Page 63 of For the Record
“What do you—”
“I love it.” He smiled, staring at my tiny ink patch. A real, true smile full of pride. My chest felt weightless, and a tingling started at my head and spread down to my toes. My heart picked up speed, a tap, tap, tap on my chest, almost like an alarm going off. Warning: you are getting way too excited over a single smile. Yet it only made me want to hurry this process a little longer. Maybe sign up to get another one just to witness that smile again.
“You ready, honey?” Adam dipped his head to the chair, and I quickly nodded.
My excitement quickly turned to agony as Felicity, who I’d initially liked but was now plotting the demise of, stabbed me over and over again.
Truthfully, I’d always thought I had a pretty high pain tolerance. I’d broken my wrist in middle school and didn’t even know until the next day because it felt a little sore. When my dad and I went to a Foo Fighters concert about six months before his diagnosis, in the heat of the moment—a.k.a. the drum solo of “One Of These Days”—it seemed like a great idea for me to crowd surf. It was more crowd than surf, considering I got trampled on by many grown men. My dad had to stick a hand out in the crowd and pull me up like a child drowning in the deep end without her floaties.
Even then, I wasn’t this fazed.
Maybe it was the needle itself, or the fact that I had become more of a pansy the older I got, but this was torment. And if Adam hadn’t been here, chances were I would have jumped off this table the minute Felicity put that forsaken needle to my innocent back. Leaving with a single black dot that looked like more like a freckle than any sort of tattoo would be a lot less embarrassing if my husband wasn’t right beside me. But he was, and considering he was entirely covered in tattoos, these must be worth it, right? Otherwise why would anyone get more than one?
“You’re doing so good.” He squeezed my hand, which was tightly wrapped around his, my fingers digging into the back side of his hand and forcing all pain to go away.
“Look at you, not even crying.” He chuckled a bit. “You’re better than Liam.”
He didn’t do good? was what I wanted to ask, but it came out more like “He didn’t—Ah-—dogoo?”
Adam smiled at me, brushing one rogue tendril of hair off my forehead. This felt oddly like the birthing videos we were forced to watch in high school. “Cried the entire time. Had to take a break every two minutes. I think the artist was ready to kick him out. By the time we were finished he was begging for another though, and now he’s got a sleeve similar to mine.”
I laughed and immediately winced because Felicity took advantage of the opportunity to move closer to my shoulder blade. The sharp needle pain shuddered through me, a vibration forming the closer she got to the bone. And not the good kind.
“Why don’t we go pick out a new vinyl after this?” He rubbed his thumb over my hand.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Or we can get that name tattooed on my ass if you’re still interested.”
I snorted. “That is very tempting.”
About an hour of torture later, I had a tattoo. A real one. Not one of those fake floral ones that I’d gotten on a whim at PCB on Spring Break in 2010 that resulted in a fiery rash a week later. A real, life changing, forever there tattoo.
I turned my back to the mirror, admiring the outline art again and again. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I couldn’t stop staring. It was absolutely perfect. And Adam’s approving grin made it that much better.
Twisting on my heel, I reached for Adam. “I want another one.”
I could totally see how people found these addicting. I was already envisioning a tiger on my thigh, or maybe a Bob Dylan lyric. The possibilities were endless. I could very well leave here in six hours looking like a children’s doodle pad and still be this excited.
“Maybe let’s just let this one heal first, yeah?” He reached a firm hand to my lower waist, slightly rubbing up and down, leading me in a trance.
I nodded and turned my back to Felicity, who had now worked her way back into my good graces, to wrap me up. She gave me a detailed list of instructions that were really hard to pay attention to due to the high I was riding, but I didn’t have to even worry about it. Adam always made sure I was taken care of. This was no different.
When his turn came, he sat in front of the next free station, which was Mr. Gladiator—Brendan—from earlier. Adam ground his molars when he very politely introduced himself to me. Then he shortly explained to the guy what he wanted and settled in his chair, forearm up.
Since he was more accustomed to the process, Adam’s tattoo didn’t take nearly as long, and unfortunately, he didn’t need nearly as much hand-holding as I had. Though he did wince at one spot, a quick sucked-in breath through gritted teeth that had me flying across the spinny chair fully prepared to deck Brendan. He assured me it was a more sensitive spot, but I still hated the sight.
With Adam’s finished up, I pulled out my camera to take a picture to send to his siblings. Thankfully we hadn’t had to tiptoe near as much around them, considering we were now married.
“Let me see it!” I squealed, but as the art came into view, my heart stuttered. The track in my head scratched, playing the same note again and again.
On the one free space of his forearm sat a thinly outlined record, on one side was a scripted R and on the other, an A. I stared at it for a moment, then two, frozen entirely, until his voice broke into my halted brain.
“It’s not your name on my ass, but it’s as good as I could get ya.”
He shrugged a single shoulder as if the man had simply given me half of his side of fries or had agreed to split the cost of an Uber.
“Adam.” My mouth dropped, closed, and dropped again.