“How could I forget?” she whispered, standing on her toes to kiss my jaw. “Kiefer.”
I smiled fondly at the nickname and asked, “Can I help with anything?”
“Yeah,” Ann said in a demanding tone, “you can take this one and get her the hell out of my kitchen.”
“Mom,” Audrey began to protest, but Ann was hearing none of it. She leveled her daughter with a stern glare and said, “You’ve done enough. Now, go. I’m fine in here.”
With a pout, Audrey threw down her mitts and apron and allowed me to steer her out of the kitchen and down the stairs. She took control then and pulled me into her apartment, closing us off from the party outside, and when I asked what she was up to, she told me she wanted to give me one of my presents.
Raising a brow and grinning suggestively, I asked, “You wanna do that right now? With all those people out there?”
Audrey shoved playfully against my arm and rolled her eyes dramatically. “That’s happening later. But this can’t wait. Honestly, I’ve waited long enough,” and then, she hurried to the mantle in her living room and produced a notebook. She handed it to me in a way that felt reluctant.
“What is this?” I asked, eyeing the worn cover.
“It’s Sabrina’s journal.”
Wide-eyed, I swallowed, clenching the book in my grasp. “You’re giving this to me?”
“Well, not exactly,” she said slowly, then took it back into her hands. As she flipped it open and thumbed through the pages, she explained, “Sabrina always kept journals, ever since she was a little kid—I was the poet, she was the writer. After she died, my parents gave me her box of journals, thinking I’d want them, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them. She treated them so privately while she was alive, so reading them after she was gone felt too much like snooping through her secrets, you know?”
“Hm,” I grunted, nodding and continuing to watch her flip through the pages.
“But after I met you and Jake, seeing your relationship with him made me miss Sabrina so much, I wanted to feel closer to her.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I muttered, almost defensively, and she smiled into my eyes.
“I’m not sure you would’ve listened to me then,” she replied pointedly, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Touché.”
She opened to a particular page and continued saying, “Anyway, I started reading her journals a couple months ago. At first, it felt like prying, but then, it just felt nice, to see her handwriting and to read her thoughts. But then, one night, I came across this entry, and I knew you needed to read it.” She turned the book around to face me and passed it to my opened palms.
Eyeing the scrawled scripture, I asked, “Why?”
“Because you asked why she got the tattoo.”
My breath whispered from my lungs as I held the book in my hands and turned to her couch. Deaf to the chatter and laughter behind her front door, I sat down and braced myself. I don’t know why I felt I had to. Maybe it was just the finality of having a definitive answer to a question I’d had months ago, assuming I’d never get one. Or it could’ve been the fear of a letdown, a mundane explanation for something that had quite literally changed my life in every possible way. But whatever it was, I swallowed my apprehension and began to read.
“God, what a mixed bag of a day.
It started with a doctor’s appointment. I don’t feel well, I don’t feel right, and I told the doctor as much. But all he could tell me is everything looks the same and that I have nothing to worry about. But come on. I’m dying. I know I am, I can feel it in everything I do. Like this could be the last time I write in this book and that wouldn’t be a surprise to me. It’s a feeling I have that I can’t help, and I’m not sure I’d even classify it as a scary one. It’s just weird. And a little sad, too, but only because I’m worried I won’t do everything I need to before this part is over.
I can’t talk about this to Vanessa anymore, though. She cried so much tonight. It’s like she’s already mourning, and I hate that. I mean, I get it—I’m not sure I’d be any different, if it was the other way around—but I’m still here. I worry so much about what’ll happen to her after I’m gone. I worry she’ll close herself off, and I just hope someone walks into her life who can give her purpose. She needs that.
Ugh. Okay. Too heavy. Let’s get to the good stuff.
I got my tattoo! I wrote about the idea a while ago, but I finally did it tonight. And it is gorgeous.
I fell in love with this artist on Instagram. His name is Blake Carson and he works at Salem Skin. His work is breathtaking in this gritty, gothic sort of way and it’s a total understatement to say I’ve been drooling over his work. I mean, I’ve been completely and utterly obsessed with his artwork for years, and I’ve wanted to get something done by him for about as long. Honestly, it’s stupid that I haven’t done it sooner, but I guess I just thought I had time. But today I woke up knowing so affirmatively that my days were severely numbered, and after Vanessa went home, I went over to Salem Skin. I didn’t even make an appointment, even though his Instagram page strictly says he works by appointment only. I just walked in there, told this girl with dreadlocks that I needed to see him specifically, and when he came out from the back, I got the most bizarre feeling. I wish I could adequately express how I felt, but all I can say is, I knew that meeting him meant something. I don’t know how or why, but I just knew. So weird.
Anyway, Blake asked me what I wanted to do and when I wanted to come in, and I told him I needed to do it right away. The look he gave me made me laugh, like I had some audacity making demands, and he said I could make an appointment and come back another day. But I wouldn’t leave.”
I looked up from the book laid open in my lap and met Audrey’s eyes with an urgent, sincere recollection. “I remember her,” I declared with clarity. “Holy shit, I actually remember her. She was so fucking adamant, telling me she needed this tattoo done right now, and I was just thinking, who the fuck does this chick think she is?”
Audrey laughed, swiping her fingertips beneath her eyes. “Yeah. Sabrina was pretty intense sometimes. She came on pretty strong.”
“You have that in common,” I told her, smirking gently before turning my gaze back on the book.
“I told him it was very important I get the tattoo done right away, because I wasn’t sure how long I’d be around. I didn’t clarify what that meant, but his demeanor changed and he looked at me as if he knew. Then, he just nodded and said in this really cool way, ‘Okay, let’s do it.’ He didn’t even ask what I wanted. He just agreed to doing my tattoo, whatever it was, and took me into the back.
I knew I liked him before, but that really solidified it.
So, when he did ask what I wanted, I explained it to him. I wanted a black Swallowtail, one half in color with its yellow markings, surrounded by a splashy watercolor sapphire blue. And then, the other half entirely in black and white, with his signature grittiness. I wanted it to blend seamlessly from color to black and white, from pretty to gritty, and I swear I thought he’d say no at that point. Because this isn’t what he does. I don’t know what happened, though, because he was just nodding slowly while I described it to him, and then he grabbed his sketchbook. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t protest, didn’t even make a face. He just drew it up and we got to work.