The Same Deep Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

front.
    “No.”
    Following the last few evenings searching on the internet, when the design I chose appeared, I knew straightaway I wanted this one. I show Wes the image on my phone. He squints at the picture and groans. “A common one. I got this in my book.”
    Leaning back in his chair and reaching over his head, he drags a large binder over and opens onto page with artwork of different birds. “Like this?” he asks and points at a series of tiny, black birds in flight.
    “Yes, exactly like that.”
    “Four?”
    I nod. They may be cliché, but they mean something to me. Swallowing down my nerves, I eye his tattoo machine in the corner.
    “Relax, sweetie, they’re small, won’t take long.”
    “Will this be painful?”
    “Depends where you’re putting it.” I brush my fingers along my collarbone to my shoulder and he wrinkles his nose. “Bone. Not promising anything but fleshier is normally easier. Everybody’s different though. Let me stencil the design up.”
    Wes focuses on tracing his drawing while I sit on the edge of the couch and swing my legs. Why did he have to tell me this would hurt? Of course, having a tattoo will hurt, Phe.
    The noise and vibration is the biggest shock, the needles barely felt. A stinging sensation spreads across my skin. Wes attempts to chat but I switch off, close my eyes, and consider what I’m doing.
    All my hopes and plans had been carefully pushed down to the recesses of my mind by the ink black of my thoughts. The four birds flying from the edge of my collarbone to my shoulder represent a freedom from my self-imposed cage. Carving images onto my body mars the perfection I crave, with this tattoo comes a step toward an identity I hide from. Writing a bucket list is an acknowledgement of a future I denied I had, as I sunk beneath the quicksand of my present.
    What prompted me to write one? Guy’s persistence? Or was each of his nagging texts a reminder I have what he doesn’t – a choice to live my life. Again, I drift to thoughts of what’s wrong with him. I’ve never known somebody who is dying – not someone young anyway.
    And me. How long will the medication work this time? What if my brain tries to kill me again?
    “Done.” Wes dabs at my chest with a wet wipe and examines his handiwork before reaching for a mirror. “Here you go.”
    The reddened skin from the procedure surrounds the small black birds, one flying close to a freckle I never noticed I had there. I didn’t take into account how visible this would be. The tattoo won’t be covered up in summer clothing and only a few weeks a year in winter jumpers.
    Back in the shop, Guy sits on the edge of Lola’s desk, chatting. Flirting? Hard to tell, Lola’s not responding. I picture her more with a longhaired, biker guy, but who knows? My journalist side goes by the magazine clichés, not always helpful in social situations.
    Still, she fights against smiling at whatever joke he’s telling her, Guy’s natural charm winning over. But I’ve seen the depth hidden in his eyes and know beneath he must be struggling to stay afloat.
    Shaking my death obsession away, I head over. Guy’s eyes zone in on my tattoo.
    “Cute ink,” he says. “Let’s go.”
    That’s it? No praise for my bravery and at starting my bucket list? Irritated, I pay Lola and follow him. Outside, Guy rests against his car with the engine running.
    “Lunch?” he asks.
    “I have things to do.”
    “Things?”
    “Things.” Like, not showing my fresh tattoo to the world just yet.
    “You’re lying.”
    “Wow, okay. I’m lying.” I climb into the refreshing cool of his car.
    Guy hops in next to me. “Come back to mine, I’ll make lunch.”
    His. I absentmindedly touch my freshly scarred skin. “Um.”
    “Are you worried I’m a stalker? A bit weird?” He starts the car.
    Yes. Maybe. “No. I don’t know.”
    Guy tips his head and looks at me in the way that prickles the hairs along my neck because in his eyes rests a