Under the Bridge

chapter thirty one- "i'm going to do it"

TORONTO IS COLD. The snow has piled up to six inches above the ground, and it's the perfect excuse to fake sick. After spending time at Harvard, I feel as though being with my mother any more will turn me into an exact clone of her. 

I've opted for sitting in a luxury hotel room in thick pajama pants. My mom will be gone for six hours of meetings soon, and I'll be ordering a pizza and flickering through television channels. I would kill someone to be back home and away from this awful trip. 

All I ever hear is "Harvard this" and "Harvard that."

I pick up the phone and dial the first person I think of. 

"Hey." He sounds groggy and tired, and I realize that it's about 8 AM there. 

"I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" I ask, worried that he's going to get mad. 

There's a muffled laugh on the other end of the phone. "It's probably good I'm awake." He says, voice still gravely and low. It's the kind of sound that causes my heart to ache. It's only been two days, but I want to be with him. "How's Massachusetts?" 

"I don't know, I'm in Toronto." 

"Damn, a completely different country with completely different laws to break." He comments. 

That's the moment when an idea hits my mind. I recall an article that I read a few months ago, and I reach into my bag to grab my computer, tugging it up and onto my lap. I begin to type into the search bar. 

"Hey Liam?" I ask, quietly. 

"Yeah?" He responds, sounding concerned. 

"I've got to go. But I'll talk to you later, okay? Get some sleep." I say, feeling the idea burst through me like rays of a supernova. I get to typing, searching, and discovering. 

* * *

I never thought I would be running across the streets of Toronto in the middle of winter, while snow hits my face and the sky is grey. Bright Christmas lights are everywhere, illuminating the skyline in uniform patches. The air is cold, snowflakes nick at my nose while I step through the busy sidewalks. I follow the directions on google maps, only to arrive at a small shop in the center of little Italy. 

It's not the place I expected, but when I step inside, I see a slew of different people, all covered in various designs of ink and assorted dress. I stick out like a weed. I'm the youngest person here, my eyes are wide, and I'm concealing my shaking hands in the pockets of my large brown jacket. 

"An appointment, for, uh Bear." I say, shyly, swallowing the persistent lump in my throat. 

The man behind the counter looks me up and down. "ID?" 

I pull out my passport and show it to him. He nods. 

Fun fact: Ontario has no specific law regarding tattoos. They leave it up to the parlors to decide how old someone has to be for them to be served. 

Another fun fact: I want a tattoo, and right now I'm emotionally unstable and impulsive. 

So basically, I'm going to legally get a tattoo in a shady parlor in Canada. 

He hands me a few sheets of paperwork, and with shaking hands, I click the pen in my pocket and sign the forms. 

At the bottom of the final page, I wonder what I'm doing, and pause for a second, zeroing in on the words. I let out a weary breath. This is what I want, and I'm going to do it. 

I click the pen a few times to relieve my anxiety, then I swirl my name on the line. 

* * *