Then to skin.
Fuck. That stings. My breathing stops. My heart thuds. My hands get sweaty. Clammy.
But I manage to trace the stencil. Up and around, straight, then curved, again and again. The pain stays but it stops hurting. It becomes a part of my reality. A thing to face, not fear.
It's hard to explain, but the hurt feels good. It feels like I'm alive.
It takes two minutes to finish the design. I barely manage to breathe through it.
But I survive.
Fuck. My entire body buzzes enough to make up for the ceasing of the gun's hum. I go to push myself up, but Dean stops me.
He holds me against the chair, pinning me at my shoulders. "Aftercare first."
"Right."
"Let me." He pulls two gloves from the box and slides them on. Then he's kneeling between my legs, peeling off the stencil, rubbing lotion into my skin and wrapping my fresh ink in plastic.
His touch is soft, gentle, the touch of a lover, not a teacher. But right now, I don't care about the line blurring. Only about every single way I want him.
God, the ways I want him.
His fingers curl into my foot as he looks up at me. "There. Done."
"Done." I look down at the ink like it's my first. In a way, it is. It feels as badass as it did back then. And, well, I'm far from Dean quality, but this is at least a little better than that lopsided star. "What do you think?"
"It's perfect for you." He plants a kiss on my ankle, just above the ink. "And, fuck, this position is perfect for me."
Yes, it is.
I spread my legs a little wider.
His fingers curl into my thighs.
I'm about to dig my hands into his hair and order him out of his clothes when my phone buzzes against my thigh.
Fuck, that vibration…
I reach for the thing to silence it.
But it isn't a SPAM call.
It's the doctor's office.
"Let me take care of this first." I push the chair backward as I answer the phone.
Dean's blue eyes fill with concern. He's reading me too well. He knows it's the call.
He can't know.
"It's just my dad," I lie.
He nods like he believes me.
I don't stick around to figure out if he does. I answer the call. Bring the phone to my ear as I step into the main room. "Hello."
"Chloe, is that you?" Dr. Nguyen asks. I'd recognize his voice anywhere.
"Yes."
The air conditioner hums to life.
Angsty, breathy vocals drown out the quiet conversations.
"I'm calling about your test results," he says.
My stomach drops.
He isn't starting with your test was negative. You're still cancer free.
Which means…
Fuck.
"Oh." I swallow hard. Press my eyelids together. Cross my fingers. Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.
"Can you come in later today?"
Fuck.
Fuck. fuck. Fuck.
My breath is shaky. Shallow. "You can tell me now."
"There was a spot on the scan. It's probably nothing."
Of course. It's always probably nothing. It's nothing until it's something.
"It looks like a cyst. But we want to do a needle biopsy to be sure."
All the breath leaves my body at once.
His words don't make it into my ears.
Probably isn't enough.
Maybe isn't enough.
This is…
I can't…
"When can you come in?" he asks.
The room is spinning. My head is fuzzy. Light. I…
I grab onto the wall for support.
It's just barely enough.
"I can have reception call you back when you've had time to process it. I know this can be scary, Chloe, but the odds of relapse after your procedure are low."
"And the odds of beating a relapse are worse."
His voice drops. "If it is cancer, we'll have options. At the very least, we'll be able to make you comfortable."
That's oncologist for you're fucked but we'll drug you until you don't care.
I try to process his words. To believe that the odds are low, that it's probably a cyst, that it's probably okay.
But I can't.
It screams in my brain.
You're sick again.
You're dying.
You're a noose around everyone's neck.
"Chloe? Do you want Amelia to call in a few hours?"
"I can come in anytime. As soon as possible."
"Wednesday at noon," he offers.
That is soon. "And we'll know then?"
"The results usually take a few days, but I can have the lab fast track it. So it's only a few hours."
"Thank you."
He says something in response, but I don't hear a word of it.
I end the call and slide my cell into my pocket.
Footsteps move into the main room.
They come closer.
Then Dean's fingers are brushing my shoulder.
And his chest is against my back.
And his words are in my ears.
"Everything okay, sunshine?"
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chloe
It's such a funny question.
Is everything okay?
I spent the better part of a year coming to terms with the possibility of dying. Hell, after two weeks of chemo, it didn't seem like such a bad option. Certainly better than another round of the treatment that killed me from the outside. At least, if cancer took my life, I wouldn't go out feeling like I was dying. At least, not until the very end.
But things turned around. The tumor shrunk. The double mastectomy was successful. The disease didn't spread past my chest wall (pretty much a death sentence).
I was glad to be done with injecting poison into my veins and struggling through surgical recovery and waiting around in dull hospital rooms.
But I didn't know how to be alive anymore. I didn't know how to face my future. I had no idea what to do with the world of possibilities that opened up in front of me.
For so long, my only choice was what to watch on TV, which frozen dinner to eat, spending my energy on drawing or meeting Gia for coffee.
All of a sudden, I could do anything.
It paralyzed me for a while. I was stiff and awkward amongst the healthy. But I figured it out, bit by bit. I went to aikido. I swam laps at the gym. I took figure drawing classes and got new tattoos and begged artists to consider training me.
And then Dean came back into my life and he opened up everything.
My world, my body, my heart.
I thought I was okay with this possibility.
With him sticking by my side no matter what.
I thought I needed that.
No, I do.
But I can't do it to him.
I can't be the weight around his neck.
I know what it feels like, watching someone you love die. Wanting, more than anything, to save them, but knowing there's nothing you can do.
He can't save me.
But I can save him.
I have to.
"Chlo'." He rubs my upper arms with a soft, sweet touch. "Your dad okay?" He sells the words, but it's clear he doesn't believe me.
"Yeah. He's fine." I bite my lips. How the hell do I get out of this? We have an appointment in an hour and a half. We have work all week. I'm supposed to sit by his side and watch him all… all year.
But then this apprenticeship was never going to work out.
Not with the two of us desperate to tear each other's clothes off every three seconds.
And not if…
If I'm out of time, it's not as if I'll be able to learn to be a tattoo artist anyway.
"But I… Uh…" I can't tell him the truth. He won't take it. I need to convince him I want him gone. That it's because I don't love him. Not because I do.
Gently, he turns me around.
His hand goes to my chin. He tilts my head toward him. Until I'm looking up at him.
And he's looking down at me.
My eyes dart around the room. I look everywhere else. Anywhere else. The string lights. The framed art. The open office door. The windows looking out on the dirty Venice street. The beach beyond that.
The blue sky mocking me with its endless brightness.
"What's wrong?" His voice is soft. Loving.
"I was just thinking."
"About?" He cups my cheek with his palm. Catches a tear with his thumb. "You're crying."
"No." I shake my head, but it does nothing to stem the tears catching on my lashes. Fuck this. I can't cry in front of him. That's giving it away.
And, well, this isn't going to be like it was with my mom. I'm going to find the strength to convince him I can handle this. To convince him I'm okay.