Page 145 of Forgotten Comeback

Opening her studio doors, I find her seated cross-legged on the floor, sketches surrounding her.

“Why did you change the locks? I had to break a damn window?—”

She refuses to look at me. “Get out.”

“Nah, I’m not going anywhere,” I say calmly, even though I want to bust some shit up. “Why did you leave without telling me?”

“I love you, and you love me, and that means you’re going to die!” Taylor shrieks. “That’s why I’ve always chosen emotionally unavailable partners; to avoid this exact situation!”

“Is this a manic episode?” I ask gently. “Do you want me to call your doc?—”

“This isn’t a manic episode! It’s the truth! You may be the Spider, but I’m the black widow.” She holds up her sketches like evidence. Page after page of macabre black widow spider drawings. “My twin. My dad. My mom. My first boyfriend. My grandma. Everyone who loves me dies!”

I hold up my hands, taking a small step toward her. “What do you mean your twin?”

“My mom was pregnant with me and my twin. Doctors called it vanishing twin syndrome.” She hops to her feet and beginspacing, and I want to comfort her, but I fear that would only push her over the edge. “My twin died, and I freaking devoured her; absorbed her tissue in my amniotic sac!”

“Taylor, that sounds like a shitty medical thing that happened. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I’m wrong, don’t you see?” she cries. “That was only the beginning of it. My dad died in a freak workplace accident when I was four. My mom killed herself when I was twelve. My first love died in a car wreck when I was sixteen.” She counts off on her fingers. “Nana died of a heart attack last year. And now you love me, and you were nearly killed tonight!”

She sobs, hiding her eyes with her hands, and I cross the room and jerk her into my arms, refusing to let go. “Baby, I got my clock cleaned. A mild concussion; it wasn’t anywhere near a brush with death. It can happen to the best of boxers. I got distracted, and that’s on me.”

“But—”

“No buts. Come on.” I scoop her up in my arms, grabbing her sketch pad and carrying her out the door.

“Where are we going?”

“To break your curse.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.” She sniffs.

“That’s fine. Curse-breaking can be done barefoot.”

She looks at me skeptically with bleary eyes. “Are you pulling this out of your ass?”

“There’s my girl.”

I open the passenger door, placing her gently in the seat and buckling her up.

“You got a new car.”

“Yeah. Same model, but she needs a red paint job and proper christening,” I tell her playfully, closing the door and hustling around the front to the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” Taylor swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You’ll see.” I place the sketch pad between the console, revving up the engine.

That gets a smile out of her as I shift into gear, peeling out.

We arrive at the tattoo parlor, and I carry Taylor inside the neighboring tourist trap shop.

“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” a man calls.

“We’re buying a shirt and shoes,” I call back.

We exit with Taylor wearing a cheap pair of flip-flops and me a tie-dye AC tee. A quick stop at the car to grab her sketchbook, and we step inside the tattoo parlor.