Does It Hurt? (123)

“What happened to you?”

I scratch my head, debating how much I should divulge.

“I got lost for a little while. But I’m home now,” I settle on.

“Uh-huh,” he says slowly, his eyes dipping to the brace on my wrist. It’s mostly healed now, but it’s still a little weak. I’m on the mend, physically and mentally.

Most nights, Enzo and I battle who can wake each other with a brain demon first, but we have someone to reach out to, and though neither of us is fully healed, we’re not alone.

“Looks like you’re ready for your next tattoo.”

I smile wide, showing him all my teeth.

“You fucking bet I am.”

He chuckles and pulls out a plastic bag with ink and unopened needles.

“What will you be getting today, on this fine Tuesday morning?”

I hadn’t realized what day it is, and it feels a little like déjà vu. Three and a half months ago, I met Simon at this bus stop on a Tuesday and got my first tattoo. I’ve come full circle, except I’m a completely different person than I was then.

I was sad, broken, and barely surviving.

And now, I’m still a little broken, but it doesn’t feel so bad to be alive anymore. And while I’ll always have the reminders of what happened to me etched into the inside of my brain, at least I’ll be able to look forward now, instead of looking back.

“I want a cactus,” I say finally.

He pauses, glancing up at me with raised brows.

“A cactus,” he echoes. “Why a cactus?”

I shrug. “They’re strong and resilient, and survive under extreme conditions.”

My friend juts out his bottom lip, considering that.

“Oh, and they don’t harm a fly unless you fuck with them.”

That pulls another full-bellied laugh from Simon.

“A cactus,” he repeats again with a chuckle, shaking his head almost in wonder.

“That’s who I am now—who I choose to be. A cactus.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he says. “Where do you want it?”

I unstrap my brace, hold out my arm, and point to my wrist. “Right there, please.”

Smiling, Simon grabs my wrist and lays it flat on his thigh. After unwrapping the needle and dipping the tip into his jar of octopus ink, he gets to work, and I watch in comfortable silence as the misunderstood plant slowly forms.

It hurts like hell, but pain always comes before beauty. How else would we appreciate it?

“Done,” he announces twenty minutes later, straightening so I can inspect my wrist.

“It’s so fucking cute, Simon,” I proclaim, smiling at the misshapen cactus on my wrist. “If only you could do this with a cactus needle.”

He guffaws. “Don’t think there are any cacti ’round here. But you find one, and I’ll do ya next time with one.”

“You’re going to do what to her?”

My eyes widen, and I turn to find Enzo storming toward us, a frown marring his face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling a lot like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I was heading to the bait shop and happened to see a little blonde thief sitting at a bus stop.”

“Well, hey now—”

“It’s okay,” I cut Simon off, placing my hand on top of his. “He’s a grump, but he’s my grump.”

Simon glances at me before settling back on Enzo’s fierce expression.

I face said grump, and show him my wrist, a bright smile on my face once more, though inside, I’m bartering with Satan not to let this man piss off my only friend.

“Simon gave me another tattoo. It’s a cactus.”

Enzo’s hazel eyes drop to my wrist, and then he’s grabbing my arm and bringing it closer. I bite my lip, my body flushing hotter from his tight grip.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the feel of him, but I don’t mind trying.

“Why a cactus?”

I give him the same reasoning I gave Simon, but he doesn’t react. He just stares at the plant for another few seconds before releasing my arm.

“That’s not sanitary,” he states finally.

“It’s not,” I agree.

He turns his gaze to Simon, and again, he just stares, a frown still on his face. I’ve no idea what the hell he’s thinking, and as usual, I can’t tell if he’s pissed or not. His normal face and his angry face look the same.

After a moment, Simon sasses, “Well, you gonna sit down for your own or just keep starin’ at me like a dead fish?”

Enzo cocks a brow, unimpressed. But to my utter surprise, he sits on the other side of Simon and silently holds out his wrist.

“Make it quick,” he grumbles.

My mouth falls open, and now I’m the staring dead fish as Simon unwraps a new needle.

“Whatcha gettin’?”

“A shark.”

Unbothered by Enzo’s short, snappy responses, he leans down and starts working on the tattoo. Hazel eyes are flashing to me, then dropping to my still open mouth.

“You’re gonna catch a fly in there,” Simon calls out to me, sparing me a glance.

“Uh,” is my only response. Enzo just arches a brow again, as if saying Well? You going to close your mouth or what?