Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,306

the tattoo shop where I’ve always gotten my ink. Bristol is already seated, a satisfied smirk on her face and an empanada halfway to her mouth.

“Mateo told me his dad has a taco shop around the corner,” Bristol says around a mouthful. “And I thought this would be a perfect meal for our anniversary.”

“When you said you’d handle our first anniversary dinner,” I say, sitting down in the chair beside her, “I kind of envisioned something a little more upscale.”

I shoot my friend a remorseless glance. “No offense, Matty.”

“I got you, ese.” He leans against the counter that holds the cash register. “But your wife knows what she wants.”

Wife.

Bristol has been my wife for a year. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever, like we’re just getting started, and like we know each other more deeply than I ever thought possible. I want to slow the hours down because it’s going too fast. One day I’ll wake up and be at the end of this journey, like Mrs. O’Malley, and even after a lifetime with Bristol, I’ll bargain with God for one more day.

“I had an idea for an anniversary gift to each other.” Bristol wipes the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “Something that will last all our lives.”

“I’m guessing it’s a tattoo,” I say, looking around Matty’s tattoo parlor.

“You’re very astute without the blindfold. I’m almost done eating so I can go first.”

I frown because she has one beautiful tattoo on her shoulder of the Neruda line that galvanized our connection years ago, and I need to sign off on anything else. I mean, I have tattoos all over, but I’m a lot more careful with Bristol’s body than I am with my own.

“What kind of tattoo are you getting?”

“You mean what kind of tattoo are we getting?” She reaches into her purse and hands me a sketch. “This one.”

It’s a pair of hands, one masculine and one feminine. Banding each ring finger is Matty’s trademark calligraphy of the word still. The letters wrap around each finger, sketched to look like delicate vine.

“You like it?” Bristol asks, her voice soft, uncertain.

After the wedding, she requested that I give her my vows, my poem “STILL,” in writing. I know she added it to a box where she keeps our memories—the leather book of Neruda poetry, the tarnished whistle from the carnival, and now the vows I wrote for her. I know

“STILL” holds significance, but I never saw this coming.

“You want to tattoo this on our fingers?” I ask, just to make sure I’m clear. “The word still?”

“Yeah. I have no problem making this permanent on my skin.” She smiles, but bites her bottom lip. “Unless our first year has made you reconsider forever.”

As an answer, I slip my wedding band off my finger and into my pocket then turn to Matty, who’s already prepping his ink and needles.

“All right, partner, do your worst.”

I’ve gotten used to the discomfort that comes with tattooing— hell, I got my first one when I was only fourteen. Amir and I were Matty’s guinea pigs, and he had to fix that first one—a sadly disfigured angel—years later, after his skills improved. Bristol, though, has only gotten one tat, and she winces at the sharp needle pumping ink into her skin. Matty’s fast, though, and as gentle as he can be. After a couple of hours, we have matching tattoo bands on our ring fingers, not huge, but present enough to see even under our wedding rings. Matty has cleaned the tats and is prepping for his next customer while we eat the last of our cold empanadas and drink flat beer in the back room that serves as kitchen, office, and occasional bedroom for Matty and his staff.

“It’s not what I expected.” I grin when her questioning eyes find mine. “But it’s perfect.”

“Good.” She licks her lips and sets her bottle of beer on the small round table that’s covered in drawings; the tattoo artists must use it to practice on. “I did something today that I hope you approve of. I probably should have asked you first.”

“Asked me first?” There aren’t too many things that fall into Bristol’s ask Grip first category. “What’d you do?”

“I removed my birth control.” She twists her lips, unaware of the freak-out she just set off with her words. “Well, technically, my doctor did. It was really simple. She just—”

“Whoa.” I carefully set my beer beside hers. “Back up. You said you—”

“Removed my birth