Page 100 of Unlocked Dive

It turns out tattoos are fucking painful. By the end of my grueling session under the needle, I have a whole new appreciation for Echo’s commitment to his body as a canvas, and I’m convinced Audrey has to be a sadist to do what she does.

It’s also a strangely intimate experience. Maybe because of the piece I chose and how close she is to Echo. Maybe because the whole time, I was thinking about how her hands and her tools have been on his skin too.

Or maybe because I seem to have a knack for surrounding myself with women who have no filter and find it infinitely amusing to lecture me about my life.

“Are you going to tell him I was here?” I ask as she snaps pictures of the finished tattoo—first with her phone and then with an ancient Polaroid for her portfolio.

“Areyougoing to go show it to him?” She shakes the Polaroid in one hand while flipping through the album with the other.

“I plan to.”

She huffs in satisfaction—at my response or possibly because she’s found the page she’s looking for. “Then why would I ruin the surprise?”

Peeking over her shoulder, I find a collage of a dozen shirtless Echos. Even in the ones without his face, I recognize the words and familiar contours of his skin. The ink in each is fresh and vibrant black, the edges lined with the same red protest my own skin has recently discovered. Unthinking, I trace a finger over the cellophane shielding the image of his broken wing. She slides the new photo into an empty sleeve beneath it and tosses me a sympathetic look.

“Sit down so I can get you wrapped up before you run off after him.”

I sink obediently back onto her chair, balling my discarded shirt in my hands.

“I wasn’t trying to break his heart, you know.”

Her deft fingers stall in the process of taping the bandage to my chest, and she pins me with amused eyes.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit. I’m pretty sure he knew you’d come around.”

“Why do you say that?”

She smirks. “Hot for teacher.”

“He wasnotserious about that.”

“Don’t worry. It’s very tasteful for a tramp stamp. I have standards, even if he obviously doesn’t.”

“Jesus. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome. You can put your shirt on now.”

With my blush hidden in the ratty cotton, I find the courage to ask, “How was he doing? When you saw him.”

She waits until I emerge from my dubious armor to reply.

“He was sad. And beautiful. Andbetter.”

“That’s…good.” My fingers trace the bandage over my heart. “Thank you.” This time, I mean it.

“Thanks for driving all this way. I’m glad I got to meet you.” She offers her hand, and when I clasp it, she doesn’t let go. “You know, it is possible to be more than whole together without being less than whole apart.”

Wisdom from the vantage of youth. I guess it’s past time I start listening.

The smart thing—theresponsiblething—would be to get a hotel room, but I’m too wired to subject myself to a whole night of staying still. So instead, I grab a quick dinner from a roadside taco shack and hit the road as the sun sinks into the Pacific.

I call as soon as I clear the city, hoping to catch him before he heads to classes for the day.

Hope is an unlocked dive.

“An actual phone call. You’re showing your age, old man.”

“I’m driving. This seemed like the safest option.”