Turning Point||Book 2

7: Xenia.

Approaching my twenty-fifth birthday, an overwhelming terror gripped me like never before.

With the Bright Bird contract unchecked and no new clothes purchased, I deemed my impending tattoo a self-given gift. Spending over five hours scouring the internet, I chose to forgo any found images, relying instead on my own creativity and narrative.

I decided to ink Joanna's birthdate on the left side of my neck in a vertical pattern as I sat for the tattoo. Even though it was also my birthday, my thoughts centered on Joanna. A quote found its place between my shoulder and chest on the left side, marking this milestone with a deeply personal touch.

"Tough times build tough people."

In all honesty, I did not intend to derive my quote from Romano's obsession—tough times don't last, tough people do. It was just the only thing that resonated with me after I had reviewed my story.

The tattoo of a butterfly with a broken wing, positioned above a personally crafted phrase on the top of my left breast, effortlessly came to life: "Broken but beautiful."

I adored the tattoos, their dark hues against my skin creating a captivating contrast. Eager for more, I restrained my desires, realizing I didn't expose my body enough to let the inks breathe.

I grinned at my reflection in the mirror.

Come Thursday, I'd review the contract, signing it if it seemed favorable, and then entrust the unfolding of fate. Faith and trust in the process had become my anchors.

But for now, it was time to have my makeup done, slip into my dress, and join April upstairs. The three of us were headed to the movies to watch "Lovers Of The Night." Post-film, we'd swing by a diner for cakes and wine. It might not be the perfect birthday, but it was enough to keep the sadness at bay, especially in the absence of celebrating with Joanna for the first time all my life.

The fleeting joy of our imagined birthday conversation vanished, and I found myself no longer smiling. The memory of our afternoon chat during my visit to Joanna had dissolved.

Images of her, beautifully captured, were stored for an Instagram post that lingered in my thoughts. Speaking of Instagram, a reminder hit me — my pending post on April's Instagram page.

Wedged between two wing chairs was a small stand which carried a miniature flower pot. It was a jasmine. High up in the dark sky hung the faint full moon that rayed the whole flower alongside my phone.

I picked up the device and maneuvered my way to instagram, April's page precisely. She had made two other posts after mine, but they didn't have as much engagement as that one. I wanted to know why.

What is so fun about a girl shooting tequila into her throat?

I wondered as my eyes met the hashtags. Or was it because she had tagged ClubNova and a few other related accounts?

The comments intrigued me.

Pretty hot!

I love her hair

Why does she look so scared?

I'd be in Nova next Sunday in hopes to see her.

A wide smile had crossed my face. The comments were good, I didn't scroll too much to find a bad one. It was good for my ego.

I went to my gallery, selected three of Joanna's pictures and posted it with a caption—Happy Birthday.