by Lisa Gillis
I listen to Sash and Sladen banter while looking into one mirror reflecting the one behind me. The shop has been emptied of patrons for hours. It was normally Sladen’s day off, but he’d had a client with an appointment and seemed excited when I called, telling me to come on over. Darkness had fallen some time ago. Thanks to Sash’s artistic side and Sladen’s expertise with an ink gun, I now share my skin with a dragon.
They’re both fixated expectantly on me now, and I try to express my wonder into words. “It’s great, man.” No words can describe how great, but I try again. “It’s sick. I really like it!”
We decide to eat out. While Sladen cleans his station and puts his tools away, and I put my shirt on, he explains the care of a new tattoo to me. Sash wanders to the front of the shop where there’s a better signal to call Mark. The plan is to swing by the house long enough to drop off my bike and pick him up.
“Here.” A small plastic bag dangles from Sladen’s fingers, and he thrusts it my way. “There’s everything you need, right there.”
“Thanks.” I’m still overexcited and unable to quit gushing out my appreciation. “How long before it’s healed enough to add the colors into the flames?”
From the front of the shop, something clatters, and I look that way to see what Sash has dropped. Only there’s no Sash. My eyes travel to the door, and I wonder if she had to step outside for a signal. Sladen pushes around me, and as he begins to sprint to where Sash was last seen, I see her in a heap on the floor between the two rows of chairs in a makeshift waiting area.
The sack falls to the floor as I run the distance and drop to my knees beside Sladen who has his index and middle finger pressed to the pulse area of her neck. Her eyes flicker open, and while I breathe a sigh of relief and clutch her wrist, he demands, “Where is it?”
“My purse.” Her voice sounds croaky.
I watch in confusion as Sladen’s head swivels around and his eyes dart around the shop. Is this an overdose—oh fuck, no please… And Sladen’s reaction is evidence he’s seen this from her before.
“Over there! Trey, it’s over there!”
Following the direction of his gaze, I use one foot, stepping onto the molded plastic seat of one of the chairs to vault over it. I’m not sure what’s going on, but if it makes Sash better, and it’s in her purse, I’m after it.
Returning after fetching the bag, I drop it beside her as I kneel again. Sladen upends it.
Cosmetics, receipt scraps, and other odds and ends clink to the floor.
My mouth falls open when Sladen grabs the little black travel case. A jerk of the zipper has it open. His fingers search the interior and he looks to Sash. “Where is it? Where’s your gel stuff?”
“I don’t know. My insurance changed. I don’t have it anymore.” Her voice is weak.
As I’m watching this curious exchange, a stillness settles over her, and her eyes assume a vacant stare.
“Dammit, Sash! Can you hear me? Dammit!” Sladen’s voice goes up an octave with each syllable and his rifling through the clutter from her purse becomes more frantic.
I hear someone else yelling her name and realize it’s me when I feel silky strands of her hair in my fingers. I know I should be doing something, but I seem frozen as the seconds tick by.
Sladen withdraws things from the zipper bag. Letting everything fall away except a red plastic case, he flips it open and pilfers the contents. He stares first at a plastic tube of a contraption in one hand, and then at her. In his other hand he’s holding … a syringe.
My brain cells feel like they’re skidding down a dark highway and suddenly coming to a halt.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Sash’s face is a chalky white contrast to the black and blue strands falling about her brows. I sweep them from her forehead.
“One. One milligram.” He seems to be talking to himself more than me, as if repeating something that’s been brainwashed into his head.
“You’re not going to... WHAT are you doing?” WHAT was happening?
He pulls at her shirt hem. Hesitates. And then to my horror, he pinches a section of midriff skin as if he’s a freaking doctor or something and stabs her with the needle.
The syringe clatters to the floor, and his eyes meet mine. “She’s going to be fine.” But is he telling me, or chanting some mantra to himself?
“Nine-one-one.” I reach to my pocket for my phone, unsure of why I am just now remembering paramedics exist. In that moment, her eyelids lift.
“I’m going to puke...” Her words are a weak whisper.
This time, it’s me who springs into action. Gripping her shoulder, I roll her toward me. How I had the presence of mind to react that automatically, I’ve no idea.
She doesn’t get sick. A few minutes later, she’s feeling well enough to sit. Her fingers rub the injection site, and she fixes her gaze on Sladen and then me. “Who did it?”
“That Grey’s Anatomy marathon with my ex wasn’t all wasted time.” Sladen smirks in answer.
Is it bad I’m jealous of him for being the one who saved her life?
“Hey, Trey, get her a soda and some of those raisin things from the machine. There’s some change in the cup under the register if you need it.”
Raisins?
A quarter of an hour later, we walk out the door with Sash supported by Sladen on one side and me on the other. Sladen pauses to lockup, and I continue to walk her to the van. Sladen hits the unlock button on his keys, and I open the passenger door. With a hand on either side of her waist, I lift until she’s settled on the seat.
“Seatbelt.” I pull at it and pass it over to Sladen to clip.
Sladen drives me to the front of the shop where my bike is parked, and then I follow them to the ER. My mind’s still reeling, but she’s admitted almost immediately, so I still don’t ask questions.
A little over an hour later, we pull up at the house. I keep my arms around her as we go inside, but she’s better with every step. She drops into her chair. Sladen fills Mark in, and it’s mutually decided we’ll order food instead of going out.
A pizza order is called in. We eat while watching tv, and then head upstairs to practice.
We avoid the bad spot in the floor, keeping to the wall.
It’s frigid now that full-on winter’s coming fast. All of us wear hoodies until the heat of practice chases the chill from our bodies.
I keep a worried eye on Sash, wondering if she should be resting after her episode, but she remains intent on a new composition she’s been working on.
Eventually, the rest of us let our instruments dwindle and let her run with her melody.
In the middle of it, I laugh, and they all look to me to explain. Without speaking, I huff, blowing out a breath that rises in a gray cloud in front of my face. I must be delirious from the earlier emotion swing. They return the amusement and one of them calls me a pussy southern boy, and we all laugh again. Because I am. This sub degree weather takes some getting used to.
When at last we’ve retired to bed, I pull her into my arms, pressing her backside to my front. “Are you going to tell me what that was?”
“What, what was?”
“You on the floor. That syringe you carry around.”
“I don’t understand. You know about it.”
“No. I don’t. You never told me what I was seeing.”
Now, she partially turns.
“Jesus, Sash! I thought you were on drugs. And all this time you could have coma’d out? And I wouldn’t have known what the hell? I wouldn’t have known what to do?”
“You sound like you’re mad I’m not on drugs. And what the hell? You thought that of me?”
“I didn’t want to.” I know my voice is still raised in exasperation. “But when every time I turn around, you’ve got a damn needle in your hands…”
“Diabetes. I was diagnosed as a kid.” She interrupts my self-righteous tirade. “I have a test kit to help me keep it all leveled out, but I won’t bore you wi
th the details.”
“You’re not boring me with details. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before you freakin’ coma’d out!”
“Hypoglycemia.”
“What?”
“Hypoglycemia. Or insulin shock. That’s what it’s called when the blood sugar drops like that. If you want details.”
“Okay.” I breath, letting the last remaining vestiges of my anger go.
“If it ever happens again, you know the drill now. One milligram from the vial in the red box—only the red one. That’s important.” She peeks at me nervously and continues. “The syringe will already have stuff in it. That’s to dilute the dose. Push all of it into the vial. Shake it until it’s clear. Put the needle back in and load it with the one milligram—which should empty the vial. There’s a practice app. I’ll download it onto your phone.”
“Seriously? An app?” I joke, but I’m glad she’s finally taking me seriously enough to confide. Thank God for Sladen being there. What if we’d been alone?
“There’s an app for everything these days,” she affirmed and carried on, seemingly more confident with my attitude. “Inject it and call nine-one-one. It works within fifteen minutes. Once I’m conscious, soda. Juice. Fast acting carbs. Even a candy bar if nothing else. ”
...once I’m conscious...
I shudder at the thought of her unconscious, and flip the channel of my thoughts.“ I thought people diagnosed with diabetes couldn’t eat sweets and stuff.”
“My body doesn’t make insulin.” She twists until she’s on her back. So without a shot of it every day, true, my sugar would get too high. But it’s tricky. Because when I’ve been sick, or not eaten right, or whatever, it can get too low. I can usually feel when it’s on the verge and drink some juice or...” She trails off. Her fingers drift down my forearm. “So you thought I was a junkie, and you still took me as your girlfriend? You never got on my case about it?”
“I guess you think I’m stupid, huh?”
“No. I’m thinking it’s pretty cool you let me be me.”
“I wouldn’t have watched you ruin yourself, Sash. I would have made sure you stopped. It’s just, it’s taken us a while to get to this. You know? For us to be us as more than a day-to-day thing.”
“I’m not following.”
“I used to wonder, if I thought too hard about it, when I went to bed, if we would still be together when I woke up.”
“And now?”
“Now I see us spending Christmas and New Year’s together.” I let those upcoming holidays sink in, and then move in for the kill. “For years to come.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath, and then she squeezes my hand. “Yeah. For years to come.”
My heart pounds so hard it might explode. I’m on air. Nothing matters anymore. Not my Dad’s silence. Not Mark’s sneer earlier when Sladen showed off his work on my back.
I’ve got the girl, a record contract, and a tattoo.
Yet… Sometimes it’s crazy how fast it can all domino down…
Chapter 39
Sunshine Time
“Mariss, honey?” Jules squeezed a bottle of water into her hand. “Try to drink this. Matt is staying, and I’m going to go pick up the girls. They should be with family.”
Marissa managed a nod, but didn’t bother trying to speak. She could say thank you later.
Her eyes landed on the clock of the waiting area. Why were hospital clocks always white with black numerals? Would it kill them to hang a sun or a daisy timepiece?
What had happened to Jack? Was it possible for a man in his thirties to have a heart attack or stroke?
She’d stayed by his side in the ER cubicle and then they’d rolled him away for tests.
And here she was. Staring at the second-hand on a clock, wishing it was a sunshine with eyes.
Chapter 40
Like Dominos
No New Messages
After giving our two-week notice, Sash and I continue to work our shifts while our replacements are hired and still learning the ropes.
A couple of days ago, I’d called my Dad again right before leaving for work. I’d left a longer voicemail, giving him the rundown on what had happened in L.A.
But he doesn’t return the call for the second time. If my dad is mad enough not to answer or return calls, my mother is more so. He’s always been the easygoing one, and she the firm one. I accept that I’m going to have to see my parents in person to apologize for leaving the way I did.
The problem is I have to drive all the way back, instead of fly, because of the ID problem—and there’s a good possibility the journey will be a snowy tundra across all states until I reach Texas. I have that trip planned for the day following my last day of work. Hopefully I won’t need sled dogs.
“Hey, Trey!” Sash yells from the hall and then stops short in the doorway to the bedroom. Advancing, she winds her arms around me. “Why so sad?”
“I’m not.” The denial is an automatic shield to my mood.
I view our reflection, enjoying how she looks against me. Normally she’s almost a full head shorter, but with the boots she has on today, she’s easily peering over my shoulder, and she too smiles at what she sees.
Our hair is the same color—except mine is minus blue highlights. But other than that, the similarities end.
Sash quickly lost her summertime tan over the last several weeks. Her now ivory skin contrasts beautifully with her raven brows, lashes, and streaky hair. Her eyes are gray-blue jewels—the opposite of my dark Loren eye color.
“We look good together.”
We look right together.
“Yeah.” I agree. “So are we gonna tell Enrique we were late to work because we couldn’t stop staring at how hot we are together?”
Pushing away, she slaps at me, and I can’t help but grab the offending wrist, holding it off to the side as I kiss her.
“No.” She comes out of the kiss breathless. “Guess we’ll tell him you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“That’s more believable anyway.” I mumble against her lips. “Damn…” This time, I’m the one who pushes away. “Let’s go.”
“Fine. Or we could start being big rock stars now—staying in bed all day.”
She has my attention. “Want to?”
She laughs as if she was joking and then sobers while considering my comeback. “We can’t. That would be reckless.”
“Starting out on bad karma.” I add, fighting the devil on my shoulder reminding me the house is atypically, for the a.m. hours, empty, except for us.
I flip off the light, and she turns back. “Oh, I came back here to tell you not to forget your shirts.”
“Right behind you. Crank the bike if you go out.” I detour back to the closet and slide one black shirt with a ‘Chimps’ monogram from its hanger. I’m wearing one, so looking around the room, I search for the third and final one.
A pair of my jeans lies on the carpet next to the bed. Theorizing that more articles of my clothing may have worked its way beneath the bed, I drop to my knees, crouching enough to peer under the frame.
I recognize the shoebox with a few envelopes scattered around it. Sash had been digging through it for her social security card not long ago. Figuring she meant for it to go back on the closet shelf where she’d taken it from that day, I pull it out with the intention of setting it on the bed where she can see it.
Raking the loose papers from under the bed, I drop them beside it. One catches my attention, and I freeze.
Marriage License
State of Michigan
I automatically skim to the names, the fancy font standing out, neatly inserted between the legal gibberish of the document.
Marku Gavril Patki.
and
Sasha Renee David.
My mouth dries up while I skim down the page, willing something—anything—to pop out that will make this not be true.
Maybe, despite what she told me, they were serious enough to ac
quire a marriage license, and yet maybe never used it—
But no.
The inked names refute this speculation. Mark’s signature is scrawled in his usual lazy handwriting. Sash’s is more deliberate, although it’s not her normal signature. It appears shaky.
Sash. Mark. The officiator. Sladen as one of the witnesses. And it’s all notarized. The seal embossing the signatures and the final signature of the county clerk legalizes it.
The date?
Not even a year ago…
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
Until this moment, the biggest outright betrayal in my life was my cousin Braxton lying to me about banging a girl I was interested in one summer in L.A.
That stupid shit had nothing on this monumental moment.
This is only another indication I’ve led a sheltered, privileged, and lucky life. I’ve never been truly emotionally hurt other than Gabs.
My eyes prick thinking of Gabs. She’d let me down. Destroyed me. But she hadn’t lied.
My feelings for Sash had somehow in a very short time evolved into ten times what I’d ever felt for Gabbi or anyone.
And she’s a liar.
Worse than that…
She’s married.
Unless it was annulled or they divorced…
My heart begins to beat again as I consider this. Yet, even if that is the case, she still lied when she told me there had never been anything between them.
I drop the folds of paper into the box and stand.
You’re a liar. Pot meet kettle.
E-String meet E-String. They may be on opposite sides of a guitar. They may differ in feel, appearance, and slightly in sound. But they’re both the same damn note.
My mind taunts me, and I draw in a confused breath.
At least you just saw proof her name is Sash David—just like she said.
What will she say when she finds out there’s no Trey Duplei?
“That’s it!” Her voice sings down the hallway, and it seems implausible when the spectrum bathing my confused brain is still gloriously golden, laced with happy endorphins. “You’ve figuratively fucked around so long that we’re late. So I vote we literally fuck around since we’re late.”