Page 13 of Our Secrets and Scars

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “I’m a college student now. New place, new school, new me. I want to commemorate that with something.”

Like me, Isla isn’t from Utah. She’s been pretty private about her life before Salt Lake City, but I get the feeling she’s running from her past just as I am.

When we first met the week of student orientation, her hair was a dull brown that hung lifelessly down her back. Just days later, she had it dyed electric blue and styled into a sleek bob that cuts off sharply at her shoulders.

Maybe that’s why she took to me as quickly as she did. Because she recognized a kindred spirit.

“I’ll get a slot for tomorrow after class then. Can’t wait.” She leans over and smacks a kiss on my forehead. “Wanna watch a movie or something before bed?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just crawls to the head of my small bed and makes herself comfortable, waiting for me to set up a movie on my laptop. She barely gets through twenty minutes of the artsy, film festival type movie she insisted on before she’s snoring against my shoulder.

But I don’t move her, nor do I wake her to get into her own bed after the end credits have rolled. Because it reminds me so much of when Bexley and I would watch movies in bed and end up falling asleep together. It was one of the few times in life that we’d actually gotten along with one another.

It’s been so long since the last time that happened that I’d forgotten what it felt like. But now, with Isla sprawled across my bed and taking up all the space the way my twin sister used to, I can almost remember.

We sleep like that until morning.

The bell above the door chimes as we walk into the tattoo parlor the next afternoon, the overbearing scent of disinfectant hitting me immediately and making me lightheaded.

It reminds me of hospitals, and I hate it.

But even though every fiber of my being aches for me to leave, I don’t. Because it was Kinsley who spent months in a hospital bed, feeding through an IV and pissing into a bag because she was too injured to walk to the bathroom.

And Kinsley isn’t here.

Violet is. And she’s strong and confident and fearless. She doesn’t get lost in her trauma just because the room smells like cleaning fluids.

I remind myself of that and roll my shoulders back, standing up straighter as we approach the welcome desk. Isla rests her arms on the black wooden surface and smiles at the man tapping at a keyboard on the other side, who’s obscured from me because I’m not tall enough to see over the desk.

“Hey, I’m booked in for three.”

“Name?”

I freeze. It was just one word, but I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s smooth and deep, rich like a luxury dessert, and it makes my entire body prickle with awareness. My heartbeat quickens, though I don’t know why. I don’t know the guy. We met one time, and I don’t even know his name. But regardless, it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to function on a normal human level, and I end up shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot as I try to conceal myself further behind the desk.

Isla looks at me funny before giving her name.

“Great, I’ll take you through to the back.”

“Can my friend come?”

I feel the heat of his eyes on me instantly, though I’m looking everywhere but at him. He probably doesn’t even recognize me, but I’m too overwhelmed by the surprise of seeing him here that I can’t bring myself to check for recognition on his face.

“Sorry.” He chokes, then beats a hand to his chest to clear his throat. “It’s just one person allowed back there.”

Isla swings worried eyes over to me.

“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll just wait out here for you. Ain’t your first rodeo, remember?”

She nods and turns to follow the guy I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. I turn away instantly, not wanting to catch sight of him accidentally, and busy myself studying the designs that are displayed across the walls.

There’s the usual stuff you’d expect to see in a tattoo studio, the roses, skulls, and lion heads. The classic tattoos that I don’t love all that much but can see why others do.

But hidden among them is a design that takes my breath away.

It’s of a girl in profile. She’s beautiful, with a delicately rounded nose and pointed chin. The one eye that’s visible sparkles vividly despite being drawn in black-and-white, and her lips are the kind of plush that remind me of soft pillows and stolen kisses. She’d be the image of perfection if it weren’t for the several cracks that have been drawn into her face and neck. Through them, light streams outwards like the dawn.

It’s inconceivable to me that the artist has managed to accomplish something so intricate and lifelike with just a graphite pencil.

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