But...I had my pride. I had my stupid ego. I didn’t want to give him all of me. Not now, not yet. Some part of him missed me, maybe even still wanted me, but if he wasn’t brave enough to put down the barriers he’d erected, then I wasn’t either.
“I know I should’ve told you yesterday. I wasn’t honest in my interview.”
He tore his hand away, laughing brokenly. “That’s how you want to play this?”
Yes.
No.
I nodded.
Inhaling hard, he clipped, “In that case, as my canvas, I expected you to be in pristine condition.” His voice scratched with sandpaper. “How can I paint you when you’re already scribbled on?”
My chin came up. I’d chosen this path. I would defend it. “It’s not a scribble.”
“What is it?”
“Something very meaningful.” I wanted to twist and look at what he saw. Whenever someone saw my tattoo for the first time, I craved to see it from their point of view. To study it close and appreciate the talent of the artist I’d chosen.
My tattoo wasn’t a vanity thing.
It wasn’t an impulsive dare.
It was needed—to heal my broken pieces. To cover up the mess left behind.
I’d hated those scars. Hated me. Hated life itself.
Without ‘scribbling’ on myself, I doubted I’d be whole enough to go to battle with Gilbert Clark. I would’ve chosen to check out of trying and sink into my mind where I could still dance, still be happy.
His body cast shockwaves of fury and frustration behind me. He touched me again, gingerly, tenderly, tracing the filigree lines and lacework that convened into a large geometric pattern before bleeding into a realism piece of an owl. Imbedded in the owl’s feathers were as many creatures as I could name all starting with O.
For me.
Olin.
I shivered as he touched every blemish I knew well.
Would he understand? Would he see just how pathetic I was?
Back at school, I’d surrounded myself with friends. I’d looked after my fellow students because my parents didn’t look after me. I earned their gratefulness and friendships but they never patched up the holes inside me.
Until Gil had chosen me for his own.
Until he’d traded his secrets for mine and, in return, stole every piece of my heart.
It’d been a month into our tentative relationship.
A month of hurried smiles and hesitant hellos before he used the first nickname.
He’d always said my name was odd. That he didn’t know anyone else called Olin.
I’d said that was a good thing. It meant he would always remember me.
He’d said the letter O was just as unique as my name. Therefore, any animal beginning with O was just as special.
A few days later, he’d passed me my backpack after class. Whispered under his breath so the other kids couldn’t hear—a melodic rasp of secrecy. “Otter, don’t forget your bag.”
The next week, he’d called me owl by the gym, then octopus in the cafeteria.
I’d fallen in love with him after that.
Tumbled and tripped, rolled and cartwheeled, loving him more than I’d loved anybody.
Ocelot, orangutan, ostrich...
They were all there, peeking in the feathers, turning ugly scars into special uniqueness.
Gil sucked in a pained breath, a strangled grunt escaping his lips.
I twisted to look at him, studying the sudden grief painting his eyes and the regret sketching his mouth.
It was enough to make my knees turn week and my arms beg to hold him.
“You used us to cover your scars.” His voice vibrated with something I couldn’t decipher. His eyes snapped shut, a visible cloak of cruelty smothering his features. When he opened his eyes again, he was back to being a blizzard king. “How am I supposed to hide ink and scars, Olin?”
I swallowed hard.
When the accident happened, I’d forgotten who I was.
I’d been alone in the hospital and alone in rehab and alone in the months after with my dreams shattered by my feet.
I’d searched for something to make me feel worthy again—to stop the aching wasteland my chest had become.
I’d turned to Google, searching chat rooms for advice on moving on from severe accidents and tips on how to turn bad into survivable. I’d learned about the miracle of tattoos. From women with breast cancer to men with missing limbs—they all turned to the undeniable superpower of turning grotesque memories into fresh beginnings, and I’d designed the piece myself.
The day I’d scrimped up enough cash to sit the three full days in the tattooist chair was the happiest I’d been since Gil made me his. I’d found myself—my real self—as I embraced the discomfort of needles and pigment, covering the nasty red scars with something pretty.
I loved that piece more than anything.
I refused to let Gil ruin it. “I don’t know, but you can cover it somehow.”
“It marks half your back.”
“It was needed.”
He stopped touching me, stepping from the podium as if everything between us shot him with a thousand arrows. “What happened?”
It was a question free from ice. A question that demanded to know.
I didn’t give him what he wanted.
He stopped below me, his gaze tearing into mine as if he could yank out my memories, desperate to uncover the ones where he hadn’t been there.
His eyes always had the power to bend my will to his.
I’d been weak and totally his to command whenever I’d caught him staring at me as if his love couldn’t be contained.
He wasn’t allowed to look at me like that anymore.
I wasn’t his.
He wasn’t mine.
This is no us.
Yet I was trapped in him. Caged by his vexation and prisoner to so many childhood connections.
He swallowed hard as heat and history prickled between us, hissing with past need and a love that hadn’t had the chance to die. It had been torn in two. Ripped down the middle the moment he’d left, two ends unable to heal because the knots tying us together refused to let go.
“Olin, I—” He winced, his voice sorrowful velvet. “I’m sorry you went through something so painful.”
The genuine dismay on his face reminded me so much of the boy who’d loved me. The boy who’d protected me, walked me home, supported my dancing, and watched me as if I held his moon and stars.
That boy deserved an answer that wasn’t curt or cold.
That boy broke my heart all over again.
His hand shook as he swiped hair from his eyes. “You don’t have to answer. It’s—”
“It’s fine.” I shrugged with a half-smile. “There’s nothing really to tell. Oldest cliché in the book. Just a silly dancer with big dreams.”
“You were never silly.”
“I had my moments.”
He winced. “That doesn’t explain how your back is scarred to shit.”
“It does if I was dancing at all hours and didn’t have a car to get to and from the theatre.”
“What happened?” He cocked his head. “Do you...can you still dance?”
Ouch.
I wasn’t successful in hiding my flinch, skirting away from the painful memories. Holding my head high and embracing my flaws, I no longer worried my scars were on display. I painted myself in the fake confidence that came from dancing in front of hundreds of people.