Page 67

Rocket

I ’m sitting in the same tattoo chair I sat in when I got the poppy.

The same buzz of the machine. I feel the same nerves. And I don’t give a fuck who’s sitting in the other seats wanting to take a picture this time around.

I’m not hiding shit from anyone.

Willow’s here, sitting on the same black leather couch with Poppy on her lap, feeding her yogurt bites while talking about the pictures in the magazine she’s holding to teach her new words.

I glance down at my chest.

Fresh ink beside the poppy.

Three words, in script— Whatever it takes .

It’s not a lyric. It’s a vow.

A memory. A future promised. A reminder kept.

When it’s over, I walk to them—my family—shirt slung over my shoulder and lean down to press a kiss to Willow’s lips.

She stares at the ink, at the words that tell her what she means to me—and then smiles up at me.

“You’re kind of a softie now,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I murmur, kissing her again. “But only for you.”