I moved to stand in front of the mirror he had on the wall of his station, while he took up a hand mirror from his desk. His eyes swept over my naked breasts as I turned to face him. He held the mirror so I could see my back reflected in the larger on the wall.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
A blue butterfly poised on my shoulder, its wings the color of a summer sky when the sun is about to set. Rimmed in sharp, deep black, shining like onyx where the light caught it. It was so real, so perfectly rendered I imagined it would fold and unfold its wings at any moment, fly off my shoulder and into Theo’s palm.
But the butterfly remained on its perch. At the end of the universe.
Theo had rendered an arc of Jonah’s glass along the right side of my shoulder blade, a dark piece of sky, shining with stars and star dust within. It streaked across my skin before tapering away into forever, beyond what my skin could hold. Unfinished. But unending.
I didn’t say a word, but pulled my gaze from the mirror to the eyes drinking me in. He set the mirror down, then his hand was at the back of my head, buried in my hair, the other pulling me close. He kissed me hard, his mouth demanding everything. I parted my mouth, taking him in deep.
“Marry me,” he whispered between kisses. “Marry me, Kace. Be my wife…”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, God yes.”
We gave ourselves up to each other completely, a perfect harmony of love and lust, our bodies striving to show the other what our souls knew. It was in every touch, every kiss; our kisses were words, declarations made with our hands on our bodies. Promises made with every gasping breath we shared. And the joy I felt wasn’t only for his proposal, but for what it meant. That despite our losses, we would keep going. Never give in or give up.
Because love always wins. Always.
EPILOGUE
I shut off the lights over the tattoo stations and grabbed my jacket from the antique coat stand in the waiting area. The appointment book lay closed on the front desk, Vivian’s kitschy knick-knacks arrayed around it. The Magic 8-Ball front and center as usual.
I flipped open the appointment book, as I did every night after the other artists went home. The next day’s schedule was almost fully booked. I already knew this: Vivian gave me hourly updates about how well we were doing. Still, I had to see it for myself, see it in black ink on white paper, every night before I left.
I’m doing it, Jonah. Building a life. A legacy of my own.
From the front door, the rap of knuckles on glass. By the light of the streetlamp, I could see my father shifting from foot to foot, glancing around the empty parking lot. One hand in his jacket pocket, the other running through his silver hair.
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. “Dad, what’s wrong? Mom okay?”
“Fine, fine,” my dad said rocking back on his heels. “I thought it was time I saw your place.”
I stared. “At eleven o’clock at night?”
“I heard you’re really busy. Didn’t want to interrupt.” He met my eye. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I moved aside and watched mutely as my father came inside my shop for the first time. Both hands in his pockets now, he strolled the small entry like a visitor at a museum, taking in the framed tattoo samples. My eyes narrowed, remembering how my father’s face had always been wide open with joy at Jonah’s exhibitions. Tonight, he was closed off, his lips drawn down, his eyes hard.
I crossed my arms, braced myself against his expression. I wanted to ask what the hell he was doing here. What he wanted. To see for himself how I’d squandered Jonah’s money? How I’d gotten an advanced degree but chose to use it for a business that polluted bodies with ink?
Fuck that. I wouldn’t say a word.If he had something to say, he could say it, but I was done inviting his disapproval.
“Incredible amount of variety,” he said, turning to me. “You can do all these?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, strolled deeper into the shop, hands clasped behind his back. I followed after, turned the lights back on and watched him take in my place. He went to the nearest station—Edgar’s—and tapped his fingers along the reclining chair’s brown vinyl.
“Looks like a dentist’s chair,” he said. “Does it hurt as much?”
I shrugged. “It can.”
My dad inspected the art Edgar had on the wall of his station and pursed his lips. Edgar did our more hardcore designs for our more hardcore clients: snarling wolves with blood dripping from their fangs, horned demons, skulls, and flames.
“This isn’t your station,” Dad finally said.
“No, I’m over there.” I jerked my head.
