by Roan Parrish
He had Christopher’s cheekbones and jaw, though the bones stood out more prominently, but where Christopher’s chin was square, Jude’s was sharp, almost pointy, and it lent a delicacy to his face that his brother’s didn’t have. The set of his eyes was similar, and I could tell even from a few steps away that Jude’s had that same mix of color, though his looked lighter. Jude’s hair was two shades lighter than Christopher’s too, an unusual bright orange that made him look paler than he was, though his skin did have a milky translucency. His hair was long, shoulder-length or longer, and scraped back into a messy bunch at the back of his head.
The biggest difference, though, was that Jude’s face was covered with dramatic freckles, from his hairline to his throat. Beyond that I couldn’t tell, because his face was all that was visible. He was wearing a black sweater with sleeves that went past his hands, and that nearly swallowed him up to the chin, black pants, and black socks.
He was beautiful, in a brittle, alien way, almost too much to take in at once, features warring for attention. I wasn’t the only one staring at him, I realized suddenly. And he didn’t look very happy to be the center of attention.
“There he is!” said Ron, coming up behind his sons and clapping Jude on the back. Jude’s wince was almost imperceptible—the slight flutter of blond eyelashes and the tightening of his jaw—but his whole being radiated a desperate desire not to be touched. I could see in him the fellow soul that Christopher had described, who sometimes felt his senses barraged by the world. Ron must’ve picked up on it too, because he dropped his hand and patted Christopher firmly on the shoulder instead.
I wondered how often it had happened just like this—the casual transference of affection from one brother to the other.
I hung back, watching as Jude’s family greeted him, then Christopher led him over to me.
“Thanks for taking pity on my little brother,” Jude said flatly, after a moment. He spoke as if he’d gathered all his energy for the task, but his voice was unexpectedly lovely—clear and resonant. “It’s so unfortunate the way people can never look past his truly lamentable looks to see the pure heart that beats within.”
I grinned, liking him immediately. “Yeah, well I’m actually blind, so I was able to encounter him without the weight of societal constructions of beauty between us. Plus I totally believed him when he said he was super attractive. Liar!” I said, elbowing Christopher.
Jude smiled for the first time. He didn’t have Christopher’s dimples, but he had those same slightly protruding eyeteeth. On Christopher they lent his grin a charming rakishness. On Jude they looked predatory. A warning that a smile could cut.
The dining room table wasn’t quite big enough, so when it was time for dinner we dragged extra chairs around the room and ate with plates balanced on our knees.
Ann had made a ham with some kind of prune and pistachio dressing that sounded dreadful but was actually delicious. There was an awkward moment when Ann went to serve me and her eyes got big and she said, “Oh no, I forgot—you’re Jewish! You must not eat ham! I should’ve made something else.”
“She’s not religious, Ma,” Christopher reassured her, but she still looked uncertain. For some reason people thought keeping kosher might be something that people did casually.
“I eat ham. Thanks, Ann,” I told her, and relief flooded her face.
Jude handed me a glass of wine and I lifted it to him in thanks.
After dinner, when my offer to help with the dishes was rebuffed I took another glass of wine outside on the back patio to get some air and found Jude already out there, huddled in yet another layer of black, this one a long wool pea coat with the collar turned up against the cold. “D’you mind?”
He shook his head and gestured for me to sit next to him. We sat in silence, looking up at the snow-tipped treetops behind the house. Jude lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from me.
“Bother you?” he asked, holding up the cigarette.
“God, no. I love it but I quit years ago, so just blow it in my face and I’ll live vicariously.”
He smoked the cigarette, then lit another.
No matter how many years it’d been, something still lived in the back of my throat that lit up at the smell. I swallowed and tasted smoke. The first cigarette I’d ever had, I’d snuck during lunch in seventh grade, with Josie Dunn. She’d taken it from her dad, and it had been an unfiltered Marlboro. We’d both puked. Years later, we made out at a Team Dresch concert and I could taste cigarettes on her tongue.
“It’s, uh, nice to get to meet you finally,” I said, suddenly really caring that Jude like me.
Jude’s expression was blank, but then his eyes softened and his mouth quirked. “Small talk is terrible, huh?” he said.
“Oh, thank god, you too,” I breathed in relief. “I mean, I have to do it at work, so I am actually capable. Just not what I’d ever choose, ya know?”
“Yes, people tend not to attempt small talk with me,” Jude drawled, clearly aware of the figure he cut, with his milk-pale skin, dramatic freckles, and eyes that spoke of other places.
“I get it both ways,” I said. “In the winter, no one speaks to me because, obviously.” I gestured at my expression. “Then in the summer, a bunch of fuckheads make inane comments about my tattoos and try to touch me. So. I hate the summer.”
“Naturally. I also hate the summer.”
I giggled at the sudden picture I got of pale, freckled Jude in a brightly colored tank top and running shorts.
“It’s like the poor goth teenagers in, like, Florida or Louisiana, who have to express their feels through a black sweater or cape or some shit when it’s a hundred and fifty degrees out and their eyeliner’s sliding off their faces.”
Jude smiled, and where Christopher’s smile was easy, a warm reward, Jude’s rare, sharp one felt like a victory. “You’re funny. That must make things easier,” Jude said flatly.
“You’re not funny?” I asked him.
“Not if the reactions of others are anything to go by.”
I was pretty sure he was funny.
“I think I’m probably supposed to be performing some kind of protective older brother interrogation about your intentions right now,” Jude said absently.
I snorted. “Man, I can’t imagine ever vetting someone my sister dated. She’s been with her current boyfriend for six or seven years and I’ve only met him a few times. I’m actually kind of convinced that their relationship is a sham she keeps up to avoid our mother’s disfavor. If I’m right, p.s., that would be the only cool thing about Eva.”
Jude raised a copper eyebrow in amusement and the gesture reminded me so much of Christopher that I found myself missing him, though he was right inside.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the relief of being outside after a lot of family. Maybe it was the cool air or the scent of pine or the lingering cigarette smoke. Maybe it was just that I felt comfortable with Jude right away. Whatever it was, I found myself actually telling him the truth. Something made me think the truth would matter to him.
“As for my intentions, Christopher’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. I like him…so much. I’m trying really hard to be a person who is dating someone, but I’m still not that good at it. I work all the time and I like to be busy. I’m kind of heartbroken because my best friend in the whole world moved away and he’s the only person I’m really used to being around. I’m moody and I hate a lot of stuff and I’ve been told I’m a little intense.”
Jude snorted and managed to make even that sound elegant.
“Also, uh, that I occasionally state emotional truths with flat affect so they seem like lies. Or jokes.”
At that Jude narrowed his eyes at me and nodded.
“I want to be good for him, I swear,” I said, suddenly feeling honor-bound to make it clear to Jude that I knew what an amazing person Christopher was. Or maybe to remind him of it? “He’s maybe the only person I’ve ever met who’s kind to
people because he believes the world is a place where that sort of thing matters. He’s shiny and sunny and fucking…happy.”
I broke off, realizing that if Christopher had grown up painfully aware of his own happiness in contrast to Jude’s, then certainly Jude was aware of it too.
He was very still, cigarette hovering an inch from his mouth, looking at me. “So you’re treating me like I’m your friend who moved away.”
“Oh, wow, you’ve clearly been to a lot of shrinks, huh?”
“Naturally.”
“Why didn’t Christopher tell me you were gay?”
“Presumptuous, aren’t we?”
I cocked my head at him and he rolled his eyes. “I have no idea. Maybe he didn’t want to brag,” he said dryly.
Jude lit another cigarette but didn’t take a drag right away, and I realized he was doing it for my benefit. Because I’d said I liked the smell.
“God, he was the sweetest little boy.” Jude’s voice was slacker than it had been earlier and I wondered if he’d relaxed, or if he’d had a fair bit of wine too. “He was one of those kids who’d say things like ‘Do you want to hug?’ with no self-consciousness whatsoever. Of course, he grew out of it by the time he was six or seven. You know, when he learned how hugging is for girls and fags.”
He flicked his cigarette hard. I wondered what he’d say if I told him Christopher still did offer hugs.
“When I started…you know”—he glanced at me and I nodded—“there was this wall of ice between us that no amount of sunniness could melt. We had been inseparable before that. I could see him through it. The wall. He was the same as he always was. And he wanted to spend time with me the way he always had. But I was untouchable. He threw himself up against the wall over and over because he couldn’t see it. But I couldn’t do anything from my side, except watch him pick himself up, every time a little more bruised, and do it again.”
Jude pulled his knees up and rested his sharp chin on them, wrapping his arms around his legs.
“My parents told him he hadn’t done anything wrong. That I hadn’t stopped loving him. They explained what depression was. He even told me once that he wasn’t mad at me about it. He was probably fifteen. I’d been locked in my room for a week and I missed his soccer tournament finals. He scored the winning goal. He told me about it through the door—he used to do that sometimes, sit outside my door and talk to me the way we used to, even though I didn’t answer.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“It’s unfathomable how much we can hurt the people we care about the most,” Jude said. “And it’s miraculous how many times they can forgive us. Whether they should or not.”
I kept my eyes on the tops of the trees, where green-black shaded to the blue-black of the sky. There were innumerable shades of darkness.
Jude hung his head and ran pale, freckled fingers through his hair, messing it up even worse.
“Christopher adores you,” I said softly. “I bet there isn’t much he wouldn’t forgive.”
My own words echoed in my head, answering questions about my own relationship with Christopher too.
“Well, there’s one thing he wouldn’t have forgiven, but I fucked that up too,” he said softly, voice rough with shame and pain, eyes on the ground, hunched over himself, that overlarge black coat like a shroud.
I thought back to when I’d asked Christopher if he’d ever had his heart broken.
It was very clear now who had broken Christopher’s heart.
⌃ ⌃ ⌃
Christopher: Bro, we’re leaving. I couldn’t find you to say goodbye.
Jude: I retreated.
Christopher: I get it. It was good to see you.
Christopher: What did you think of her?
Christopher: Ginger, I mean.
Christopher: Obviously.
Christopher: J?
Christopher: Fine, leaving for real. I’m gonna make you tell me later though.
Chapter 14
It was a testament to how caught up in Christopher I’d been lately that when I opened my email after he left the morning after the Christmas party and saw a message from an Etta Blake, it took a moment for the name to register. Etta Blake was one of the most high-profile female tattoo artists in the country, and possibly one of the best portrait tattoo artists in the business. She’d been on Big Apple Ink for a season, she was a sought-after special guest for tattoo cons, and she owned a shop in Detroit and one in New Orleans. She was major.
She had also been kind of a hero of mine ever since I’d first seen her work.
I felt a flutter of Omigod, starstruck!, and clicked on the email she’d sent eighteen hours ago.
But my heart fell into my stomach as I read.
Hey, Ginger,
This is a little awkward but I feel like it’s important I reach out to you, artist to artist. I want to say first: I looked at the work of yours Eddie posted and it’s really amazing—you’re super talented and that’s one of the reasons I want to make sure everything’s on the up and up between us.
This summer, Eddie hired the artist who’d been apprenticing with me for eight months, and he repeatedly harassed her at work. Commenting on her appearance, making sexual remarks about her, talking about her to coworkers and clients in ways that undermined her as a professional. I’m sure you know the drill. She called me very upset and unsure of what to do because Eddie (as you know) has the power to open a lot of doors. I told her to quit and to report him, get his behavior on record. SO many women in this biz have experience with this, you know? I was sure that if she’d had a prob with him then others must have too. But she was worried about losing face, etc.
So I confronted Eddie about it and told him if he couldn’t act professionally with women then he shouldn’t have them in his shop. He turned it into drama (kinda his shtick, in case that wasn’t clear), twisting it to make it sound like I didn’t think he should hire women because they aren’t as talented or some garbage.
Full disclosure…I had a relationship with Eddie a few years ago. It did NOT end well and he takes any opportunity to get under my skin. One of his favorite things to do is talk about how all women in the biz jump at any chance to start drama and that it makes us hard to work with. Obviously, “drama” is anything from insisting we be able to go work without being sexually harassed, to calling male artists out for sexist language, to asking for time off to have a baby, to leaving one job for a better one, etc.
Anyway, point: Eddie’s basically an entitled shithead misogynist child who pits women against each other. He’s been subbing me (with the whole #nodrama) every time he’s blasted your stuff.
Really sorry to have to write under these circumstances (especially on Christmas!) but I’d rather talk to you directly than have either of us thinking the other’s the enemy. Again, I really like the work of yours I saw. Next time I’m in Philly I’d love to come by the shop.
xoEBxo
“Oh Christ, what the fuck,” I muttered and pulled my phone out, dread dampening the flutters of delight that accompanied Etta Blake saying she admired my work. I had thrown the phone in my bag when Christopher and I were baking yesterday after I almost dropped it in the cake batter trying to Instagram proof that I was making a cake, and I hadn’t looked at it since. My screen came alive with notifications the second I turned it on.
On Instagram, Eddie Sparks had reposted a tattoo I’d done the other day It was a photorealistic portrait of my friend Baz’s long-haired cat, Sniffles. Around the portrait, I’d done an intricate baroque frame so it looked like Sniffles’ paw was resting on it.
I’d been particularly pleased with it because Sniffles was a white cat and it took a lot of clever work with shading and value to make a tattoo of a mostly white thing look realistic in black ink. Taking a cue from Faron, I’d forgone a liner and used shaders to layer Sniffles’ fur, then used the frame to provide contrast.
Eddie Sparks had reposted it and, as he had with the other two, tagged me. He’d wri
tten:
Now THATS legit how to do white amirite?! no shade @Blakette ;) but so glad even when theres pussies involved @TattooBitchPhilly keeps it #NODRAMA!!! #tattoolife #badassbitch #inked #thatpussytho
“What the actual fuck?” @Blakette was Etta Blake, but I wouldn’t have had any clue what the “no shade” was actually in reference to if she hadn’t told me.
I clicked over to Eddie’s Twitter. There were a ton of likes on the tweet, and a lot of heart emojis and praise for the tattoo. But sprinkled throughout were responses that made it clear some people knew Etta’s side of the story too.
@EddieSparksFlame SMH
@EddieSparksFlame starting shit as always
@EddieSparksFlame u shd be ashamed of turning artists into pawns
@EddieSparksFlame you are the dramaiest drama that ever dramaed the drama
@EddieSparksFlame damn son I hope those ladies kick yr ass ps you cant tat for shit
I clicked back over to Instagram to look at Etta Blake’s account, but over the last two weeks all she’d posted were a bunch of shots of her work (excellent as always). And one image of her hand, double knuckle tats that I knew spelled out J-A-Z-Z H-A-N-D partially visible, flipping off the camera, her nail neon green with red stripes. Underneath it said:
I eat drama and shit out Christmas ornaments & glitter. To all a good night. —xoxo #Inknotbombs
“Fuck my life.” I closed my computer and got back into bed.
✕ ✕ ✕
“What are you—Whoa.”
Christopher stuck his head into the shop window, looking around at the mess. I was wrapped in blue and white velvet ribbon that I was tacking up to form the words Tattoo Bitch, buried in busted tattoo machines that I was forming into a metal tree, and surrounded by Bud Light can angels that I’d made a few years before. I couldn’t really move on account of everything being sharp, delicate, or covered in glitter.