Carpe DiEmily (A Romantic Comedy Adventure)

ten

“This can’t be real. This can’t be happening,” Emily said, staring down at the skull tattoo on her hip. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. “Tell me this is a nightmare.”

Tyler leaned over to touch the tattoo with his finger. “He did a good job, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering you were screaming and jerking around when the needles hit your skin.”

Emily gaped at him. “Tell me why I don’t remember that and you do.” Then pieces of memory came flashing at her: the tattoo artist handing her a tequila shot, the Harley guys cheering her on, hugging Tyler when it was over.

Tyler rubbed his chin as he met her eyes. He looked as though he was trying not to smile. “I vaguely remember you promising you wouldn’t regret this in the morning.”

 Emily dropped her backpack with a thud on the sidewalk. Her hands balled into fists, bunching the fabric of her dress. “How. Can. I. Not. Regret this?” She yanked up her dress again, gesturing wildly at the skull on her hip. A group of passing teens, pierced to the gills, snickered.

“What are you laughing at?” she screamed after them.

Tyler put his hand on her arm. “Calm down. It’s not that bad. It’s a pretty cool tat. Bad ass in all the right ways.”

“Bad ass?” She stared at him. “Do I look like a ‘bad ass’ kind of girl?” She punctuated the air angrily with her fingers. “Do I look like the kind of girl who wants a goddamn flaming skull on her body for the rest of her life?” Her voice rose high and shrill, echoing against the buildings.

Tyler took a step back, his hands raised. “You need to get a grip.”

She knew she was making a spectacle of herself—if that was even possible in Venice—but she didn’t care. She was crying now, angry sobs bursting out of her like small volcanic waves. “It’s your fault. You let this happen.”

“Whoa. I didn’t drag you in kicking and screaming. I seem to remember it was your idea.”

“Don’t you realize that a person can’t make a rational decision when they’re intoxicated? And you kept feeding me pitchers and shots and . . .” She moaned, gripping her head. “Oh god . . .”

Tyler took a step toward her. “I’m really sorry, Em. I wasn’t thinking clearly, either.”

She raised her head to glare at him. “You should’ve stopped me. You should’ve just stopped, period. The whole thing is your fault. How am I ever going to wear a bathing suit with this . . . thing?” She stared mournfully down at her hip. She could almost see the skull grinning maniacally through the fabric.

A fresh sob erupted from her throat, sounding like an angry hiccup. This god-awful tattoo made her look like some sort of lowlife who drank Johnnie Walker Red for breakfast, bought cigarettes with food stamps, and beat her kids. Any visions she’d ever had of lying on a beach wearing an elegant one-piece bathing suit while reading Jane Austen, well, poof! She could kiss that fantasy goodbye. With this giant flaming skull etched permanently into her skin, she might as well buy timeshare in a trailer park.

 “It’s not that bad,” said Tyler. “This is Southern California. Everyone has tattoos. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.” She poked her finger at her hip. “This thing makes me look like a crystallized meth addict.”

“It’s crystal meth. Not crystallized.”

“Whatever!”

“Jesus, Emily, you’re driving me nuts with your high maintenance,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “You’re acting like a drama queen.”