Page 16 of Love Legacy

Naomi

W eed is one heck of a drug.

When I texted Sage and she told me she was going to smoke with some friends, I had no intention of smoking with her.

In fact, my first instinct was to just take her offer to reschedule and go out with her tomorrow.

But I wanted to see Sage so badly today.

Since our kiss the other weekend, I’ve had the strongest urge to spend any time with her I can.

Dropping by her classes with coffee or her favorite matcha latte from Happy Sprout, spending a late-night studying at the sorority house with Sage, and bailing on Taco Night with my roommates. I think I’ve spent more waking hours with her in the last week and change than I have spent at home.

This led to me getting high with Sage in the woods.

I don’t know what compelled me to try her weed.

I planned on just being a sober companion, Sage’s designated driver.

But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see what the fuss was about.

Alex has been trying to get me to smoke with her for a few weeks now, so now that I knew that someone else close to me smoked, I figured, why not?

Nothing could have prepared me for the actual sensation of being high. It felt like an out-of-body experience in the best way possible. My body was lighter yet grounded. My inhibitions lowered, almost non-existent. My mind was completely clear, and I felt the most at ease I had in a while.

Which is why I’m currently draped across Sage, clinging to her like a koala.

For once, my brain was incapable of second-guessing my actions, and I fully embraced this feeling.

I propped up my head with my elbow, my free hand running up and down Sage’s heavily inked arm, tracing her tattoos.

I was fascinated by the work; so intricate and yet edgy at the same time.

They fit her perfectly, adding to her non-conformity and still looking so feminine.

“How many tattoos do you have?”

Sage laughs. “I stopped counting a while ago. I have eight large projects, but I think I sat through twenty or so sessions to get the work done. It’s roughly thirty or so hours of work. And then seven different piercing appointments for all the hardware.”

I examine her arms, face, and ears, trying to count all her tattoos and piercings but coming up short. “You have some that aren’t visible.”

She nods, sitting up to pull off her hoodie and rolling up the band of her sports bra ever so slightly.

“There’s this rose.” She points to the small, slightly faded rose tattooed under her left breast.

“And then my thigh tattoo.” Sage rolls the right leg of her bike shorts up, showing off the clock tattoo piece on her thigh.

“There’s also my anklet tattoo. And the ‘hidden piercing,’ besides my nipple piercings that you already know about, is my belly button ring.” She flips down the high waist of her shorts to show off the dangling bejeweled bar before fixing her shorts.

“Is there a story behind your tattoos?” I ask, sitting up as well, leaning in close to Sage. She gives me a sad smile.

“Some of them do. Most were just designs that I like. And some, the meaning is in the placement, not the design itself.”

“What do you mean by that?” I reach out to trace the intricate design on her thigh when she grabs my wrist, holding me in place.

“Like the one you were just about to touch, for example.” She guides my hand along her thigh, brushing over the slightly raised, horizontal bumps.

“You feel that?” I nod, assuming she’s talking about the ridges. “Those are scars. Old self-harm scars, to be exact.”

My heart breaks just a little, hearing the strain in her voice even now as she talks about them. “Oh, Sage, I’m so sorry for prying,” I say, trying to pull my hand away. But she holds it in place, keeping my hand firmly planted on the top of her upper thigh.

“No, it’s okay. It’s hard sometimes, but my therapist says that I need to talk about it more, mainly to her, in order to heal.

When I was a pre-teen, things were tough at home.

And then, when I ended up in foster care, I struggled a lot.

At least until I ended up with the Davises.

I was depressed and extremely anxious, and I hadn’t yet been diagnosed with ADHD, so to most of my first foster families, I was just a problem child.

I didn’t get bullied for being in foster care, thankfully, but I was originally bullied when I started questioning my sexuality. Everything just compounded on each other and I started self-harming to escape the pain that I was facing on a daily basis.

It started with snapping a rubber band on my wrist, and then, when that wasn’t enough, I started pulling my hair out. That wasn’t enough either, and that’s when I began cutting. Mainly on the top and inside of my things, but I have some scars on the tops of my forearms too.”

I reach out with my free hand to wipe the tears that began to fall. “And that’s why you have large tattoos on your forearms too.”

She nods, reaching up to dry her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Half sleeves, yes. When Theia’s family took me in, things changed so much. They got me the help I so desperately needed. They provided me with a loving home I hadn’t had in a long time.

Things got better. I got an ADHD diagnosis, I started on meds for my depression and anxiety, I was seeing a therapist on a regular basis, and I stopped self-harming. They were even able to have me transfer schools from my old public junior high school to a charter school in their area.

But the scars were still there, and they were an ugly reminder of the worst time of my life. I wanted them gone. I talked to my doctor about them. He said they would heal and fade over time, but it could take a while and they might not fade completely.

He mentioned all kinds of procedures and medications that they use for keloid patients or burn victims with scarring, but the healing process and medication side effects were terrifying.”

“Is that how you ended up getting your tattoos?” I ask, my thumb massaging soft circles into the clock face on her thigh.

“Yeah, I started doing my own research on scar removals, and I came across a tattoo artist in New Jersey that specialized in cover-up tattoos. The day I turned sixteen, Melody, Theia’s mom, took me to get my first tattoo,” she says, pointing to the floral mandala tattoo on her right arm.

“After that, I just kept getting more and more. I didn’t get my thigh tattoo until I was eighteen or nineteen. I think this one is my favorite. It was inspired by something that my therapist told me in a session.

She said, ‘remember, today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.’ It was a quote by Dale Carnegie and it stuck with me. So I got the clock tattoo as a reminder that time is fleeting, but it does go on.”

“And the flowers?”

Sage laughs. “Everyone asks if there’s a meaning behind the flowers.

Or if my flower choice was symbolic. I just love the look of floral tattoos, and Ryan, the woman that does my tattoos, specializes in florals.

I usually just go in for my appointments with an idea of the central element, so the clock or the woman’s face, and then give her complete creative control over the surrounding elements. ”

I scoot closer to Sage, wrapping my arms around her in a hug. I felt sorry for her. I didn’t pity her; Sage is such a strong woman. I don’t think many people could’ve gone through what she did and have come out the way she did.

But I empathize with the pain and loneliness that she endured. It’s hard to reconcile that the happy-go-lucky, wears her heart on her sleeve version of Sage I know was once a scared, lonely, broken-down kid.

“Sage…?” I start, unsure if the question I’m about to ask is one that should even be brought up.

“Yeah, Naomi?”

“How did you end up in foster care in the first place? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, I know talking about your tattoos with me was hard. I don’t want to push you if it’s too much.”

She winces slightly, as if pained by the memory, and I immediately regret asking. She buries her face in the crook of my neck, holding onto me tight as she takes a few calming breaths.

I’m about to tell her to forget I even said anything when she speaks up. “My mom didn’t want me anymore,” she says in a small voice, barely above a whisper.

“My dad was in the army. While my mom was pregnant with me, he was deployed to Afghanistan. Shortly before I was born, he was killed in action. An IED took out him and couple of the other soldiers in his unit.

When I was born, my mom and I moved back in with my grandpa. My grandma had passed from breast cancer long before I was born, so it was just the three of us.

And for a while, things were good. Grandpa stayed home with me while my mom worked. He’d take me to the park, playdates, you name it. But then he passed away when I was six years old. Heart attack.

Then it was just me and Mom. I think the thought of being a single mom was too much for her. Especially now that she no longer had family to support her. She started drinking. A lot.”

Sage’s voice cracks as she retells her story, and I feel a tear of my own escape, falling down my cheek.

“We managed for a little. I had some friends whose parents would let me stay with them when my mom went on a bender. But she would clean things up, be back at work on a Monday with an apology to her boss, and things would be okay for a couple weeks.

But the problem with cycles is that they come back around again eventually. And after a few unexcused absences, my mom lost her job. We could’ve been fine. Between my mom’s inheritance from her parents and the death gratuity she received from the military, we had enough to get by for some time.

But when you factor in my mom’s excessive drinking, that money disappeared quickly. Then she started bringing home boyfriends, if you can even call them that.