He leaned into my face and peered at me, searching for something and being angered by what he found. “You have to do everything I say. I don’t care if it was your idea to leave Palm Valley, your idea to come here, your ex-boyfriend who is coming after you. You keep forgetting that you’re really here because of me. You keep forgetting that I own you.”
So this was what this was about. I matched his look and leaned in closer. “You think you own me? You only own my fate. You don’t own me right here, right now,” I snarled.
Then I suddenly yanked myself back and he let go. I kept my eyes on him, afraid to look away, but I could hear the girls whispering anxiously. I didn’t blame them. It’s never fun to see a couple fighting. And we weren’t even a couple.
I stood up, bundling the bikini in my hands.
He glared up at me. “You’re so afraid, Ellie Watt. You’re afraid to show the world what you’re really like. You’re afraid to come to peace with your scars, because the minute you do, the minute you accept them, you have to let go of your anger. You have to let go of your quest. And then who would you be?”
I didn’t know.
“Fuck you,” I said, throwing the bikini in his face. The tears were almost breaking through and I hated myself for them. I hated myself for yelling at him in public but I couldn’t help it. “Is that what you meant by trying to humiliate me? Is this what you need to make things even?”
Before he could do anything but stare at me, mouth agape, remorse in his brow, I turned and ran away with a sob. I couldn’t stop the tears now. They’d been building for too long. I ran past the white wall of lawn chairs, people turning to look and see. I ran onto the posh interior level with its small food court and all the way to the elevator.
I tried to swipe my card to enter in my floor, but time and time again, nothing would happen. I sank to the floor as the tears blurred my vision until two elderly ladies came inside. They inserted their cards and one of them kindly asked me. “What floor are you on, dear?”
I squeaked out “Seventeen” and they punched in the number without asking a single question. Bless their hearts.
On my floor I staggered out and went straight to my room, my card working again. I made it to the bed then collapsed into a fit of tears. I cried for all my wrongs that were never righted. I cried that I couldn’t just live with the wrongs and find my peace with them. I cried for the childhood I never had, for the future I was robbed of. I cried for my parents, who I knew did love me in their own way, which made not having them around even harder to take. I cried for always being alone, for never having a vacation, for not knowing who I truly was.
I cried until there was nothing left in me to cry. And when I was weakened, exhausted by the tears and anguish, that’s when Camden came in the room.
He walked slowly to me and sat on his bed.
He waited a few moments before whispering, “Ellie?”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t.
“Ellie,” he said again, “I have an idea that might help you find peace.”
If he was asking me to meditate, he had another thing coming.
“It will hurt. But the results will be beautiful. More beautiful than they already are.”
That was strange enough to make me raise my head and look. He looked solemn, eyes red, hands clasped in front of him. “I’d be improving on your beauty, finding the pattern in the chaos. Making you feel proud of what you’ve become.”
I wiped my nose with the comforter. Totally unattractive. “What are you talking about?” I asked hoarsely.
He went to his stuff and when he came back, he was holding a small silver case. He clicked it open and showed it to me. It was like the briefcase full of his tattoo gear, but smaller. It just had the gun, a couple of needles, ink caps, gloves and carbon papers, plus a couple of items I didn’t recognize.
“A mini-tattoo kit,” he said. “I made it a few years ago, decided it was the kind of thing I should keep in the glove compartment. You never know when there’s a tattoo emergency.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and peered up at him. “Is this a tattoo emergency?”
“Ellie,” he said, sitting back down. “Let me tattoo your scars.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Is that even possible?”
“With old scars, yes. I’ve seen some artists turn scars into beautiful works of art. One woman had her mastectomized breast turned into a flower.”
“That would fucking hurt.” My own scars felt weird and overly sensitive if I touched them too much.
He nodded. “It probably will hurt. But you’re tough. And the pain will be worth it.”