Bet she didn’t see that coming! ’Cause she’s not really psychic. Get it?
Inception-Style, Muthafucka!
September 13
Dear Journal,
My first Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever entry was perfection, Journal! Perfection! I covered all four objectives—adorable pet name, compliments, spontaneous and passionate sex, and a surprise personalized tattoo somewhere visible and brazenly unprofessional. Check, check, check, and check!
None of it was true, of course. Well, some of it was true. Harley did have tattoos. He did have a shock of blond hair, pretty puppy-dog eyes, and a big ole pouty pierced bottom lip. He did ask me to marry him all the time with a shitty little piece-of-shit ring he’d found on the ground. And he did call me Lady.
Swoon.
So, the Subliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy seeds have been planted, and evidently, they have already taken root. Just last night Ken and I went to see a local rock legend we really love named Butch Walker at this little bar in Athens. While we were milling waiting for the show to start, I got bored and decided to test the waters a little bit. Ken and I had the following conversation.
Me: So, Butch posted a photo of his new tattoo on Facebook yesterday, and it’s pretty badass. He got this Sailor Jerry–style anchor on the back of his hand with his dad’s name going across it in a banner. It looks so good.
Ken: I’ll bet he got it next door. That place is open twenty-four hours and always looks busy.
Me: Oh, yeah? Maybe we should stop by there after the show.
Ken: You looking to get some new ink?
Me: No, but you are.
Ken: Oh, am I?
Me: Yep. You’re gonna get a heart with my name on it.
Ken: And where am I going to get it?
Me: Somewhere highly visible—like your neck probably. Or the back of your hand, like Butch. YES! Oh my God, that would look SO good! You have to, Ken! A heart with my name in a banner across it right on the back of your hand! It would be soooo romantic!
Ken: What about on my forearm?
Me: Why? So, you can hide it? Like you hide your love?
Ken: Um, no. Because I like forearm tattoos. But if I did get one, it would be a compass rose, not a heart.
Me: Would it still have my name on it?
Ken: Nope.
Me: WHY NOT?!?! I gave you two beautiful children and all of my best years, motherfucker!
Ken: Exactly. I don’t want the name of some old lady with two kids on my arm.
Needless to say, the tattoo objective is going to take some more work. So, while we’re waiting to see if I can covertly manipulate my husband into making some poor and very permanent choices, how about I tell you the real story behind one of my own very poor choices, Harley James?
More Like, Billy I-Don’t
September 20
I lurched my new (only in the sense that it was new to me—the damn thing was almost old enough to vote) black Mustang hatchback onto the curb and willed myself to let go of the steering wheel.
I’d only had my license for three months. My heart was pounding, and my mouth was so dry that my braces were starting to stick to the inside of my lips. Those were also new.
In fact, everything about me was new. In just about a year and a half, I had gone from an innocent little fourteen-year-old girl who could count the number of times she’d been kissed on one finger—dolled up in sparkly lip gloss with unruly reddish waves and a sizeable gap between her front teeth—to a thoroughly fucked rock vixen with a mostly shaved head, bleach-blonde bangs, kohl-caked eyes, and a shiny steel barbell shoved through each and every one of her erroneous zones.
I ran my hands up and down the perforated leather of the steering wheel and took one last steadying drag from my cigarette before flicking it out the window with my thumb and middle finger.
Oh, I bet that looked badass. I hope Harley saw me flick my cigarette just now—or not. That would mean that he’s home and that I’m going to meet him—right now. Oh my God. Maybe he’s going to stand me up. But how could he? On the phone, he said he doesn’t have a car.
Seriously, Journal, I was biliously nervous about meeting a twenty-year-old guy who lived in his mom’s basement and didn’t have a car…while sitting inside my car.