“You like it?” he asked.
“Holy shit, Seth.”
It was my name—Hiroku—written in cursive. Elegant and beautiful and heart-wrenching. I couldn’t believe he’d gotten my name tattooed on his skin. He’d always said forever, but this was, like, for-e-ver. I was stunned. And confused. For him to get a tattoo like that and not even show it to me? That wasn’t like him to not make a fuss or put it on display. The tattoo also didn’t look red and swollen, which meant he’d had it for a while. How could he know we’d get back together? That he’d ever even see me again?
“Remarkable,” Seth whispered, drawing my cheek down to his chest where I could hear his heart beating like the flapping of birds’ wings.
“For you, Hiroku. Only for you.”
NOW
It seems my guts have been sufficiently spilled in therapy, and so, Dr. Denovo and I are now moving into the phase of planning for a future beyond the sterile environment of New Vistas. Back in the land of temptation. Part of that process is creating a treatment plan, which includes making good choices and avoiding past triggers.
Dr. Denovo wants me to list some of the things in my life that might act as triggers, so I tell him:
Seth.
Sabrina.
The members of Petty Crime and their significant others.
My friends, many of whom are drug dealers and/or addicts themselves.
Alcohol, weed, and cigarettes (the mainstream drugs).
Music—pretty much all of it, but especially Petty Crime’s music.
Staying out late.
My clothes—anything I wore while Seth and I were together.
My piercings, probably, but I can forget about them so long as I don’t look in a mirror too often.
Also, mirrors. They will remind me of who I used to be.
Any pictures from that time period and my social media accounts since Seth is probably haunting them still.
Certain foods and restaurants, street corners and clubs, movies we saw when we were together…
The list goes on and on until finally Dr. Denovo interrupts me. He appreciates my sincere commitment to this exercise, but he fears when I take away all of my triggers, there might be nothing left.
I nod in agreement. Isn’t that the point?
THEN
The first thing Seth wanted to do after picking me up in his new, used van was to show me Petty Crime’s new rehearsal space. It was a garage in the 7thStreet Collective, a grouping of warehouses that were rented out cheaply to artists and musicians. There were also a couple of outdoor stages set up on the lawns so that on Friday nights, bands could play out for the benefit of the community. Food trucks came in, and the local brewery sold beer, which added to the festive feeling.
Seth lifted the red warehouse door, and it felt like I was being transported back in time to his mom’s garage. It looked almost exactly the same—from the furniture to the arrangement of the instruments to the warm tones of the floor lamp lighting. He’d even brought with him the circular saw and had it set up in the back with his spare plywood and lumber.
“You bought a new washer and dryer,” I observed.
“Gently used. I still need someplace to do my laundry.” Seth dropped the sack of dirty clothes he’d been carrying onto the concrete floor.
The other new addition to their space were huge black-and-white, poster-sized photographs I recognized as my own from the essay I’d done on Petty Crime for my photography class last year.
“Wow, look at these.” I scrutinized a photograph of Sabrina pretending to drum solo on Dean and Mitchell’s heads.
“What do you think?” Seth asked, beaming.
