by Claire Adams
“What?” Tara pulled her phone out of her purse and looked at it. “It’s not 10 o’clock yet. Not even close. Your sign says you close at 10.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to come back.”
Tara gave me a defiant look, but the expression that crossed Chloe’s face was hard to read—it was a mix between hurt and surprise, and I felt bad, of all things. What the fuck?
“You ... you won’t give me a tattoo?” she said.
I imagined her to be the sort of girl who always did the right thing, who was never told she couldn’t do something because she never wanted to do anything that would get her in trouble.
“I can’t,” I said. “Not now, anyway. Feel free to come back, though. Just don’t have a drink first.”
“Aw, come on,” Tara said. “I bet people come in here all the time a little drunk. I mean, don’t some people need that liquid courage just to go under the needle to begin with?”
“It’s not recommended,” I said. “And, it’s shop policy. Drunk people aren’t very good at holding still, and if you’re squirming around while I’m trying to ink you, it’s not going to come out very good. Which is a reflection of my own work, and I actually do take my work seriously.”
“That’s very noble of you.” She gave me a coy look. “So, am I to believe that you are actually going to deny us service? Isn’t the customer always right?”
“Uh, no, actually. I’d say 85 percent of the time, the customer is probably wrong.”
“Some businessman you are.” Tara sniffed. “Fine, I guess we’ll just have to go elsewhere. Come on, Chloe.”
Chloe followed her out, but not before she looked back at me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry for ...” she paused. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then she stepped over the threshold and the door closed.
Todd stared at them until they were out of sight and then turned to me. “I can’t believe you just threw paying customers out of your store. Have you gone blind? Those girls were hot! You’re a fool!”
“I’m not tattooing drunk people; I don’t care how hot they are.”
“You totally ruined their night. Those types of girls aren’t used to people not catering to their every whim.”
“And what type would that be? I like how you’re talking about them as though you actually know them.”
Todd waved me off. “Come on, Graham. You know exactly the type: rich and entitled and here for the summer. They’re usually the fun ones you can get into some good no-strings-attached scenarios with.”
“Feel free to go chase after them, then; I’m not stopping you. It might make you feel better about being stood up.”
For a moment, it looked like he was considering it. But then he shook his head. “Better not,” he said. “The way my luck is going tonight, they’d probably both turn me down. Or, they wouldn’t turn me down but I’d get a raging case of gonorrhea or something. Can you just close this shit up? I need a drink. But if those girls come back again, you better believe I’m going to go for it.”
“Sure you will,” I said, fully expecting to never see either of those girls again.
Chapter Six
Chloe
I woke up the next morning with a headache and a bad taste in my mouth, even though I thought remembered brushing my teeth before I went to bed. Or maybe I was thinking about the previous night? I couldn’t be completely sure. Either way, the sun streaming through the windows seemed way too harsh, and the songbirds I usually enjoyed listening to sounded cacophonic. I buried my head under the pillow, which helped with the searing sunlight but did nothing to ease my headache. I got up and gingerly made my way into the bathroom.
I felt a little better after getting a drink and splashing some cool water on my face. I’d only had two and a half glasses of wine—was that even enough to constitute getting a hangover? It seemed kind of pathetic.
I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. I could see my mother through the window above the sink, sitting out on the veranda, sipping something. I looked at the clock, shocked to see that it was almost noon. Noon? How had I slept until noon?
I poured myself some orange juice and popped a slice of bread in the toaster. I tried to remember what happened last night. The memories came back like when you try to recall a dream you had—fleeting and hazy, and when you tried to grasp on to any one instance, it slipped away.
There was dinner and drinks. There was the club, later, and another glass of wine, which I hadn’t finished. There was the loud, throbbing music, a feeling of giddiness that I hadn’t experienced before. Then, a little bit later, Tara whispering to me that she’d just had the best idea and we needed to leave. We’d gone to a tattoo parlor. And the guy there said he wouldn’t give either of us tattoos, which, for some reason, bothered me more than it probably should have.
His logic for saying no made sense, after all. If anything, it showed that he took his profession seriously. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was that talk that I’d had with my parents earlier, but I had found myself wanting a tattoo more than anything. Nothing that big, and certainly not in a place that couldn’t be easily covered up by clothes—it would be like my own little secret, something that my parents would probably flip out over if they knew, but they wouldn’t ever have to know.
Before I lost my nerve, I got dressed and headed back down to the tattoo place.
*****
I didn’t let myself think about it as I drove, and I didn’t stop to think about it when I parked and walked in. “Hey,” I said, realizing that maybe it hadn’t been the smartest idea not to at least think of what to say beyond hey, because I had no idea. I felt shy, suddenly, as I always seemed to around good-looking guys. He was especially handsome though, with his beard and short, tousled hair. His eyes were dark blue, like the color of washed denim, and even though he was physically imposing, there was a kindness in his eyes that put me a little more at ease. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was here last night with my friend.”
He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Chloe, right?”
I returned his smile, pleased that he had remembered my name. “Right,” I said. “And I’m not drunk.”
There was a pause and I felt my face start to flush again. I had meant that last part to come out sounding lighthearted, joking, but it sounded more like a proposition, or maybe a threat.
He looked at the clock on the wall behind me. “Seeing as it’s 1:30 in the afternoon, I’d say that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah. So ... I would like to get a tattoo. Something simple, and small. I like flowers a lot. I know that’s kind of a cliché, but I don’t want something that’s totally wacky just for the sake of being different. And ... yeah. ”
He leaned across the counter and was doodling something in a sketchbook as I talked. I realized how vague I was sounding, but I was having difficulty describing what it was I wanted. It was as though I could see it in my mind but couldn’t adequately explain it with words.
“And I’m thinking it might have to be somewhere that isn’t visible. I don’t want one on my lower back, because I’d actually like to be able to see it myself, so maybe ... well ... where would you say people usually get them when they want to be able to hide it?”
He stopped drawing and straightened. “There’s a lot of places, actually, it really just depends on what your preference is. Bottom of your foot, back of your neck—if you wear your hair down—between your fingers, ribcage, upper thigh.” He spun the sketch pad toward me. “Something like that?”
I looked down at what he’d drawn and felt my breath catch in my throat. How long had he spent doing that? Two minutes? Less? He’d rendered, in perfect, thin, black lines of ink, a delicate stem with 10 or 11 offshoots of poppy blooms. It was minimalist and simple, but also stunningly beautiful.
“That’s exactly what I wanted,” I said. I looked up at him. “How did you know?” I realized I sounded like an awestruck fangirl, but it really was like he’d
somehow managed to access the part of my brain that knew what the tattoo was supposed to look like, even when I myself couldn’t articulate it.
He shrugged. “That was just the first thing that came to mind after you described what you wanted.”
Now it was just a matter of figuring out where it should go. I didn’t want it on the bottom of my foot, and though it was small, it was too big to go between my fingers. Plus, I didn’t know how long the recovery time would be or what exactly it would be like, and I needed both my hands to start working on my sculpture. The back of the neck might be okay, but then I would only be able to see it if I looked in the mirror. It was such a pretty image that I wanted to be able to look at it easily. And, I wanted other people to be able to see it, too.
“Here,” I said, touching my inner forearm right below the elbow crease. “I want it right here.”
“That’s a good placement,” he said. “But you’re going to have to wear long sleeves all the time if you want to keep it hidden.”
I shook my head. “I think I changed my mind about that. I don’t actually want to keep it hidden.”
He regarded me, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh. I felt myself start to blush. Yes, I was coming across as a fool who didn’t actually know what she wanted, but so what? Really, I was feeling proud of myself for coming down here alone to begin with. For someone like Tara, it wouldn’t even be a thing, but for me ... this was actually a big deal.
“Are you about to laugh at me?” I asked. “Because I’m not actually trying to be funny.”
“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said, in such a way that made me believe him. “But, I am curious—who are you trying to hide this tattoo from?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say my parents, because that made me sound like a teenager. Which I wasn’t, so it wasn’t as though my parents could actually do anything to me anyway.
“It’s something my parents probably won’t be too thrilled about,” I said. “Not that it matters, though, because I’m 21. I’m just ... I’m just staying with them this summer, so I’ll be seeing them more than during the school year.”
“You’re in school?”
“Yeah. Art school. Which, according to my parents, isn’t really school and I’m wasting my time.”
He leaned across the counter again and looked at me with those deep, blue eyes. “So, is this tattoo more about being rebellious? Which is totally fine, if it is. People do that.”
“No. Yes. Well, I don’t know!” And I really didn’t. Would I be here right now if my parents hadn’t made me feel like such shit about being in art school? Probably not. I’d probably be dutifully working on my sculpture, completely ignorant and blissful about how excited my parents would be that I had something that was going to be in an art exhibition.
“I’ve been doing a lot of hand poked tattoos lately,” he said. “And this will come out really nicely if I do it that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “But ... excuse my ignorance, what is that?”
“I’m not going to use the mechanical gun. It’s a bit of a slower process, but I’ve come to like it a lot better. And it’s perfect for something like this. A hand poked tattoo is usually made up of a lot of lines, dots, negative space. This will come out really nice.”
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.” I had no idea what he was talking about, to be completely honest, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “I’m ready.”
He smiled. “Okay. Let’s get started. Well, I’m going to need to see some ID first.”
If I were Tara, I’d say something coy about looking like I was over 18, but I just fumbled in my purse for my wallet and extracted my driver’s license. “Here you go.” I also decided against saying something how it was the worst picture ever, even though I was pretty sure that it was.
He looked at it, then looked at me, then looked back down at the picture. It took me a second to catch on, but then I laughed. “It really is me,” I said.
He winked as he handed it back to me. “I’m Graham, by the way; I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself. You ready to do this?”
I put my ID back in my wallet and took a deep breath. If I stopped to think about it for too long, I was probably going to chicken out. “I’m ready.”
It ended up hurting less than I expected, mostly, except in a few places where it actually hurt more. I bit the inside of my cheek and winced a little, but the pain never got so bad that I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it.
“You’re doing great,” he said. He had purple latex gloves on, but I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my bare skin.
“It feels ... different than I was expecting.” I was glad there wasn’t really any blood. “It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
“It’s funny—I’ve had guys in here, these big, total jock-type dudes, and they’ve been in tears before I’m even halfway done. You know, they look like the sort of guys that could crush bricks with their skulls or something, but they are literally begging me to hurry up and get it over with.” He smiled a little and shook his head. “And then someone like you who can handle it like it’s not even a thing.”
“It kind of isn’t,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty small compared to some of the stuff you’ve done, I bet.”
“You’re right—it’s not the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on, but it doesn’t really make a difference to me. I want every piece to come out looking awesome.”
“I know what you mean. There were some kids in art school that were only interested in working on the really big projects, the ones that they thought might have a chance getting into the show at the end of the year. So they wouldn’t give enough time to the smaller assignments we had, and in the end, it usually wound up backfiring because their bigger projects wound up lacking depth. Or that’s what one of the professors said, anyway.”
“Well, he’s right. So you’re in art school?”
“Yeah. I’m actually going to be in an exhibition at the end of this summer.”
“No shit? That’s great.”
“It is, except I’m kind of struggling with what the sculpture’s going to be, and then how I’m actually going to pull it off. I want it to be really good.”
“Of course you do, especially if it’s going to be on public display. I could give you a hand, if you want.”
“Really? That would be great.”
I think we were both surprised; I was surprised he had offered to help, and he was surprised that I had accepted the offer. But I could tell he was a talented artist. And there was some part of me that just wanted to hang out with him. “Do you want to meet me at the Bennet Center for the Arts? That’s where I’m going to be working out of.”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. He wiped gently at my arm. “What do you think?”
I looked down, not expecting the tattoo to be finished so quickly, but it was. And it looked so perfect there on my arm that my breath caught in my throat. It was even more beautiful on skin than it had been on paper. I looked at him, unable to keep the grin from spreading on my face.
“I love it,” I said.
Chapter Seven
Graham
I was surprised that girl, Chloe, had come back. Pleasantly surprised, I admit, though I reminded myself about my resolution to not hook up with anyone this summer. And honestly, I hadn’t expected to see her again, except then she mentioned her sculpture project and I offered to help, which had totally come out of left field. I could have stood her up or come up with some excuse not to go, but in the end, I decided to meet up with her, because I had nothing better to do and because there was something about her that I found intriguing.
I went down to the Bennet Center for the Arts, where she said she’d be working. Ah, art school. I might’ve toyed with the idea of attending art school myself at one point, though I shelved it quickly after realizing how expensive schools like that were. I probably could have qualified for some sort of financial a
id, but it would be a huge headache, because I knew I’d need my mother and Wade’s information as well. I also knew I didn’t need to pay 30,000 dollars a year to learn about art.
I’d never been to the Bennet Center before, though I’d certainly driven by it plenty of times. It was actually a lot bigger than I realized; from the road, you could see a modest-looking, renovated, Cape-style home that I thought made up the whole place; in reality, though, there was a connecting archway off the back of the house that attached it to a long, barn-like structure where the studios and performing spaces were located.
There were several people hanging out on the porch, artist types with wild hair and Birkenstocks, paint-stained smocks. They watched me approach but didn’t say anything, and then after I’d passed by, they went back to their conversation. I went inside and found myself in a high-ceilinged lobby with artwork adorning the walls. There were leather armchairs set up in groups of four, and on the far wall was a table with muffins, donuts, and several coffee carafes. I went over and poured myself a cup, and when I turned back around, Chloe was walking through the door.
“Hey,” she said.
The coffee was scalding hot and burned the tip of my tongue. “Ouch,” I said. “I mean, hey. How’s it going?”
“Good. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, just got here, checking things out.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No. I don’t usually hang out with artists.”
The group of people that had been outside came back in and walked past us, talking about the continuum of bas relief techniques.
Chloe looked at me and grinned. “Yeah, some of the people around here take themselves a little bit too seriously. Come on, the studio I’m working in is down here.”
I followed her down a long hallway. “How’s the arm?”
She was wearing a three-quarter sleeve cardigan, which she pushed back to reveal the tattoo, which was almost healed and looked quite nice.