He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “You’ve lived a different life than most girls, Keats. You’ve been so many places, but yet you’ve been pretty sheltered. You seem to see your life like a movie: which part should I play today? Should I be the sweet girl? The butt-kicking soccer player? The polished, mature, well-traveled girl? The chill surfer girl? We all play different roles. It’s part of figuring out who we really are.”
I think back to what Grandpa told me. How I need to figure out who I want to be.
“So which one is really me?”
“Where do you feel most comfortable?”
“With you,” I say, but that’s not really true. When I’m with him, I miss dressing up. I miss wearing heels. I miss getting all dolled up.
I kiss his neck. It tastes salty. Brooklyn smells like a combination of an ocean breeze, Calvin Klein Eternity, and weed. It might be my favorite smell ever.
He rolls over to face me and looks at me very seriously. “You’re one of the sweetest girls I know. And I think you feel most comfortable playing the surfer girl because that’s who you really are. You’re cool, chill, breezy, happy, and you like being nice to people. That’s why I hate your friends. When you’re with them, you’re different. But regardless, I’ve always maybe had a little crush on you.”
“You had a crush on me? You mean I had a crush on you?”
“No. That first day we met, you weren’t what I expected. I knew who your mom was, figured you’d be a spoiled little brat, but you were cool. And those legs. Damn.”
“You never noticed my legs!”
“Yeah, I did. How could I not? They’re like a mile long. But what I really noticed was your drive. How determined you were to learn how to surf. You crashed so many times, but you kept paddling back out there and trying it again. There’s a lot of toughness in you. I watched you for two hours until I finally decided to go out in the water and teach you.”
I run my hand down the side of his cheek. “I surfed for the first time that day. My fifteenth birthday.”
“You were so excited that you hugged me. I’ve been in love with you ever since.”
“Bullshit. That was two years ago, and you didn’t kiss me until this summer.”
“You’re younger than me. I had to wait for you to grow up a little. For both of us to grow up a little.”
I snuggle back up into his arms. My heart feels a little better. “I hope you change your mind about coming to my party.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Hey, I just realized something. With everything that went on last night, I forgot to give you your present.”
I can’t help it. I love presents. My eyes get big and I let out a shrill, girly giggle. “Really? Can I open it now?”
“Hmmm, maybe.” He kisses me, then leans across me and grabs something out of the drawer in his nightstand. I’m assuming it’s another condom.
“Here.” He holds a simply wrapped present in front of my face. “But you’ll have to wait to open it, because I have another surprise for you.”
“You do? Really?” I didn’t think he bought me anything other than the food last night.
The doorbell rings through the intercom system and I hear someone being buzzed in through the gate.
“He’s here! Hurry, get dressed!”
His excitement is contagious and I can’t help but feel like Santa Claus himself is coming over.
I throw my shorts and tank top back on.
He grabs my hand, leads me down the stairs, and says, “Open the door.”
I open the front door and see a huge, burly man, who looks a bit like Santa. Like if Santa was dark haired, covered with tattoos, and carrying a medical bag.
“OH MY GOSH! Are we getting tattoos? Like we always talked about?”
Brooklyn grins big and nods his head. “Happy Birthday, Keats! So, you wanna go first?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid if I watch you, and you even flinch that I won’t go through with it. So yes, we better do mine first.”
The huge tattoo artist’s name is Tiny. Tiny sets his stuff up on the kitchen table. Brooklyn hands him a sheet of paper with the Chinese symbol for chaos that we both want tattooed on our bodies. Brooklyn wants his tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
When we were surfing in the Canary Islands, Brooklyn crashed and cut the inside of his wrist on a rock. It didn’t really bleed, so I just did what my mom always used to do to me. I looked at his wrist and then kissed it. Ever since, he’s told me that’s where he’s getting the tattoo. That exact spot. It’s so romantic.
“Where do you think I should get mine?”
“Somewhere only I can see it.”
Tiny says very professionally, “I think a single symbol like this would look best either on the inside of your wrist or on your hip, right above your bikini line.”
“That’s where I want it. On my hip. Um, I know this is gonna hurt; should we, I don’t know, do a couple shots or something first?”
Tiny puts a clean sheet across the table and says, “I’d recommend a little medicinal weed, if you’ve got it. And, if you don’t, I can help with that for an additional fee.”
Brooklyn says, “I’ve got it covered.”
He runs up to his room and comes back down with a freshly rolled joint. He lights it and hands it to me.
“We’re not supposed to smoke in the house, but what the hell; it’s a special occasion, right?”
I take one hit, then another. I look at the equipment Tiny has spread out and decide it might be best to take a third.
I lie back on the table and squeeze Brooklyn’s hand tightly. “Right.”
It still hurt like hell.
But it’s so cool!
I mean, seriously, matching tattoos? This is almost as good as him asking me to go out.
We’re tied together forever now.
It’s totally doable.
5:15pm
“I really need to get home and get ready. Kym and I picked out the cutest dress for me to wear tonight.” I look at the clock, wondering where the day went. But after smoking and getting tattoos, we fell asleep.
“Gotta open your present first,” Brooklyn says lazily.
My eyes get big. “I almost forgot!” I grab the present off the nightstand.
But first, I stop and kiss him.
“Come on, open it. I’ve been dying for you to see this.”
I rip off the gift wrap. Underneath is a book—an old book, the cover faded and the words Poetical Works by John Keats embossed on the spine.
I smile at him.
He says, “Keats for my Keats. Look inside.”
I gently open the cover. Inside, written in pencil, is an old inscription.
1903, To my love.
— S
Underneath is more pencil, written in Brooklyn’s neat print.
Even Keats speaks of chaos.
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.
All my love,
B
I get little tears in my eyes. One falls off my face and onto the book. Brooklyn wipes it off and then wipes the tear from my cheek.
“Thank you.”
He grins. “So which is better, the tattoo or the book?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. The book didn’t hurt.”
“But it still made you cry.”
I laugh. “Good point. I kinda wish we didn’t have to go to dinner tonight. I don’t ever want to leave your room again.”
“Oh, come on. I know you secretly love the spotlight.”
“Well, maybe sometimes. I mean everyone wants to feel special sometimes, don’t they?”
“A bunch of adoring fans who don’t really know the real you?”
I smack him playfully. “No, silly, dinner tonight is all about people who do know the real me. Tomorrow night is for the fans. What’s wrong with wanting a little of both? If you’re gonna be a pro surfer then you’ll have fans, too.”