Page 101 of The Worst Kind of Promise
My fingers find his, falling into the slats with ease, and he brings the back of my hand up to his mouth, peppering a kiss to my knuckles.
Rhen dabs the gun into the glob of ink on his tray, smiling at the both of us. “When Kit told me he wanted to cover up his tattoo, I almost didn’t believe him. Those eyes are famous in the hockey world. Got his name from them and everything. But after seeing y’all together, I get it.”
“Hey, I can make good decisions sometimes,” Kit grumbles, throwing a sideways glance at me.
A lovesick smile skips across my lips as the cavorting of my heart heightens in my ears. He’s talking about me. I’m his good decision. I squeeze his hand to silently communicate that I got his message, and he squeezes it back with a benign softness.
I still remember the feel of his pinky around mine when he promised to keep my secret. So much has changed since then—for the better. I never thought that I’d recover after hitting the lowest point in my life, but here I am, unscarred as I climb out from the rubble, even stronger than I was before. And it’s all thanks to Kit.
Rhen looks at me. “You’d ever want to get a tattoo, Hollings?”
“Oh, me? Oh, no. I don’t know,” I prattle with poorly crafted words, panic beginning to set in. “It’s not that I don’t like tattoos. What you do is super cool. I just—well—it’s permanent. Very permanent. And painful…from what I’ve heard.”
“Hey, no offense taken,” Rhen chuckles, lifting his arms up in mock surrender. “But if you ever do decide to get one, there are such things as small tattoos. Take up to an hour and are nowhere near as painful as people say.”
A small tattoo. I never really thought about it, but that doesn’t sound bad at all. Something small that maybe only I can see; something that holds significance that I’d want to have branded on me for the rest of my life. I’ve always liked the look of tattoos—how they hold stories from people’s pasts. I like how they’re glances into people’s souls.
I’ve spent countless hours staring at Kit’s tattoos, wondering what each one represents, tracing the colored and noncolored ink, as if touch alone could unearth the answer for me. Some are simply aesthetic, but the bolder, bigger ones—such as the tiger eyes—hold heavier significance.
He told me that the tiger itself represents strength, determination, and courage. He told me that he could only hope to exude that out on the ice, to inspire those around him with a passionate, prideful heart. Or…that’s what he believes now. I think in the beginning, it was a sign of power. But even the most powerful predators of the jungle have a softness to them—a softness reflected in their eyes.
You can tell so much from a person’s eyes. If they bear grief and sorrow from indomitable trauma, if they flicker with waning dregs of life, if they darken with internalized contempt, or if they lighten with warming happiness.
My eyes telleverything. You could experience every one of my emotions through them. But most importantly, they showcase my vulnerability. And vulnerability is the strongest thing any individual can possess.
“You’d be so hot with a tattoo, Princess,” Kit goads.
“I thought I was already hot.”
“You are, but you’d be even hotter. Like break-the-laws-of-physics hot.”
I laugh, giving him a small head shake. “I don’t even know what I’d get.”
Rhen wipes down his work before spinning over in his swivel chair, grabbing a thick binder in one of his gloved hands. He hands it to me, and I set it in my lap, the thought becoming much more real in my mind.
I begin to flip through the clear sleeves, brushing my fingers over geometric, nature-esque, and cartoonish designs, in awe of all of the different possibilities. I like the look of some of the small hearts and flowers, but they don’t feel very personal to me. I could always get some scripture in cursive, or an important date. My brother has a tattoo of the date our mother died.
For the rest of the hour, Kit and Rhen make idle chatter, and I lose myself in a world of ink and unspoken stories waiting to be brought into this world upon corporeal flesh.
A book because I like to read?
No, too on the nose.
A fairy to reference my name?
No, too…detailed.
A butterfly to represent rebirth?
No, too sappy.
I’m not sure why I feel pressured to choose something now. I know I don’t have to. I think I might want to, though. My new life is all about changes and taking risks. This is a change. This is a risk. I want to start this new chapter on a fresh note.
The only thing I know for certain is where I’d probably want the tattoo—a toss-up between the inside of my wrist and behind my ear. Two places that I’m aware are bonier than other places on my body but can be hidden quite easily from plain view.
Kit’s nearing the end of his session, and I’m still stuck at square one. I’m about to call it a day when my eyes lock onto a simple, tiny design that immediately calls out to my heart, wanting to etch its permanence into my skin, wanting to serve as a constant reminder of what’s kept me going after all this time.
I don’t have to think twice. I don’t have to contemplate the consequences. I turn the binder toward Rhen and point at it.
