Page 101 of The Crowned Garza
A buzz between us breaks us apart.
Releasing me, he gets out his phone. “One second.”
I hate his phone so much.
While he types away on his phone, I look around the small room. The sketched art on the dark-gray walls, the leather bed chair, the ink station and apparatuses.
A tattoo shop. An antiseptically clean and quality little space compared to how dodgy things looked from the outside.
When Saint finally pockets his phone, I ask, “Why did you want to meet here?”
“I’m getting new ink.”
“And you need me here for that, why?”
He sits on the tattoo bed and pulls me between his thighs until I’m sitting on his lap. “You’re going to tell me what to get.”
“I am?”
“What happened this morning... I don’t regret it. But it’s been fucking with me all day. I broke a vow I made to myself. That, for me, is a big deal. Obviously, I can’t marry you. “
“Obviously,” I echo with bitter sarcasm.
He chucks my chin. “You know what I mean.”
“No, Idon’tknow what you mean. All you have to do is chooseme. That’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it?” he poses. “Are you ready to get married? Right now. Will you marry me right now?”
My heart stutters. “I mean, not like now… Maybe in like three, four years or so, but—”
“So, it’snot‘that’s all’ then?”
I scowl at him.
Doesn’t faze him. “As I was saying, what happened this morning was important for me. There’s no one else who could’ve gotten me to break that vow but you. And I wouldn’t change a thing. But right now, I’m struggling with a lot of…feelings. Disappointment, mostly. In myself, my restraint, my resolve. To combat those feelings, I need to tie myself to you somehow. Symbolize it or something. And a tattoo is the closest I’ll get to binding marriage vows.”
Wow. He takes the virginity thing a lot more seriously than I thought. “Oh. I understand, I guess.”
“So...” He pinches my chin and gives me a quick, soft kiss. “What should I get?”
Before I can say anything—not that I have any clue at the moment—he taps my thigh for me to stand. When I do, he goes over to the station and picks up a tracing pad and pencil, then hands them to me.
“You wantmeto draw it?”
He nods.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows something about me that not even Sunny does. That I used to sketch. A lot. Back when I was torn between pursuing fashion design or culinary arts. Once I settled on culinary arts, I stopped sketching. Not entirely, but only when I’m feeling down or inspired.
That said, I’m undoubtedly rusty. Still, I won’t pass up the chance to plant myself amongst all that beautiful art on his body.
An idea is already formulating, so I take a seat in the chair by the little black table in the corner and put pencil to paper.
Eighteen minutes later, I’m handing it to him.
The wordpromettoin signature style calligraphy that subtly blooms into an Iris.
It’s simple, but it’s the meaning behind it that matters to me.
