by Tempest Phan
And finally, how she’d started a soup kitchen just outside of campus after running into more homeless youths than her tender heart could handle.
She caught me up on it all, and I listened, holding my breath as I took it in. She hadn’t changed a bit.
She was still clearly all Bella, perhaps even more herself now than ever. I was so proud and happy for her, happy that she was finding her place in this world. And Bella finding her place meant the world was better as a result, too.
“How’s your music going, Dame?” she asked breathlessly.
I smiled. “Oh, not much going. More like staying.” I winked at her and she laughed.
“Any new pieces since last spring?”
Yes, but none that I could share with her at this point. We were both too raw.
“Will you play my birthday song for me?”
I hesitated for a second before nodding and grabbing my guitar. “For You,” I said as I looked at her intently.
I strummed the saddest chord of all, and began softly:
Let’s dance, just you and I
Under this darkened sky
The world will have to wait
For you, beautiful, you
Only for you, for you
Because it’s nothing without you
Nothing, nothing at all
When your tears start to fall
I’ll fucking catch them all
Because you shouldn’t cry
Not when we say goodbye
Because it’s all for you
For you, beautiful, you
Baby, only for you
For you, beautiful, you
And if the world were upside down
Without a word, without a sound
Hear all I am, it is for you.
And I’m just me, and you are you.
But this whole world, I’d give to you
If only if only
if only, my baby…
Because it’s all for you
For you, beautiful, you
Baby, only for you
For you, my heart, for you
So let’s dance, just you and I
Under this darkened sky
And make them fucking wait.
***
Bella
As he played that last note, he looked at me, his eyes fracturing. I knew tears were running freely down my face. I loved him so. Why couldn’t he see that his darkness wouldn’t ever scare me? That we didn’t have to delay what should be inevitable? That I was so in now?
I’d lied on the night we’d said our goodbyes. It wouldn’t mean anything. Except, it did. It meant the whole world to me. But during those eight months of only seeing him on my phone, it somehow made it easier for us to pretend that night hadn’t happened at all. Sitting here across from him, his warmth radiating not two feet from me, hearing him sing the song he’d written me, I knew there was no way back for me. But he still wasn’t letting me in.
“I made you cry again,” he said softly.
I wiped the tears from my face. “Your music touches me, that’s all. I’m also a bit tired. Maybe that’s catching up with me,” I lied. Again.
“Yes, time for bed, I suppose,” he said as he began to move the throw pillows to the side, ready to extend the sofa bed.
“Dame, my bed is big enough for the two of us. No need for you to sleep on the couch.” Why had I said that?
He looked at me, his tongue playing with his lip rings, before saying in his careful voice, “It’s best if I take the couch, baby girl.”
My heart dropped, unwilling to accept his rejection, “You don’t have to, Dame. Nothing happened on your eighteenth birthday, or all of those other times we’ve shared a bed. Nothing has to happen now . . .”
His eyes were searing through me, seeing the truth I still wasn’t ready to fully admit, his voice firm and so very sure when he said, “I’m only human, baby girl. Something will happen. And we said we wouldn’t let it again.”
“Ok,” I whispered, trying to keep the despair from my voice. I walked to the linen closet and got him blankets and pillows while he pulled out the sofa bed. I laid everything down gently in a pile. He took a step toward me and placed a kiss on my temple.
His sandalwood scent hit my nostrils, and I felt weak in the knees. He smiled down at me.
“Goodnight, Bella. Sleep tight.”
“Kisses and bites,” I mumbled back. I turned and walked to my room. I closed the door and leaned against it, feeling the bitter taste of defeat rush through my veins. Back to square one. I closed my eyes.
***
Damien
I got up first. She was still in her room when I headed to the kitchen and started making pancakes. Because food was love.
She opened her bedroom door. “Oh, that delectable smell!”
“Mornin’ sunshine!” I shot at her as she walked toward me, still in her Hello Kitty pj’s, looking as adorable as ever. I knew that even when I was ninety, I would still remember my Mirabella Mei Grace in her Hello Kitty pj’s. I turned back to the stove before my eyes could reveal too much.
“Morning, Dame!” she said as she came up and gave me a hug from behind. It felt so good to be in her presence. I’d missed her, more than I would ever be able to put into words. More than I would ever allow myself to say to her.
She pulled away from me and proceeded to set the table. I brought the pancakes over and sat down next to her, dumping some onto her plate.
“Bon appétit!”
She smiled at me and responded, “Bon appétit, chéri,” as she squeezed some whipped cream onto the stack. Not maple syrup. Just whipped cream. She hadn’t changed a bit.
Suddenly, she looked up at me, mischief on her face as she reached out and smeared a dollop onto my nose.
“Oh oh! Now you’re really gonna get it, brat!” I said as she started to giggle, the sound floating around me before settling inside my heart. I got up slowly as she jumped up and started to move around the table, out of my reach.
Our eyes were locked together. Hers were more green than brown today and sparkling with laughter. I took a brusque step in her direction and she took off running toward her bedroom. She was no match against my longer stride, and in no time at all, I was upon her. In a quick, easy move, I grabbed her by the waist and threw her over my shoulder, slapping that cute little butt of hers for good measure.
“Oh!” she yelled out, still laughing. “Put me down, fucker!”
“Nope!” I replied, slapping her butt again.
“Hey!” She pretended to sound indignant, but I could tell she was still laughing.
“All right,” I said, as I reached the foot of her bed. I threw her down onto it, and she broke out in even louder laughter as she hit the mattress.
I quickly joined her, laying down next to her as we both continued to laugh. I was on her bed. The realization made me nearly harden. The soft sheets smelled of her, her intoxicating bright scent of blossoms and laughter and just Bella-ness. I closed my eyes.
Finally, her laughter died down, and I glanced over to her. Her face was flushed, her lips rosy. She smiled at me and reached out to gently run her fingers down my cheek.
“Ah, Dame. I’ve missed you. It’s been lonely without you.”
Yes, so very lonely, baby girl.
I smiled at her.
She raised her torso up, leaning on an arm while looking down at me. Her fingers traced the grey and black cherry blossom branch on my bicep.
“New,” she whispered.
“Yes.” I didn’t know whether she recognized my source of inspiration for it. How she’d looked that night at her father’s charity dinner, in her white cheongsam, pale pink cherry blossoms splashed across the silken canvas. Her ethereal beauty was forever carved into my heart. It seemed logical to also carve it into my skin.
“I want one of those,” she said finally.
“One of those?”
“A cherry blossom tattoo, just like yours.”
&
nbsp; “What baby girl wants, she gets.” But her eyes told me she wanted more. So much more.
I pulled out my phone, trying to ignore the look in her eyes as I texted my tat artist friend, Saint, the man who’d had no qualms inking a fourteen-year-old. He was based out of San Francisco. I’d recently seen him while he was visiting MC “friends” in Seattle, thus the new cherry blossom branch. I held hopes he’d do me another favor. We went way back, after all, and he’d been the only light during those dark years of my early adolescence. His response was immediate.
SAINT:
Fuck, yeah.
We took a Lyft there. Bella radiated nervous energy and excitement, holding my hand in hers, her small fingers threaded with mine throughout the ride. She’d look up at me and smile, and my damn heart would quit.
Finally, we arrived. The shop was small but bright and clean, and we headed toward Saint. Bella’s eyes widened in surprise. Saint was an imposing figure. I was a big guy, but the tattooer had at least an inch or two on me, and maybe ten, twelve pounds.
“Are you guys related?” she whispered, leaning in.
She hadn’t been the first to make that observation. We were both tall, dark haired, and blue eyed, muscular without being overly bulky—ok, maybe Saint was a tad bulkier—and full of piercings. Brow, nose, lip, helix. He smiled at us and the scar on his right cheek puckered. I guess that too, now.
“Dame,” he called out, still smiling, as he stood up and returned my fist bump and back clap. “You little shit.”
“Good to see you too, asshole,” I said. He chuckled in response before his eyes trained on Bella, curiosity lining their depths.
“You must be Bella,” he said finally. “You remind me of someone I know.”
She smiled, her brilliant smile reaching all the way to her big, bright eyes, and his own darkened, his dilating pupils taking over the indigo blue. I understood. More than anyone, I understood her impact on others.
“Maybe it’s because you’re exactly like Damien described you,” he continued as she laughed.
He spent the next five hours inking onto her beautiful skin a gorgeous cherry blossom branch done in greys and blacks, with just a couple of blossoms shaded in pale pink. He’d done them in the same photo realistic, watercolor-like style as mine, but somehow, they looked uniquely hers, more delicate, more feminine. Or maybe it was just that it was her. She could make anything look more beautiful.
She looked at me, interrupting my musings with her smile. She’d held my hand throughout, not even flinching once.
“Atta girl,” Saint said, smiling. “First tat and you’re holding up better than any of the burly dudes who come in.”
She laughed her clear, crystalline sound that made my heart beat double time.
“It’s not so bad, Saint,” she said.
“Yeah, tell that to your boyfriend here. Dude almost cried a couple of times.”
She laughed again. Strangely enough, she didn’t correct him. And so I felt like I needed to.
“I’m not her boyfriend.”
She turned her eyes toward me, sadness dripping from their hazel depths.
Saint glanced sharply at me, but he said nothing. Smart man.
“So Bella,” he said gently. “What made you want to get inked?”
“I love everything Dame has,” she said. “And especially that cherry blossom branch on his biceps.”
Saint nodded. “I don’t know you, but I can tell it’s very you. Don’t you think so, Damien?”
I simply smiled in response. He looked at me again, like he wanted to say something but then thought better of it.
Good. That’s what I always liked about Saint. Dude was an endless source of discretion and knew exactly when to stop.
“Saint,” she said. I watched as she reached out to touch the rings on his brow. Strangely enough, he didn’t pull away, even though I knew he hated to be touched. Hated it.
I suspected he’d been physically abused as a child, although he’d never said a thing in all the years I’d known him. And I’d never asked. He wasn’t the only discreet one.
“Hmmm?”
“Were you the source of inspiration for my Damien’s piercings?”
Her Damien. Her words made my heart clench with both affection and sorrow. It was the strangest thing, these conflicting emotions she’d incited in me since the day I’d first laid eyes on her.
Saint laughed in response to her question. “Dunno, Bella. You’d have to ask him. D?”
I only shrugged in response. He just stared at me for a few pointed seconds before turning back to her arm. Time passed quickly while he worked away. He was not only talented, but incredibly fast. By the time we left the shop, she had a full quarter sleeve, the breathtaking piece gently wrapping around her left shoulder and biceps.
He’d refused payment, no matter how much she insisted. Finally, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Saint. For this, but also for being Damien’s friend all these years. I feel better knowing that he wasn’t alone.”
He might have blushed as he stabbed a hand through his hair and smiled at her. “Anytime, girl. And look me up whenever. I’d be happy to turn this into a full sleeve.”
She’d glanced up at me as we walked out and whispered, “I’m finally a badass like you, Dame.”
“You always were, baby.”
Bella
I was taking Damien to a club, after he’d asked me how I spent my Saturday nights when I wasn’t studying or forcing free music lessons onto the unwilling masses.
We both knew that I was as likely to go to a club as he was, but tonight was Emo-Techno-Woe Night, and hell if we were going to miss experiencing whatever that meant.
I had gone all out in an effort to make Dame remember that he’d fallen for me, once. I’d put on a tight, short white body con dress that barely reached midthigh, using a push up bra to enhance what little cleavage I had to surprisingly amazing results.
I’d styled my hair into loose waves—like that night at homecoming. I put on makeup—not too much of it. Glowing skin, a dark, grey smoky eye which brought out the grey flecks in my hazel eyes, and a soft pink, glossy lip.
Finally, I stepped into strappy stilettos that made me four and a half inches taller, still much shorter than Dame, but he was definitely more within my literal, and perhaps figurative, reach like this.
I spun around to look at myself. The fresh ink on my left arm was slightly red, but otherwise looked fine. More than fine. I stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room. He was lounging on the sofa, and unlike me, he was wearing his usual: ripped black jeans, a hoodie, high-top Vans, and of course, a smidgen of smudged black liner. He was flipping through the Netflix screen and when he looked up, a flicker of something—consternation? desire?—flashed over his face. But as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and he smiled his easy smile at me.
“Looking good, baby girl. And that tat is going to be amazing once it heals,” he said casually.
I smiled back, disappointed that he wasn’t melting at my feet. “Let’s go, Dame. Our Lyft is here.” I grabbed my cross-body purse and threw it on as we headed out.
As we sat in the car, I was intensely aware of our thighs touching, but he looked completely unaffected by it. I was starting to feel silly. He was clearly over me. My heart ached, and I didn’t know what to do. My eyes began to sting, so I looked out the window.
“You ok?” he whispered, putting his hand on my thigh and giving it a gentle, friendly squeeze.
At his touch, I felt electricity course through me, but I was no longer sure it impacted him in the same way. In fact, his face was fairly impassive, and I could feel the unshed tears pooling in my eyes when I turned to him and faked a smile. “Yes, just so happy to have you near me again.” It was true. So what if it was only the half-truth?
We’d arrived at the club. As we walked in, the bass was pounding, an odd but not unappealing juxtaposition to the screamo layered on top of it
. The floors, the walls, my heart were vibrating. The place was posh, all dark wood and red velvet paneling, with leather booths where patrons could sit back and enjoy their drinks—and the show happening a few feet away on the dance floor, where people were dancing provocatively. The women were all scantily clad—and here I thought my outfit was risqué. In the center of the room there was a spinning platform set a good five or six feet higher, where the truly courageous could climb and dance above the fray, on full display.
A waitress in a shorter than short blue sequined skirt walked by.
“VIP booth? They’re $500 per hour.” She yelled above the pounding bass.
“Yes!” I shouted back, fishing out my credit card. She led us back to the area lined with leather booths. We settled in, waiting for her to bring us drinks and small plates. I looked to the booth next to ours. One of the men was blond, tall, and lounging arrogantly like he owned the place, a small silver ring glinting light from his left nostril. Our eyes met, and with a sickening thud, I realized he looked suspiciously like Lukas Stone. If he recognized me, he didn’t let on, and turned back to his friends, one of whom had dark hair, a regal bearing and felt familiar, too.
“Dame,” I yelled, leaning in so he could hear me. “Let’s dance!”
He shook his head. “Not my thing, baby girl. But you go on ahead.”
On a warm October night over a year ago, he’d been the one who’d asked me to dance, pulling me away from my douchebag boyfriend, claiming me as his for the space of a song. It had been his thing then, hadn’t it? And the ballad that had been playing on that homecoming night was I Can Wait Forever. It was etched inside my heart.
