Jeremy is dead.
I’m free from him.
I’m not free from what freed me.
Hot Mama finds me later.
After I have cried in the bunkhouse bathroom. After I washed my face in cold water and stared at myself in the mirror until the woman looking back seemed both younger and older than she was this morning. After Derby sat outside on the porch like a guard dog who had been told not to enter unless invited.
I did invite him eventually.
Not into the bathroom.
Into the quiet.
He sat beside me on the porch steps while I shook. He did not tell me Jeremy deserved it, though he probably thought it. He did not ask if I was relieved. He did not make my guilt smaller because some things can’t be shrunk without turning poisonous.
He just sat.
Sometimes that is enough.
Now the campground has settled. Kids asleep. Fire low. Music softer. Derby is with August in the bunkhouse because August woke and asked for him in the dark, and I did not have the heart to say no. Derby looked at me before going, asking without words. I nodded.
That is how Hot Mama finds me alone near the garage. The garage is dim, lit by string lights and one overhead bulb. Bikes sleep around us, chrome catching little sparks of light.
She carries a small black case in one hand.
I know before she says anything.
“No,” I say.
Hot Mama smiles. “You don’t know what I’m asking.”
Hot Mama opens the case.
Inside is a small tattoo machine, sterile packets, ink, gloves, all arranged with professional care.
I look at the case. “Is that a tattoo kit?”
“Among other things.”
“I’m not getting a tattoo tonight.”
“Good thing I wasn’t asking.”
I fold my arms. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“No, baby. I don’t.” She steps closer and sets the case on a workbench near the garage. “But I do get to offer.”
Not a whim.
Not a drunken dare.
A ritual.
My fingers go to the skin behind my ear, the place where Lottie’s crown hides.
“Caroline had one?” I ask.