record, that I was never going to make it big. But when I met his eye, he only winked. "I'll be in touch, Blake."
"Take care." I offered him a brief nod of my chin as I dissected that wink. What the fuck did that mean? What shit was he going to pull?
As he left, the paranoia settled in my stomach as a balled-up bundle of nausea and nerves. So heavy and tight, I worried myself to the point where my gut turned sour. My heart crashed against the fragile walls of its cage, desperate to break open to freely jitter with nervous dread and anticipation. My mind rewound and settled bitterly on that one thing that had started this all.
The game changer.
The plan ruiner.
That fucking butterfly tattoo.
I wished I could go back all those years, to when Audrey’s sister had walked through the door of the shop. To that moment when she’d asked me to draw up a design, something completely different from my other work. And I wished I had said no.
Chapter Six
DAYS PASSED BEFORE Shane said anything on social media. But on Saturday it popped up at the top of my Instagram feed, along with the notice that I'd gained over a hundred new followers in less than an hour. He had mentioned the shop, as promised, but he'd also mentioned me.
My first reaction was to lash out in anger. I deliberately instructed him not to do that. I didn't want the attention. And I didn't want the forty new messages and requests for appointments. But then, as I read the comments and the contents of my inbox, I felt the first dose of praise zing at my veins and I learned just how easily it would be to become addicted.
Without Jake around to remind me of why it was a bad idea to share my work, I allowed myself the hours of solitude to bask in the glory of being good at my job—fuck, scratch that, it was my passion. No guilt. No self-deprecation. Just good old-fashioned pride. This was the work that fueled my life. It was my happy place, and dammit, it felt good to be appreciated for it.
I took the Harley out to the club that night. I was in a rare mood, a good one, and I put my name on the list without hesitation. Tonight, I'd read, and I'd let myself be proud for that, too.
When my turn came around, I approached the microphone with confidence. It had been weeks, maybe even more, since I last read one of my poems at the club. Poetry wasn't a constant in my life, I didn't always feel the need to write. But, every now and then, I felt the call and the pressure of vile verbiage, and I gave in.
I didn't announce my name to the audience of sordid faces and I didn't tell them the title, because it didn't have one. I never titled my poems, never gave them the respect. They were a release, mental fecal matter meant to be expelled, and nothing more.
So, I read.
A butterfly,
Born on the ground,
A crawling mess of fibers and legs.
We see it change,
We see it turn,
We see the transformation,
From fibers and legs to beauty and wings,
And we stare,
Awed,
Bewildered,
Entranced by its beauty.
But who stares at the caterpillar?
Ugly.
Disgusting.
Grub.
We spew these hateful words,
Shun the fibers and legs,
Until it is beautiful.
But is it not still a butterfly?
I was born beautiful.
Perfect pink toes,
Perfect blue eyes.
Perfection has a heavy cost,
And I paid the price.
Watch me grow,
Watch me transform,
See me change.
Scribble the ugliness on your paper,
Let it process,
Save it for later.
Godless.
Hateful.
Angry.
But am I not still human?
Am I not still a metaphorical butterfly?
A butterfly, but in reverse.
I stepped away from the mic and stuffed the torn-off sheet of paper into a pocket. I didn't care if I crumpled or destroyed it. It didn't matter—I never meant to keep it, anyway. I didn’t keep any of them.
A hushed applause resounded through the club. Heads bobbed with approving nods, though I didn't need their approval or praise, much like with my tattoos. But it did feel nice, good even, to think that maybe some people knew where I was coming from. That empathized and maybe even understood.
I moved my way back to my seat, ready to grab my jacket and make a run for it, when a hand laid against my back.
"Blake?"
The sweet melody of her voice was a ray of light, a slender stream of brightness through a pin-pricked hole in a never-ending canopy of