Page 52 of PS: I Hate You
Josh was telling the truth in his letter. I’ve dreamed about getting a tattoo forever. Of having an artist sketch a beautiful, meaningful design into my skin. But just like all of the pages of those pretty journals I bought for myself, my skin has remained blank.
I was waiting for something significant to occur in my life. Something to immortalize with a permanent symbol.
But do I want to immortalize the death of my brother?
While these thoughts ricochet through my mind, Dom uses the hand that’s still on my lower back to guide me toward the counter. He opens the first binder and slowly flips through the pages.
None of the images register. I’m sure they’re gorgeous and fashioned with skill.
But they were made for someone else. Not for me.
Not for Josh.
I almost wish he’d left specific instructions on what to get, because I don’t know how I’m supposed to pick something that matters.
Better yet, I wish he were here to bicker with and push back against. He would try to coax, then berate, then charm me into getting a tattoo.
Would he win? Would I?
But now it’s just me versus words on a piece of paper.
“What are you thinking?” Dom asks, quietly so only I can hear. His warm breath brushes my ear, making me shiver, which in turn makes me scowl.
“I’m thinking Josh is a lot harder to argue with now.”
There’s a rich sound. A soothing set of notes I belatedly realize is Dom’s chuckle.
“I meant about what tattoo you want to get. Assuming you’ll go through with it.”
I glare up at him and find his eyes already on me. Our gazes lock and hold.
“I’m getting one.” My voice lacks the hard edge I tried equipping it with. Instead, I sound almost breathy. “But it has to matter.”
Dom firms his mouth and offers a small nod, his stare never leaving mine. “Like a jar of peanut butter on your butt?”
His delivery—stone-cold serious—is what gets me. That, and the memory of a hungover Josh stumbling into my fourteen-year-old bedroom muttering that he made a mistake.
All the angry grief drains from my body as I snort. Then giggle. Then dissolve into stomach-cramping laughter.
To commemorate his eighteenth birthday, my older brother got drunk on cheap vodka and found a less reputable tattoo studio willing to ink a wasted teenager’s ass with a nonsensical idea. Josh hadtugged down his shorts and pulled the bandage back enough for me to see a beautifully detailed jar of open peanut butter and a realistic slice of bread spread with brown goo.
“Peanut BUTTer,”he’d explained to me.
“I amnotgetting that,” I force out through my hilarity, then try to suck a few calming breaths in through my nose so I don’t have to use my inhaler. Chuckles continue to sneak out despite my efforts. “But I did think it was extra embarrassing how he only got half done.”
Dom, wearing his own smile, lifts a single brow. “Half done?”
“Yeah. Half the sandwich.” I hold out my hands as if they’re slices of bread. “A PB and J. He needed a jelly jar on the other cheek.” God, that would’ve been perfect. A PB and J ass.
Then something amazing happens. A light flush comes to Dom’s cheeks. A subtle pink that quickly deepens to an impossible-to-ignore red.
Is he embarrassed? About what…?
A ludicrous suspicion hits me and I take a step back, studying the rule-following man at my side, wondering if I’m about to find out that miracles do exist in the world.
“Dominic Perry.” My voice is tight with disbelief and passionate hope. “Do you…have a jar of jelly tattooed on your ass?”
He straightens to his full six-foot-three height, crosses his arms over his chest, firms his jaw…