Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Teuvo
The tattoo shop is nestled behind Ridley and I's favourite Vietnamese restaurant in Kelowna. We're walking down the sidewalk, listening to passing traffic and rustling leaves. Autumn has set into the valley now, bringing burning leaves and low-hanging fog. The air is bitter with the promise of rain, making me wish I'd brought my rain jacket like Ridley did. If it rains, I'll be soaked by the time we arrive for my appointment.
My appointment I'm very nervous about. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted a tattoo of a birch tree. Mom and Dad, who both taught me how to ride a dirt bike, used to take me riding in the fall. Finland is known for its birch tress, and all I can remember—and still love—are the birch trees. They're always vibrant yellows and reds during that time. Not only is a birch tree an ode to my homelands but also to my parents and dirt biking. A bonus is that it will match one of Ridley's tattoos. There are so many reasons I want one.
But I've been too scared to have one done because I'm afraid of needles. There's something about that that petrifies me. I become a fear-ridden fool who wants to cry like a baby. Any type of need for any kind of process—like inserting an IV or, obviously, getting a tattoo.
Few people know about my fear of needles. Ridley finding out was an accident because of my loose lips. There was one night by the campfire that involved alcohol. I commented on her tattoos and she asked if I ever wanted one. With those loose lips, I told her the story.
Since then, she's been trying to convince me to get a tattoo. I've been doing my best to avoid the inevitable, but it looks like my day has come. What else am I supposed to do with a gift card Ridley bought me for my birthday? I would be the worst boyfriend if I didn't use it.
Ridley nudges me with her elbow. "How're you holding up?"
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. "Eh... Okay?
She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. "T, tattoos don't hurt that much." There's a subtle pause. "Well, some areas hurt. But the majority are okay. You're getting it on your forearm, which hardly hurts at all."
My Adam's apple bobs. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. Up ahead, I can see the building. The salad rolls I ate earlier churn in my stomach. I clear my throat. "Ridley, I'm fucking terrified."
She steps in front of me and takes my hands. I gaze into her brown eyes, focusing on the colour and swirling emotions. It's difficult to tell if she's concerned or amused. Or maybe that's just my anxiety inhibiting my perception. With the slight autumn breeze, a stand of hair falls in her face. I untangle a hand from hers and tuck the strand behind her ear. My hand ends up resting on her shoulder.
"Look," she says. "How about we just go inside and talk to Murph? She'll show you around, explain the process, and all that. How does that sound?"
Murph is the tattoo artist—and don't be fooled by the name. Sara Murphy is a well-known tattoo artist in the Okanagan, and Ridley recommends no one but her. Plus, she specializes in flowers, birds, and landscapes. Trees are part of landscapes, so I know my birch tree will look amazing. I also know because, well, just look at Ridley's fucking arm. It's a piece of art.
