My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Never been surer,” I reply with a nod. “I’m ready,” I tell Reno, the guy with the tattoo gun.

Reno looks to Lorenzo for confirmation, but Lorenzo’s eyes are locked on mine in awe. “Fuck, mia rosa. You amaze me with the passion for life you have. I want to experience it all through your eyes. See your smile as you greet each day. Feel the depth of your strength. Know the power of your love.”

Reno snorts as he tries to keep a straight face. Guess he’s not a romantic like I am, but as long as he’s got steady hands, I’m good.

The tattoo gun hums with a loud buzz, and Reno touches the needle to my skin. My face is already screwed up in anticipation, my breath locked in my lungs, but it’s . . . not bad. Or at least, not as bad as I expected it to be.

“That’s it?” I ask with a smile.

Reno does laugh at that. “I just started. It’ll get worse before it gets better, but yeah . . . that’s it. Only about forty-five more minutes to go, doll.”

Doll? I’m definitely not one of those . . . unless it’s one of those second-rate Barbies that gets left in the bottom of the bin too long and loses one shoe, gets a bit of chewed gum stuck in its hair, and has uncapped marker ink on its naked body.

Well, actually, that last part does make me a doll in a sense, I guess, because when Reno is done, I’ll have ink on my ribcage, just below my left breast.

“Tell me what I’m doing here again?” Reno says. “Not that I care. I’m just happy to not be doing flash art off the wall or copying something from Pinterest.”

I smile though the pain is getting more intense, a deeper burn rather than a stinging sensation. “The circle represents a motorcycle wheel. Tonight was my first time.”

Reno pauses and looks at Lorenzo again. “She’s riding bitch, I hope?”

I answer for myself. “I rode on the back of his bike, if that’s what that means. But it was awesome . . . a milestone in a lot of ways.” A big moment for more than just me sitting on the back of Lorenzo’s bike, that’s for sure.

The idea that I’m not controlling some huge monstrosity of a motorcycle seems to ease Reno, promptly making me want to march right out and get a motorcycle of my own. Hmm, that’s an idea. An image of Lorenzo and me riding alongside each other down some deserted road with beautiful leaves all around us fills my mind. But then I wouldn’t feel the same freedom of just floating along the road tethered to Lorenzo, so I dismiss the idea and decide I don’t care what Reno thinks anyway.

“Hmm,” Reno hums, getting back to work and drawing a hiss of surprise out of me at the return of the stinging. “What else?”

I realize that he’s keeping me distracted, asking me questions that require more than a yes or no answer to keep me focused on something else. Maybe for all his male-assholeness, he’s a semi-decent guy. Or at least a good tattoo artist.

“The numbers across the center of the wheel are the coordinates for Aruba. We just got back. The four compass points are a heart because . . . well, obviously, for my heart. A flower because I’m a floral artist, and the sun and moon are a reminder to live each day to my own standards. No one else’s.” I explain my reasoning in fits and starts, fighting to stay still the whole time.

“Almost done,” Reno says, and Lorenzo takes my hand, running his thumb in a soothing circle along the tender part between my thumb and index finger.

He murmurs into my ear in Italian. I have no idea what he’s saying, but the soothing, rumbling tones help me sit still for the remaining few minutes.

“All right. You up next, man?” Reno asks Lorenzo.

Lorenzo shakes his head. “No, thanks. This was her desire tonight. I’m just here to make sure she gets whatever she wants and support her dreams.”

It’s right then that I know.

I suspected. I probably even knew on some level that I stuffed down in the dirt of my gut and tap-danced on top of to keep it from blooming too fast. But it’s bursting through the dirt in a beanstalk of a sprout now.

Love.

I love Lorenzo.

Big and wild, loud and scary, and so not temporary.“This is my apartment,” I offer with a wave of my hand. “That’s Delores, my fiddle leaf fig tree. Those succulents are Wilma, Fred, Betty, and Barney. The Monstera is named Loch, the snake plant is Medusa, and the fern is Christofern. And that’s Meredith, my new cactus that’s prickly as hell and keeps falling over, making a mess of dirt I have to clean up.” I sneer at the offending asshole of a cactus. Yeah, I named one of my plants after Meredith Wildeman. It’d seemed appropriate given its phallic shape and how many times I’ve cursed it this week. I might kill it just for some cathartic healing too.