She groans, dramatically throwing herself back on the couch and covering her eyes with her hands, pouting. “Leave me alone. I didn’t want to be sad today.”
August laughs, taking a seat on a rolling stool beside the bench I’m on before pulling a tray from the corner and placing my arm across it. As he’s sanitizing me, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out with my freehand, sliding my thumb over the screen.
“Hi, Wes.”
“Hey, baby. I came down to the boardwalk early so I could see you before my shift, but your mom said you left already.”
“I’m at Ultraviolet getting a tattoo. Come over here.”
“We’re getting pussy willows!” Allie shouts into my phone, pulling the attention of the other patrons in the studio.
“Sorry . . . what?” Wes asks into the phone.
“Just come here.” I laugh before hanging up.
He glides through the doors thirty seconds later, looking fucking delectable in a pair of light-wash jeans, a white Heathen’s tee, and a navy blue baseball cap turned backward.
“What is Allie shouting about your pussy?” he asks, striding directly to me and planting a kiss on my lips before pulling back with a playful grin.
“Jesus Christ,” August mutters.
“Pussy willow,” Allie corrects. “It’s a type of tree, and we’re getting matching tattoos of its branch.”
Weston leans over, eyeing the stencil August placed at the center of my forearm, outlining the bundle of branches and the small, furry catkins blooming at the ends. “I mean... it’s cute. The name is awful, though.”
“Well, that’s the point. We call her Allie Cat”—I nod to my best friend—“and a pussy is the same thing, right? Then, you know, I’m Willow. So...” I shrug. “It works.”
“It’s fitting.” He smiles. “Can I watch?”
“Yeah.” August nods toward a row of chairs at the front of the studio. “Grab one and drag it over here.”
Weston does, twirling the chair and straddling it backward as he sits between August and me, watching intently as the tattoo gun buzzes to life and my uncle presses the needle into my skin. I bite back a hiss at the sting, but it only takes me a moment to adjust to the discomfort.
I’m still tense, and Weston’s hand finds my leg, squeezing gently. “Does it hurt?”
“Not terribly. You should get one and find out for yourself, though.” I wink.
“I told you I’m afraid of needles.” He deadpans.
“This is kind of like immersion therapy, then. Isn’t it?” August smiles, gaze focused on my arm behind his black-rimmed glasses. Chestnut curls fall against his forehead, pierced brow furrowed in concentration as his tattooed hand glides the needle over my skin with precision. “If you were to get one, what would it be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought too deeply about it, on account of the trypanophobia, but I always assumed I’d get something in my mom's memory.”
“He actually looked up the name for fear of needles,” Allie murmurs from the corner of her mouth, scrolling through her phone as she sprawls across the couch.
Ignoring her, Weston continues with a bemused smile, “I mean... I don’t think it’s actually that serious, but it seems unpleasant enough that I’ve never had the urge. Plus, I think if I were to actually get a tattoo for my mom, it would make her feel more... permanently gone? I don’t know if that makes sense.”
I know the question was directed at me, but my uncle answers, “It does. It’s been twenty-five years for me, and sometimes I still have trouble convincing myself it’s permanent too.”
“You lost your mom?” Wes asks him softly.
“Brother.”
Wes swallows hard, clearing his throat. His stormy eyes dart to me, swirling with sorrow. I place my hand over his, squeezing it four times.
“I’m sorry,” he tells August.
My uncle pauses, lifting his head, eyes locked on Wes. “Me too.” He smiles softly. “I’ve found that inking myself with the things that make me feel most alive is a type of healing all on its own. Maybe that’s what you should consider, if you ever find you want to get tattooed.”
