One Life

by A. J. Pine

  “You’re right,” he says, and my shoulders relax at the sound of his voice. “I was just thinking . . .”

  “What?” I interrupt, not able to shake the need to defend myself. Whatever he’s about to say, it suddenly becomes the last thing I want to hear. Anything that will take us out of this bubble of perfection we’ve only just entered is off-limits, at least for today. One perfect day—that’s all I ask for right now.

  Still, Spock opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish what he started.

  Before he can say anything else, Kimber arrives, pitcher of sparkling pink liquid in hand.

  “Shirley Temples for all my friends!” Dee declares.

  And my mini freak-out is forgotten amidst shooting straw wrappers and Spock threatening to burp the alphabet.

  Maybe perfection is too much to ask for, so I settle. My day of semi-normal returns. Goal from here on out? I’m going to go all Field of Dreams on my life. Believe in normal, and it will come.

  Chapter Eleven

  My phone buzzes with a text on our walk home from the book signing. I take one look at my screen and drop my phone back in my bag.

  “Something important?” Spock asks with a grin, mistaking my avoidance for indifference.

  I shrug. “Just my brother,” I say. “Checking in.” That is, if Mom needs you to come home in two weeks to help with the deposition means checking in. Which of course it doesn’t. It means lawyers and questions and my family getting one step closer to knowing that Wyatt’s accomplice was not a negligent construction company. It was a negligent sister.

  So instead of responding to Zach, I find myself later that afternoon, standing with my back to the mirror in the studio, Dee’s compact in my hand.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, admiring the transfer of Faith Erin Hicks’s Superhero Girl atop a building, standing at the ledge, her coat billowing in the city breeze. “Can we start?”

  I don’t have it in me to hide my eagerness to get back in Dee’s chair, welcoming the sting of the tattoo machine so I have something to concentrate on instead of Zach’s text.

  “So she’s just, like, this teenager with a mask?” Delores asks. Even though she stuck with us and went to the signing—and despite the line inside Dark Tower Comics to get my copy of Superhero Girl signed, she doesn’t get it, so I explain. Again.

  “She’s this girl who can do extraordinary things, but at the end of the day, she’s still just a girl. She can’t afford a top-of-the-line cape. She sometimes forgets to take off her mask.” I laugh. “It’s full of witty jokes, but there’s a message there. Having superpowers doesn’t mean you have a superpowered life. It’s still just life.”

  Delores rolls her eyes, and I hand her back the compact, dropping my arms. My eyes go to Spock, who stares, mildly slack-jawed.

  “What?” I ask, and he clears his throat. “What?” I direct the question to my roommate now.

  She looks me up and down, then back up again. Her eyes rest before they reach my eyes.

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh,” this time louder before I start giggling.

  I’m topless.

  “Not like I haven’t seen it all,” Dee says. “I tattooed a guy’s balls once.”

  This snaps Spock out of his stupor as his hand flies instinctively to his crotch.

  “Whoa. That’s so not even close to funny, Dee. Why would you say something like that?”

  Spock’s voice is hoarse, and my giggling turns into muffled snorts.

  “Because.” She steps closer to him, holds him with her gaze. “That target was not going to draw itself on his sack.”

  He staggers back against the wall, and I step into him, my bare breasts against his T-shirt, his rapid heart beating against my skin.

  “It wasn’t your balls,” I whisper in his ear, but he shakes his head.

  “That’s not how it works, Zo. Every dude in the world, unless he was born without a nut sack and somehow knows nothing about how it would feel to have pain thrust upon said nut sack, can empathize. All it takes is one kick to the balls, and a guy never messes with that shit again. When he hears about another guy taking one to the groin, he feels that pain too. So when you tell me some dude chose to take a needle . . .”

  “A pulsating needle,” Dee interrupts, and I wave my hand behind me, trying to find her face to slap my palm over her mouth.

  Spock breathes in. “Let’s just say it’s a collective Holy fucking shit.”

  I push his hair off his forehead and plant a soft kiss on the exposed skin.

  “Maybe you don’t want to watch me get this one done?”

  He shakes his head, takes my face in his hands.

  “THANK YOU.” And he lets out a breath.

  I try not to laugh, because I have no doubt his empathy for any scrotal ink recipient runs deep, but at the slightest twitch of my lip, his eyes narrow, and I lose it. I wrap an arm across my chest as I’m now cracking up and topless, and Spock gives me the once-over, unable to keep a straight face.

  “Wait for me in my room?” I suggest, but Dee chimes in before he answers.

  “This one’s gonna take a while. Might want to grab a nap or something.”

  His eyes move from me to the window and then back to me again.

  “It’s still light out. Think I can make my way around the neighborhood without getting lost. Do you mind if I head out for a bit—take a walk?”

  I shrug. “Not like I’ll be much fun for at least the next hour.”

  “Two!” Delores yells even though we’re in the same room.

  “This is probably a good time for me to call Bree back. Maybe I can head back to Old Town and see if she’s there.”

  I push him out into the hall for a private good-bye. As soon as we are out of sight, I lift up his T-shirt and wrap my arms around him, pressing my flesh to his.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I say, and then press a soft kiss to his neck. “This is what you get to come back to, so don’t get lost.”

  “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

  “About what?”

  He pushes me an arm’s length away so his eyes focus on mine.

  “I don’t know,” he starts, and I watch him struggle for the words. “Two days in a row of your new roommate covering your skin with ink? I don’t know, Zo. It’s . . . a lot.”

  I ignore the tiny voice in my head that agrees with him and instead press a kiss to his lips.

  “It’s just good timing,” I whisper against him. “One for Wyatt and one for me.” I kiss him again, the clang of instruments on a metal tray drowned out by Spock’s ragged breaths mingled with mine.

  “Go talk to Bree,” I say, backing away and into the studio again.

  “See ya soon, Supergirl,” he says before heading out the door, his questioning gaze holding mine.

  “See ya,” I say, hoping the finality of our conversation answers whatever questions he has left.

  I’m fine, I think. Just one more. For me.

  I stand there until the door closes, until Dee clears her throat and snaps me out of my daze, and I step back into the studio.

  “The allure of you standing topless in the doorway is lost on me, darlin’. Can we get to work?”

  When I pivot to face her, she gestures toward the adjustable chair next to her.

  “I’m just going to need you to straddle this big boy and wrap your arms around him to keep yourself steady while I work.”

  I do as she says, laying my head against the chair back and turning it to face Dee.

  “That’s what she said,” I tell her, a half smile tugging at my lips, but Delores is all business as she sanitizes her hands for the tenth time before donning her rubber gloves.

  “You ready?” she asks, turning on the machine.

  “Mmm-hmmm,” I answer, pressing my cheek against the leather chair and holding my breath.

  The second the needle punctures my skin, everything else falls away. Because this is a pain I can manage, I welcome it. Go
od-bye silly seed of worry. You are nothing now. The sharp sensation of Dee’s handiwork, the transformation of my blank, pale skin into something more—erases, for the time being, the text I won’t answer and the family I need to hold together, even if it means keeping them at a distance.

  I don’t want to go numb. No. That’s not what I crave. I need to feel—something strong enough to cover everything else.

  It’s in the touch of the needle.

  Spock’s hands on my skin.

  Heightened pain. Heightened pleasure. Either or both will do.

  * * *

  Just as she estimated, two hours later my left shoulder blade throbs with superhero abilities. No crime is being fought, nor are monsters being slain, but my head and heart are free from worry and guilt.

  “I’m sleepy,” I say to Dee. “Should I be sleepy?”

  She wipes away the blood one more time with a damp towel, then slathers Superhero Girl with ointment. After taping down the plastic wrap, she says, “It takes a lot of energy to lie so still, to keep from flinching every time the needle makes contact. Go get some rest. Will Shaggy be here to take off the plastic in a couple hours?”

  I realize I haven’t checked my phone at all since he left. I have no idea if he’s tried to reach me and certainly no clue if he’s on his way home. I remind myself Delores told him this would take at least two hours. He’ll be back after that.

  “I’m sure he will,” I tell her and hope that I’m right. “If not, I can reach it. I’m pretty bendy.”

  She chuckles. “Whatever you say, Blue. I’m going to head around the corner to meet a couple friends for a drink. You want to come? I bet they can fix you one of your pink drinks.”

  I pull my tank back over my head, sliding the strap off my newly tattooed shoulder.

  “Thanks. But I’m beat. I’ll set an alarm to take off the plastic in case Spock’s not back yet.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Knock on my door if you need some help. I should be back by then.” She nods at me. “Pretty hard-core, two tattoos in two days. You gotta be hurtin’ a bit.”

  Without wanting to go into detail, I shrug. “I don’t mind the pain, actually. It’s a worthy distraction.” I reach into my pocket and hand her the cash I grabbed on our way home, knowing that even if I hadn’t done another tat today, I would have done one soon.

  “Thanks, Blue.”

  My lips press into a small smile, and then I pivot and leave the room, padding across the hall to mine. I set my phone for two hours from now, which will be eleven o’clock, and strip down to just my tank and panties. If Spock’s not back when I wake up, then I’ll worry. Right now I need just a bit of sleep, to let the exhaustion override the anticipation of Spock leaving, of me having to prepare for my internship that starts Monday. If all goes well this summer, I’ll not only be more secure as to where Spock and I stand, but the showcase might get my work noticed by someone who could turn my art into a career.

  These are the thoughts I let carry me off along with the sting in my shoulder, the still-ebbing ache in my arm. Because this is the pain I can handle. Anything physical will mend, so I coat my arm with a thin layer of Aquaphor and collapse into bed. No missed calls or texts from Spock. I fight the urge to check on him before sleep takes me completely.

  He’s safe. He’ll make it back okay. Trusting him is different than trusting Wyatt.

  When I hear the front door open, I suck in a breath and prop myself up on my arm. It’s probably just Dee, leaving to go meet her friends. But when my door opens slowly, and he stands there, framed in the hall light, I have to fight back the ridiculous urge to cry.

  He’s fine. He always was. Get a grip.

  “Hey,” he says. “Were you asleep? I thought she’d still be working on you.”

  I let out a shaky breath. He sets his guitar down and sits next to me on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. Guess I didn’t hide that tremble too well.

  My teeth graze my bottom lip as I nod. “I guess I worry a little more these days,” I admit. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

  His head drops to his hands, and he mutters, “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “I should have texted or something.” He rakes his fingers through my hair, lets them skim lightly down my cheek. God his touch. How does he do it? Make everything okay with something so simple?

  “Zo,” he continues. “I’m a total dick. I’m so sorry. I only meant to accept the job and head back. It’s just, when I got there, there were some other music teachers there who asked if I wanted to play for a bit, and I thought, Why not? It was my first time onstage where I didn’t give a shit what happened next. I just got to pick up a guitar and play.”

  He straightens up and shifts in my direction, his head falling to mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and his lips brush mine. “I got caught up in the music.”

  “No,” I say against him. “It’s silly. I shouldn’t have worried. I . . .”

  He cuts me off with another kiss, gentle and sweet.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, followed by more of his lips on mine.

  “Text next time,” I say. “Just so I know you’re safe.”

  He nods as his hand runs up my back and stops just under my shoulder blade. “Hard to judge through the plastic, but it looks like she did a great job. I take it you’re kind of stuck lying on your side or your stomach tonight, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a laugh as I realize I’m the girl who expects the worst now. And I don’t know how to live this way.

  “Maybe there’s something I can do to help.” He kicks off his shoes and takes off his T-shirt.

  “Hello there,” I say, the hall light filtering in enough to let me enjoy the view. When his shorts are the next to go, I realize I’m not so tired or scared anymore.

  “Hello.”

  He climbs over me and fills the space behind me, taking special care not to nudge or brush against my shoulder, but all the parts of me he touches wake the hell up and come to life.

  “You shouldn’t have to apologize for tonight,” I say. “You miss it so much.”

  He nods. “I do.” He straightens next to me but looks down at the sheet, where he picks at a loose thread. When he looks up, a fire is lit in his eyes, one I’ve only seen the couple of times I’ve watched him perform.

  “Are you ready to tell me why you left?”

  He sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “I came home that weekend for you, because I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat, the weight of responsibility that comes with my next question.

  “Why didn’t you go back? If you love music so much, why would you bail on a tour, something that could get you noticed?”

  His head turns to me, his lips falling softly on top of my shoulder. One kiss. Two kisses. He’s trying to distract me, so I nudge him lightly, and he straightens up.

  Spock holds his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Okay, okay. Yes. I fucking love the music. I can’t imagine not playing, and telling my parents this tour was just a six-month thing was basically to get them off my back until I got home, until I figured out how to show them that music—art—can be a real job, a career, even. But the band wasn’t it, Zoe. Those guys, they weren’t it.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I didn’t decide to leave the band until I got to your apartment that morning. Fuck, this sounds so selfish, but when I saw you, something clicked.”

  My eyes burn, and I blink, not wanting anything but clarity when I look at him.

  “Maybe this is too much too soon, but I consider it making up for lost time. I’ve held you at arm’s length since the day I met you. For so many reasons, ones I even knew then, the band wasn’t right. Music feels right, Zoe. You feel right. This summer—the job? It’s buying me the time I need to figure my shit out. And I will, eventually. I hope that’s enough for you for now.”
>
  So maybe my vision is starting to blur now, but I’m over caring. I rise to my knees and take his face into my hands, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw—anywhere my lips find skin they need to touch.

  “Of course it’s enough,” I say, somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

  And it’s not just that he chose me along with music on his terms, it’s that he gets it, what it’s like to flounder. Maybe I’ve known for years what I want to do. I’m good with a grand plan. But Wyatt shook my plan up, and I don’t know how to work his death into the big picture of my life. Because my future always had him in it, and I don’t know how to imagine it any other way.

  He smiles, chuckles, and kisses me hard and deep, his delicious tongue tangling with mine.

  “Will you promise me something?” he asks when we break for air.

  “Name it, Vulcan.”

  “Try not to get too carried away with Delores.”

  He winces as he says this, and I recoil slightly, clearing my throat.

  “Do you have something against body art?” I ask instead, trying my hardest to keep my voice even. “I thought we already discussed this.”

  Though I can tell he’s being careful with both his words and his tone, the hint of accusation—of judgment—slips through.

  “No. Zoe, no. I knew that would come out wrong. I just—you’re beautiful no matter what. I . . . I don’t know. The feather is perfect. Your shoulder is perfect. Two in two days, though.”

  He groans out a breath, so I wait, let him work through his obvious frustration to see how well he can backpedal. Smoothing my overgrown bangs behind my ear, his eyes linger on where his fingers meet my hair.

  “Something’s different, Zo.”

  Of course something’s different. For fuck’s sake, he knows that. I shouldn’t have to explain.

  “Hey,” he says, nudging my chin toward him.

  I resist, for an all too brief second, because despite the competing emotions going on inside my head, I know deep down whatever he’s trying to say is because he cares. He’s done nothing to show me otherwise. In fact, he’s been pretty damn selfless since he came back from tour.