used my other, free hand, but the severity of the moment demanded I use this hand, some symbol of confession I didn’t even fully understand myself.
I gripped at the hem of my shirt as if it weighed a thousand pounds instead of the delicate silk it actually was. Ryder’s gaze fell immediately to the action and slowly, ever so slowly, arguing with myself the entire time, I pulled my shirt to just below the underwire of my bra. My stomach was completely exposed to Ryder’s full stare, but, even though I was still trying to talk myself out of it, I trusted him. I trusted him to see this.
I trusted him to see more of me than anyone ever had, both physically and figuratively.
I looked down at my exposed stomach and quickly licked three of my fingers and rubbed at the second tattoo that ran across the ribs on my left side. I had to wet my fingers several more times to remove the concealer completely but eventually the words were revealed.
Ryder’s own hand came up deliberately as if he were afraid to frighten me, as if I were a wounded animal he was trying to sooth. He brushed his fingers across the identical cursive script almost reverently. His brow furrowed deeply and I wondered what emotion was playing out in his head. Confusion? Pity? Lust?
Only it wasn’t lust. Not by a long shot.
“My soul is free,” he whispered into the silence with the reverence the phrase was meant to hold. “My soul is free.”
He repeated the words and my heart expanded at the incantation. The words I had chosen so carefully held the deepest meaning of my existence. I loved the way they sounded out loud, how they fell out of his lips and off his tongue with care.
“What do they mean Ivy?” he asked while his hand fell back to my wrist and his thumb rubbed once more along the word that was inked there.
“Nothing really,” I lied so obviously I was shocked when he simply waited for me to say more without calling me on my bullshit. “They’re just reminders. Things I need to remember.”
Ryder looked back down at the words on my stomach and wrist and when his eyes met mine the silver had been turned to gray granite, intense with anger and frustration and something that looked like…. concern. “And why do you need to remind yourself that your soul is free?” He bit out the words making them sound like he was dragging them across rough gravel. The reverence fell away and left only hatred for words he didn’t even understand.
I mashed my lips together, afraid to answer him, afraid the truth would come pouring out of me eager to divulge every last sordid detail of my f-ed up life. The thought was so ridiculous, the action so close to completing itself that I burst out into laughter before I could burst into tears instead.
“Ryder, seriously, they’re just words. Just little sayings I thought were…. whatever. I don’t really have a cool story or anything. I was drunk one night in Arizona and bored and I convinced this guy to ink me. It’s no big deal. Honestly, I kind of regret it,” I rambled. I took a step away from Ryder and began straightening Phoenix’s hanging shirts and jeans nervously.
“You were drunk during rehab?” Ryder pressed skeptically.
My mouth snapped shut when I realized I said Arizona out loud and that Ryder had correctly associated the time with my “rehab.”
“And I don’t believe you regret it,” he accused, reaching for my hand again but I stepped out of his range, putting the drums between us.
My shirt fell back down to cover my stomach and a surge of panic zipped through me with my tattoos exposed. My mind spun with all the ways Nix could find out about them. Why was my generation constantly documenting their lives for the world to see? If I was tagged in some candid shot online, my life would be ruined in a strangled heartbeat and the random Facebook friend would have no idea how they sent me to my death.
Not that I had that many Facebook friends to brag about….
But still.
“You don’t regret it,” Ryder pushed, his expression flashing with determination. “Otherwise you wouldn’t cover them up so carefully. Why do you need to cover a tattoo that your shirt already covers, Ivy?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I bit out. I could explain this. Or I could brush it off like it