Page 57 of The Earl Has To Die
I look down at my hand that’s been wrapped up in cellophane, distorting the view of the artwork underneath.
“Wow, what a beautiful blob,” I deadpan, and Ivy flicks my sternum.
“It’s the blood and ointment. Look.”
Ivy unwraps the plastic, revealing the black and hunter green artwork. Vines that start on my left forearm extend up my palm, wrapping around my ring finger and to the first knuckle of my pinky. Five pointed leaves climb each vine, extending towards my fingertips, each one a deep, rich green highlighted by bare skin and teal ink to resemble vines.
She’s wrapped my skin in ivy.
“Vee,” I gasp, staring in awe at the work etched into my arm and hand. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I think it might be my best work yet,” she says with a grin, her freezing cold fingertips drawing small circles on my bare knee.
“Ivy,” I breathe, naming the love of my life in front of me and the plant she tattooed into my skin. “Look at that. Now I’m covered in you.”
Tears pool in my eyes and Ivy grabs my face, caressing my cheeks in her palms as she pulls me in for a kiss that I can feel down to my toes. A meeting of lips so soft and sensual and life-sustaining, I can’t help but wonder how I breathed before her.
An hour later, Ivy and I stand under the wooden huppah carved by my father and brother, Sadie at our side and Hyacinth on Ivy’s hip. She’s dressed in a sleek pants suit, the color a bright and vibrant pink the same shade as the Dahlia flower that my name is derived from. I’m in a tea-length phthalo green gown, the long sleeves covering the plastic-wrapped ink on my arm.
We say vows and make promises to each other and to our daughters. Ivy slides a ring onto my finger and I do the same for her. And after we kiss while our guests head to the reception, Ivy opens the bottle of red wine she stole from Earl’s fridge on our very first mission and we toast to the man who had to die—metaphorically, at least—so that we could end up here, bathing in the incandescent glow of our love.
