Page 21 of Unmanageable

Cash leans over, his chest pressing against my shoulders as he looks down at my wrist. He actually looks a little stunned for a split second, but then the smugness—the sheer arrogance—takes over.

“A dollar sign,” he taunts. “Damn, Sharky. I knew you were obsessed with me, but you went and got me actually permanently inked on your pulse? I’m flattered. Truly. I’ll make sure to put you in the will.”

“No, no, no! I did not do that! It is an S for Scottie! It’s a stylish, aesthetic S!”

“Definitely not for someone who’s nickname is.. uhh.. Cash?”

“NO!”

He laughs entirely unfazed by my frantic, high-pitched denial.

He looks at Callahan, practically beaming. “Look at this, Callie. She’s officially marking her territory.”

“I’m getting it lasered off.”

“No, you aren’t,” he says. “You’re stuck with me now. It’s written in ink. That’s the law.”

Marcus shakes his head from the kitchen doorway, staring at me in complete disbelief. “I was so sure you guys would be relaxing. Not actually getting wasted and doing… this.”

“Dean, get up,” Jenna interrupts, poking the lawyer with her foot. “Show us yours. I need to feel better about myself.”

Dean sighs, a sound of pure defeat. He stands up, unbuttons his jeans just enough to reveal his hip, and peels away his plastic square with the precision of a surgeon.

“You made me do this,” Dean mutters, glaring directly at me. “I distinctly remember you telling me that a true best friend wouldn’t let me leave without matching body art, and then you pointed at a stencil and told me it was a symbol of freedom.”

We all squint at his hip. It’s a tiny, delicate, perfectly shaded butterfly with its wings spread out right on his pelvic bone.

The room goes dead silent again before Nico lets out a high-pitched, wheezing sound of delight.

“A butterfly, Dean?” Callahan chokes out. “You got a delicate little monarch on your waist? You look like you’re ready to fly away at any moment.”

“I think it’s a swallowtail,” Brick adds, looking genuinely fascinated. “The detail is quite impressive, really.”

“Huh,” Dean frowns and tilts his head, examining his own hip with a critical eye. “Honestly… the line work is quite crisp. It’s actually kind of cute in a… ironic, post-modern way. But I still blame you, Scottie.”

“You look beautiful, Dean,” I manage to choke out through my laughter. “It’s very ethereal.”

“Just show us yours, Jenna,” Dean mutters, eager to deflect the attention.

Jenna hitches up her shirt, revealing the skin right on her lower back. She rips the plastic off in one violent, fearless motion, unfazed by the pain.

We all bend down to look.

Staring back at us from Jenna’s skin, right above her tailbone in bold, early-2000s cursive font, are the words: LUCKY YOU.

“A tramp stamp!” Callahan snorts, throwing his head back and clutching his chest. “Jenna, you got a literal early-2000s warning label! That is incredible.”

“Oh, my god,” Jenna gasps, squinting into the reflection of the glass coffee table to see it. For a second, she looks utterly pissed, staring at the placement in horror. “A tramp stamp? I am an adult woman!”

Then, she blinks, shifts her weight, and shrugs. “You know what? Whatever. It’s true. Anyone who actually gets to see that is a lucky son of a bitch. I’ll own it.”

Then when it’s Ivy’s turn, she winces and peels it back with a sharp breath, the crinkling sound loud in the quiet room. After a quick wipe with a damp paper towel to clear the gooey ointment and loose ink, she cranes her neck, squinting down at her own side.

She freezes.

Right there, spelled out in a tiny, delicate cursive is Mrs. Callahan.

Ivy stares at it for three long seconds. She looks at the ink, then looks blankly at the wall, a sudden, existential crisis of faith washing over her face.