“That’s a good thing, baby. You did stop.”
“No, it’s not!” She groaned with agitation. “I wanted the tattoo. It was supposed to be my…my Enoch tattoo. And now I have a fucking jumble of lines tattooed into my skin for eternity.”
I took a breath to find the right words. “It doesn’t mean you won’t finish it in the future. It’s a not now, not a not ever.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right,” I nodded, dropping my chin as I let out a sigh. “But I know how stubborn you can be. I have no doubt that you’ll finish it in the future.”
“Does this mean I have to start over? I shouldn’t have let him continue. I just…fuck! It felt too good. I fucked it all up, didn’t I?” she asked with a hint of panic.
My chest ached for her. She sounded so desperate that I couldn’t tell her that getting the high from the pain counted against her recovery. I couldn’t crush her like that. The line for her was different than the line for me. It was easy for me to draw the line in the sand at zero alcohol, no matter if it’s cooked in food or even fucking cough syrup and mouthwash. Absolutely zero.
But for Shiloh…the line was blurry. I felt guilty for allowing her to straddle it.
So, maybe the tattoo wasn’t the best call, but she didn’t cross the line herself.
“No.Youdidn’t hurt yourself. Right?”
“Right,” she was quick to reply.
“Then you’re still clean. Eleven days,” I said with pride.
“You’re counting?”
“Yes. Because I know you are too. Don’t think I haven’t seen the numbers on your calendar.”
Shiloh let out a sharp breath.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she breathed.
“You at home?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come over?” It might have been an excuse to ignore my responsibilities, avoid talking to my parents, but I did want to make sure she was okay.
“No, I’m okay. You should be with your family. How’s the dinner? I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No. You’re never interrupting. I’m glad you called me, baby.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
My heart skipped a beat. “I think I’m going to tell my parents about getting sober.”
“Yeah? That’s-that’s good right?”
I sighed deeply, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “Yeah. It will be. It’s just…”
“Scary?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m proud of you.” Her words rang in my head and my stomach fluttered with butterflies. “You can call me too you know. If you need anything. I know you probably want to do italone, but I wish I could be there just to give you moral support. Kiss you for luck. And then kiss the hell out of you afterwards for your bravery. Maybe some other stuff too.”
I bit down onto my lip, my heart soaring at the thought of her being here, her lips on mine. My mind short-circuited as I fantasized about what exactly she had in mind by ‘other stuff’.
