of yourself. I was pausing for dramatic effect, but you’ve kind of killed it!” I smirk.

“Oh for…” she shakes her head, exasperated. “Just show me already!”

“Ta daaaa,” I sing-song as I pull the towel from around my head and reveal my hair.

“Emily!” Blair’s eyes are huge and I smile. “Is it supposed to be pink?”

“What, no!” I joke and her expression is priceless. I grab a pillow from my bed and toss it at her. “Of course it’s supposed to be pink. Nobody, not even me, can dye her hair—what did it say on the box? oh, yeah—‘Foxy Fuchsia,’ by mistake.”