by R. C. Martin
“Can I—please? Will you please let go?” I ask, giving the book another tug, wishing he would just leave me alone so that I could go hide in the corner.
“Strange thing to bring to a party.”
When I look back up into his eyes, the wires in my brain get crossed. I don’t know if I want to stand and stare at him forever, or run far, far away so that he won’t see me cry.
“Please?” I whisper through the knot that’s plugging up my throat.
“Oh, hey! There you are. We thought you bailed! Come on, everyone’s waiting in the kitchen.”
My eyes dart to his side, my gaze locking onto a girl—who obviously belongs here—as she reaches for his hand. She flicks her eyes to me for a split second—just long enough to come to the conclusion that I don’t belong here—before she starts to walk away, pulling Motorcycle Boots behind her.
“They won’t start without you. Come on!” she insists when he drags his feet.
His smirk fades as he begins to follow after her, his eyes still focused on me.
“Don’t hide those babies,” he tells me, letting go of the book. I hardly notice, too concerned with what he’s saying.
“What?” I manage, tilting my head to the side in question.
“Your eyes. Keep ‘em up, Mack.”
I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the hallway, staring after Motorcycle Boots. My guess is, long enough that I would be too embarrassed to admit it if I did know. Definitely long enough that I almost forget that I was looking for Owen. When I finally do remember, I carefully slide Timothy’s picture book back inside my purse before I start my hunt again.
I wander around for twenty minutes, checking my phone for any possible missed texts, and still come up short. When I circle my way back to the dining room, expecting to at least find Brooke, that’s when I find Owen. He’s on the far end of the table, and apparently winning, but I don’t see Brooke anywhere.
“Kenz! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he calls out when he sees me. He shifts his gaze for a second, tosses a ping pong ball, sinks it, then smiles over at me. I quirk an eyebrow at him, folding my arms across my chest, and his smile turns into a grin. “Okay, so, I stopped looking awhile ago. But hey—you found me. Get over here and be my good luck charm.”
“Clearly, you don’t need luck,” I say, making my way toward him anyway.
“Don’t give me that shit. A guy always needs some lady luck. Now, watch and learn,” he tells me, lifting his arm to take his next turn.
I watch him play—and win—another three rounds. I only pay attention for one. It’s not long before my thoughts start to wander and images of Motorcycle Boots begin to flood my memory. More than once, I catch myself looking around the room, wondering if I’ll spot him again. I don’t, and a small part of me is disappointed. Though, I squash the feeling almost as quickly as it comes. Whoever he is, he’s probably bad news. Guys like that—gorgeous guys with motorcycle boots and girls chasing after them—they’re always bad news.
My not seeing him again is a sign.
With a sigh, I look to my phone and see that it’s a quarter after eleven, which means I’ve only got forty-five minutes before I can get out of here. I reek of beer, and all I want is to go home, change into something clean, and crawl into bed.
Sliding my phone back into my purse, I look across the room just as Motorcycle Boots passes by. He catches my eye and winks, making my stomach flip and my heart skip a beat before he disappears from view once more.
I ignore the fact that I’m suddenly short of breath and remind myself that guys like that are always bad news.
My seeing him again is not a sign.
When my alarm clock sounds, alerting me that it’s time to get up for church, I silence it and then snuggle back under my covers, hoping for another moment in my warm bed. I keep my eyes open, knowing I’ll fall back asleep if I don’t, and then I remember.
Sheamus.
Before I left the hospital yesterday, I went back to speak to his dad, Lance. He told me that Sheamus was scheduled to have surgery on Monday morning, and that if I wanted to stop by for a visit, Wednesday afternoon would be a good time to do so. I have every intention of heading to the hospital as soon as I’m finished with my morning classes, but I suddenly have no desire at all to go to church.
I’ve never doubted the existence of God. I still don’t, in spite of all that seems to be happening. My parents raised me as a Christian, and I believe that Jesus is the son of God who came to save the world. At some point over the last nineteen years, I came to understand this as truth and not just something my parents told me. The world and everything in it makes sense to me because I believe there is a God. Yet, at the same time, the opposite is also true. There is so much I don’t understand, about this world and everything in it, considering there is a God.
I know that He is good, and just, and righteous. I know that He loves me, that He loves everyone—even the people that don’t feel as though they deserve His affection (even the people who I don’t feel deserve His affection)—He loves them. But sometimes, His mysteriousness makes me question Him. His master plan makes me doubt Him. Not His existence, just Him. Timothy’s death, Sheamus’s cancer relapse—Zoe, Lena, Meredith—I mean, it’s all just so unfair. It never seems to end, and I just don’t get it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to feel so hopeless and out of control that I don’t feel God at all; neither do I feel like looking for Him. So, I decide to close my eyes instead.
The moment I do, I see him.
I should open my eyes. I should look around at my reality instead of allowing myself the indulgence of my fantastic memory—but I don’t. I seal my eyes closed even tighter, my stomach clenching when I remember his smirk and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was definitely older than me, I could tell. There was just something about him. His confidence, maybe? Or perhaps it was the way his face lacked that baby-face smoothness, even though he was clean shaven. Whatever it was, I liked it.
I liked it?
Crap.
I liked it. A lot.
With a groan, I roll over onto my other side, pulling my blankets closer and tucking them under my chin. I will my thoughts to settle so that sleep might drag me under once more. There’s no point in my thinking of Motorcycle Boots. I’ll never see him again. This I know with certainty.
Unless, of course, I see him in my dreams.
“Mmmm, scooch over,” grumbles Brooke, waking me from sleep.
“What?” I mutter, not even bothering to open my eyes as I roll away from her gentle shove.
“God, I’m so hungover. Why are you still in bed? It’s nearly noon.”
“Why aren’t you in your bed?” I ask, feeling the mattress dip as she stretches out beside me.
“Needed something for my head. Saw evidence you hadn’t gone to church. Remembered Coder. Needed to tell you.” She yawns before she asks, “Why are you still in bed? Are you sick?”
I push out a sigh, each word she speaks pulling me further and further away from sleep. Then I open up my eyes to find her staring at me—her pretty blues red-rimmed and puffy. I don’t answer her question, deciding to pose one of my own.
“When did you get in?”
I left the Phi Delt house at midnight, as I told her I would. She insisted that she wanted to stay, so we both looked to Owen, who downed his beer before he tossed his cup, promising to sober up so that he could be her ride when she was ready.
“Three, I think.”
“What’s Coder?”
She chuckles groggily, flashing me a tired smile before she tells me, “Coder is a who. A very hot, hot, hot who.”
“Beer pong guy?” I ask, knitting my eyebrows together in confusion. I watched her with him last night, so I’m not entirely sure why her need to tell me about him now is so urgent that it brought her into my bed.
“Who? Oh—no. Way hotter. God, babe, he’s like…” She pauses, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she
works to fight her grin.
“He’s like what?”
“Kenz—he’s like boyfriend material.”
My eyes grow wide in surprise, a small smile curling my lips, and I suddenly don’t mind that she’s totally hogging the covers.
“Go on,” I insist, nudging her with my knee.
“I mean, we didn’t talk much, but I did learn a few things.”
“Like?”
“He’s not a student. He’s twenty-three, and he’s a tattoo artist.”
Whoa. Not what I was expecting her to say. Then her words penetrate through the lifting fog of sleep and I blurt, “Um—if he’s not a student, why was he at a frat party?”
“Matt is a close friend,” She answers, as if such an explanation should make complete sense. I scrunch my brow in confusion, and she reads my face accurately before she goes on to say, “Matt is Will’s older brother. He’s a senior this year, and he’s also a Phi Delt. Anyway, apparently Coder doesn’t come to these sorts of parties often, but he made a special appearance yesterday, which had everyone totally amped up. I guess he’s got a reputation. They love having him around.”
“Okay…go on,” I murmur, still waiting for the punch line.
“That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”
“What? You just said he was boyfriend material. How is he going to be your boyfriend if all you’ve got is his name and occupation?”
“Honey,” she grins, rolling her eyes at me. “Come on.”
“Right,” I mumble, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. Her assessment. Her confidence. Her seemingly low chances and the fact that I don’t have a single doubt that she’ll somehow make a way to get what she wants.
“Oh, by the way, I’m getting my belly button pierced this week. You’re coming with. You know, to hold my hand. I bet it’ll hurt like a bitch.”
“Wait—what?” I cry, her declaration giving me whiplash.
“Well, I sure as fuck am not getting a tattoo!”
“You’ve lost me,” I admit, claiming defeat.
“Kenzie, aren’t you listening? My chances of seeing Coder at a party again are slim to none. But if I show up where he works…”
I stare at her like she’s lost it before I mutter, “So—you’re going to get your belly button pierced? Seriously?”
“Yup. I’m calling first thing in the morning to make my appointment,” she replies as she begins to climb out of my bed.
“Wait—Brooke, do you even know this guy’s last name?” I ask, concerned that this stranger has her making plans to put holes in her body.
She hums a laugh, not bothering to turn back and look at me as she says, “Babe, I’ve seen his smile. I don’t need to know his last name.”
I beat at my steering wheel, hurting the palm of my hand in the process, which makes me want to scream. So I do. Then I immediately burst into tears as I cry, “We are officially on hiatus. You hear me? I don’t want to do this anymore!”
I cry for only a moment longer, and then I pull in a deep breath, wipe my cheeks dry, and start my car. Defiantly, I swallow my unfinished sob and stare daggers out of my windshield as I pull out of the hospital parking lot. I know I can’t walk away from them. I can’t give up my volunteer hours. I could never do that to the kids. Not ever. But—dammit—everything else? Asking God for healing, working my butt off so that I can join the medical team on the cutting edge of science to help fight cancer, dreaming of being a surgical pediatrician that could save lives—I’m done. I’m just done with all of that. Today, right now, I’m starting to realize something—
There. Is. No. Point.
People die. It sucks. And there’s nothing to be done about it.
Today, I realize, I’m just Kenzie. I can do nothing. I can save no one.
I choke on my sob when I remember the look on Sheamus’s face an hour ago. Angrily, I brush away a stray tear with the sore palm of my hand, rehearing him tell me that he didn’t want to read to me today because he wasn’t going to get to go back to school after all. He said he didn’t need to practice, and he just wanted to listen to me. I didn’t argue or press for answers, his dad having stepped out to run an errand. Instead, I just sat next to his bedside, holding his hand as I read through the books I had with me. It wasn’t until Lance returned that I heard the news.
The tumor in Sheamus’s head is inoperable, something they didn’t realize until they had opened him up. Now, that little boy is looking at chemo or radiation treatment—anything they can do to help shrink the damn thing in hopes that they can go back in and take it out. This could take weeks—months. He won’t get to go back to school. He won’t even get to leave the hospital. He’s been through this before, and they know what this kind of aggressive treatment does to him. He’ll be too sick to leave. He knows this. He knows this because he’s been here before! And Sheamus’s little heart is broken.
It’s a reality so disgustingly unfair that my heart breaks for him—so much so that I find myself questioning everything. Life. Purpose. God—everything.
I’m not really sure how I make it back to my apartment complex, my thoughts so scattered and disgruntled, but I don’t question it. I put my car in park, grab my purse, and hurry through the cold to my front door. I barely have the thing closed before Brooke breezes by me, headed straight for it.
“Geez, Kenz, cutting it close, aren’t we? I thought you were going to bail on me. Come on, we have to get going. My appointment is in twenty minutes.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, turning to look at her.
She twists away from the door, too impatient to actually see me as she replies, “Generation Ink. My piercing. We’ve got to go, Kenz.”
“Oh. Crap,” I groan, my eyes falling closed as I suddenly remember. “Look, Brooke—”
“No. No way! You promised. Don’t you remember? This morning. Before we left for campus? Kenzie, you can’t renege on—”
“On my promises,” I grumble, completing her sentence.
For a split second, I think back a half an hour. As I was saying goodbye to Sheamus, it was Lance who told his son that he had made a promise that he would read to me during my next visit—a promise he had broken. It was Lance who reminded Sheamus that we fight to keep our promises—a phrase I use with all of my kids. It was Lance who got Sheamus to promise that next time, he wouldn’t break his word.
My promise to Brooke sure does seem a whole lot more trivial than the others I’ve made today, but she’s my best friend. She’s my best friend, and she’s here—alive—healthy—and excited about life. That’s something that shouldn’t be taken for granted. It would be silly of me to think otherwise. So I plaster on a smile and head back for the door.
“You’re driving,” I tell her, stepping back out into the cold. “I have to fix my face.”
“Deal!”
I’ve never been to a tattoo parlor before. My mom took me to get my ears pierced when I was twelve. We went to the mall, in one of those jewelry shops decked out in a plethora of cheap metal that would turn colors when worn against your skin for too long, or earrings that would irritate your lobes if you slept in them. I haven’t had anything pierced since, and the thought of getting a tattoo has never crossed my mind. I have no idea what to expect when we pull up in front of Generation Ink; and I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous when I see a big dude step outside, his tattooed covered arms bare, as if a t-shirt is all he needs to protect him from the bitter cold. He jogs across the lot, and I look to Brooke as she unbuckles her seatbelt.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely. Now let’s go, or I’ll be late.”
As soon as we’re out of the car, we hurry inside, a bell chiming to announce our entrance. A woman standing behind the front counter looks up and greets us with a smile, and I immediately feel less nervous. She’s pretty, her dark hair and her light, blue eyes clashing in a beautiful contrast. She totally has that friendly vibe going. She also doesn’t have a single tattoo that I c
an see—a fact that surprises me while simultaneously reminding me that I shouldn’t judge the people who frequent places like this. Marked and pierced or not.
“Hi, there. Welcome to Generation Ink. How can I help you?”
“I’ve got an appoint—”
Brooke is interrupted by a high pitched scream followed by the sweetest little giggle I’m sure I’ve ever heard. There’s another scream, this one sounding different, the laughter that accompanies it sounding more like a lazy drawl. Then there’s a snarl, the sound decidedly deeper and manlier, which elicits more screams and giggles.
The woman behind the counter laughs, offering us an apologetic smile before she says, “Sorry about that. Nap time has apparently ended. Are you here for Pete? Belly button piercing?” she asks.
“That’s me.”
“Oh, no you don’t, big guy,” I hear someone say with a chuckle. “I’m gonna get you!”
My stomach drops when my brain suddenly recognizes that voice, and I can’t stop myself from walking to the end of the counter in order to look down the hallway leading to the back of the shop. How I keep my jaw from hitting the floor at the sight that awaits me is a complete and utter mystery.
There, on his hands and knees, is Motorcycle Boots.
That, all by itself, makes my heart race. But it’s what he’s doing that causes me to go stock-still, as if I’ve forgotten my motor skills altogether.
There, on his hands and knees, Motorcycle Boots is playing with an adorable, brown haired little girl, and a dark haired little boy—both of which look to be no older than two. They’re grinning wildly, like Motorcycle Boots is their favorite person in the world. Every time they start to inch further down the hallway in an attempt to flee from him, they look back over their shoulders to ensure that he’s still chasing them. When he crawls toward them with a growl, they scream again before moving their little feet as fast as they can. The little boy falls, but he’s not deterred, seemingly more confident in his speed while on all fours.
