Page 25 of Savage Hate
This isn’t me. The white lace, the A-line cut, the neutral sandals, the pearl headband.
I quickly unzip the dress and pull on a form-fitting black maxi dress instead, shaking my hair out and teasing it a bit.
There we go.
Smiling, I exit my apartment and glance into Savage Ink as I walk down the main street. It’s empty, of course, but my skin pebbles when I think of what happened to Noah. I wonder if he’s awake yet—if he’s freaking out. My smile grows slightly, and there’s an extra kick in my step, knowing he’s suffering, even just a little bit. I’m sure he’ll have the tattoo removed, but not before the people closest to him see him for what he is.
Once I arrive, the hostess takes me to the back of the restaurant, which overlooks the central park. There is china laid out at each place setting, along with white linen napkins. I look around for my mother, but I don’t see her anywhere. A glance at my watch confirms that she’s twelve minutes late. I order us some white wine since I know she loves chardonnay, and then I sit back and wait.
So similar to my childhood—always waiting. Always needing. Always wanting.
I haven’t seen my mom since my father’s funeral. Wright invited her to the engagement party last year. He even bought her a plane ticket. But she was a no show, and later explained that she hated flying. It hurt, that kind of rejection. It always did, and it never seemed to lessen, even though I was a grown ass woman now. But certain things, like a mother’s love, just can’t really be found elsewhere. And when it’s missing from your life, it feels like a giant void in your chest.
I always think I’ve gotten used to it, come to terms with it, then something else happens. That wound opens afresh, cutting deep like it always does, bleeding everywhere.
That was life with my mom… one big, gaping wound that never really healed, and hurt extra bad every time it reopened.
I take a few large sips of wine after the server brings our glasses over, and I try to quell the anger that’s beginning to rise inside of me at the thought of being stood up by my own mother.
Maybe I should’ve confirmed today. Maybe she forgot.
I shake my head and close my eyes.
No.
This is exactly the situation my therapist would describe asnot my problem.
My mother and I confirmed it last night. She’s an adult. We had a solid plan to meet at noon. This is all on her. I finish my glass and move onto hers as the time slowly ticks by. I order a plate of fries, and at the hour mark, I pay the bill and leave.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I sweep them away quickly as I stalk to my apartment and turn my phone off. I can’t shake the ache in my chest, or the downrighthurtclawing through me, but I can ensure her inevitable excuses I’m about to hear won’t make me feel worse right now. Pulling my dress over my head, I crawl into bed and let myself sob—hard, unrelenting sobs that shake the bed frame. My body feels bone dry when I finish half an hour later, my eyes nearly swollen shut. I walk to the sink and drink two large glasses of water, and then I proceed to climb back into bed and fall asleep again.
* * *
A few hours later, my alarm goes off, alerting me to get ready for work. I take my time in the shower, and then I lie back in bed with cold chamomile tea bags on my eyes to help with the puffiness. They’re better now, but they’re still a little red and swollen. I let out an exasperated cry when not even concealer can hide my sad eyes, and after another minute of trying, I give up and throw on a black blouse and cut-off shorts, finishing the look with black booties. The guys hopefully won’t notice, and if they do, I can at least blame my hangover.
I walk into Savage Ink just a moment later, getting right to work and ignoring the way Silas, Damon, and Jude immediately stop talking as I sit down at the front desk. Opening our email program, I click through and delete all the junk mail, and as I open the first inquiry about a booking, I feel the three guys right in front of me. Then I see them stop in my periphery.
“What?” I ask, my voice caustic.
“What happened to you?” Silas asks, his voice firm and still as death.
I swallow, but I still haven’t looked away from the screen as I copy and paste our generic yet personable message about using the online booking system or calling to book an appointment. It was something I did right when I started, something Lola had been typing out each and every time. But this saves me time.
More time for scrubbing toilets, I guess.
“Nothing happened to me. This is how I look when I’m hungover,” I reply simply, slamming my finger a little too hard on the delete key.
“Bullshit.” Damon’s voice is… —angry?
I snap my head up and look at them. “Why do you care? It’s evident you all hate me. If the bathroom wasn’t enough indication, cleaning the gum off that wall was a crystal-clear message.” Silas opens his mouth to reply, but a new wave of frustration hits me, and I stand up from my chair. “Overpaying me because youpityme is not being nice. You do it because you feel guilty.”
Without another word, I stomp to the bathroom and close the door, my chest rising and falling a few times before I get my breathing under control.Inhale, exhale.I use the toilet, wash my hands, and then I stare at my reflection for a minute.
I used to think I was pretty. Large round hazel eyes, long blonde hair, plump lips, long legs… but lately, I don’t feel like myself. I still look the same as I did, but the last couple of weeks have taken their toll. My face is weary. Exhausted. I wipe my nose with a tissue and return to the studio. Silas, Damon, and Jude are all prepping their stations now, and none of them look at me this time as I take a seat up front.
The beginning of the night goes smoothly, and I spend a good amount of time responding to their Instagram messages. Lola has been great about posting, but not so great about responding to the 514 messages in their message requests. Around eight, a familiar voice near the front door causes me to tense up and close my eyes.
Please don’t let it be her, please don’t let it be her—
