by Zeia Jameson
“Sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
I grunt and turn over onto my other side.
Two and a Half Years Ago
I told Padraig I wanted to quit. I couldn’t run the tattoo parlor after all. Knowing I’d done a tattoo that was for Mallory on another man scooped out any remaining human emotions I had for anything and tossed it directly into an incinerator.
I couldn’t do another tattoo. I just couldn’t.
But then Padraig pointed out that their lives were no longer my concern. And that this guy had come in and paid me for a service. And that Mallory may or may not tell him the person who did his tattoo was her ex, but she would always know that. She had to live with that.
It didn’t make me feel better, but it did make me feel different. It was a tat I was proud of, and I was paid for it. It was a business transaction, and that is all.
I’m finishing up another business transaction—a sunflower on the lower back of a woman who is close to my age—when I hear the bell chime on the door.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I call from above.
“It’s just me,” I hear Padraig call back.
I finish the sunflower, clean and bandage it, and give the woman the care information. She winks at me and leaves a piece of paper on the counter of my booth before she heads downstairs. I grab the paper and glance at it as I’m cleaning up.
Give me a call if you want to have some fun later.
Her number is also included.
I ball up the paper and toss it into the small wastebasket next to me. I finish cleaning the booth.
I grab a metal folding chair from the middle of the room and carry it to the window. I sit down backward in it, my front up against its back. I gaze out the window, watching the water move lazily, the ferries moving slowly between River Street and Hutchinson Island, and the people walking along the waterfront.
I fall into a daze while staring out the window. I don’t know how long I sit there, but I nearly doze off until I hear Padraig’s voice behind me.
“Hey. See something exciting going on out there?”
I lean up and stretch my back. “Not really. Just taking in the view,” I say unconvincingly. I turn to see Padraig plop down into one of the booth chairs. He’s holding a small bag of chips. Once he’s settled in the chair, he pops a chip into his mouth, looking in my direction the whole time.
“You haven’t touched anything downstairs since the other day.”
By “the other day,” he’s referring to when Mallory came by. There’s more painting to do, fixtures to set up, furniture to arrange. I haven’t touched any of it. I thought I was okay. I thought I agreed with what Padraig said in regard to not thinking too much about her showing up.
I don’t want to think about it.
But every time I go downstairs, all I can think about is how she sat there looking the way she did, saying the things she said. It all haunts me, especially when I’m downstairs.
“I know.”
“I’ve got some free time,” he says. “I could help you out.”
I sigh. “Not today, Pad. I can’t. Not today.”
“Luca,” he starts.
“Look, I don’t want to talk about anything, if that’s what you’re going to say. It won’t help me feel better. And you telling me to stop thinking about it only makes me think about it more.”
Padraig stands and puts the chips on the counter. He pulls out his wallet and flips through it.
“I swear, Padraig, if you try to give me money, I’m going to lose my shit.”
He smiles. “Untwist those panties of yours, Luca.” He pulls out a card, walks over, and hands it to me.
“Listen,” he says as I take the card from him and look at it. There’s a name of a doctor, some official-looking letters representing educational and medical credentials, and a phone number on it. “This is a family friend. She’s very good at what she does.”
“What does she do, exactly?”
“She’s a therapist.”
I hand the card back to him. “No.”
“Keep the card. In case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
He shrugs. “I have to head out. If you decide you need help downstairs, text me.”
“Sure.”
I don’t need a fucking therapist. Therapists are for whack jobs who can’t get their shit together. Crazy people. I’m not crazy.
I peer over at the wastebasket and partially consider pulling Sunflower Girl’s number out and calling her. I could have some fun with her. Just like she wanted.
God, what am I thinking? I couldn’t have fun with her. I had no attraction to her whatsoever. She smacked her gum the whole time she was in my chair and asked me if I was more of a Zayn or a Liam, but I had no idea what the hell that meant. I pretended not to hear her, and she moved on to some other topic. Talking and smacking the gum non-fucking-stop.
Fuck. Maybe I am crazy.
Present Day
“You know I’m going to have to charge you for this, right?” Dr. Kohl says to me as I video-chat with her on my phone on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve been meeting with Dr. Kohl, my therapist, off and on since shortly after the day Mallory showed up and told me about her fiancé’s tattoo. Seeing a therapist was Padraig’s suggestion, as I was about to make another bad decision in my life because of how Mallory affected me once again. For the most part, I don’t feel like the therapy helps me make breakthroughs with my emotions or whatever, but I do feel like Dr. Kohl is a person I can talk to and receive no judgment or ridicule from. And she can sometimes offer a perspective that I’ve never considered.
Unlike with Padraig, who not only has just the right answer for everything but also harps on it until you do what he wants you to do.
Hence, it’s why I do therapy. He suggested it and wouldn’t let it go.
He always means well. But sometimes he takes things a little too far. I’m not even sure he realizes it, although I’ve mentioned it more than once.
And as far as my family is concerned, my brother and my dad pretty much disowned me when I opened the shop. They didn’t approve. I still talk to my mom often, but if I tell her something is wrong, she worries too much and always tries to comfort me with brownies and cookies, which is nice, but brownies and cookies and her obsessive worrying does me no good in the long run.
And I have to admit it has helped from time to time. Even if Dr. Kohl doesn’t offer any thoughts on a situation, the actual act of talking to someone and getting things off my chest sometimes clears my head and just overall makes me feel better.
“Of course I realize that. But I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I have to do an hour-long tattoo session tonight, and I want to be able to concentrate. I was hoping that talking to you would help with that.”
“What’s going on, Luca?”
I tell her about Kerry. Everything. About acting like an idiot at Clay & Soul, and again outside of Swirl. I tell her about how I have this constant thought of Kerry in my head. I want to know why she’s all I think about and why I’m acting so needy. I tell her I want to go back to Normal Luca.
“You don’t want to go back to Normal Luca. Normal Luca is a loner who makes no effort to seek out anyone for friendship or anything more. People come to you and push themselves on you. Padraig did it. The veteran guys who keep coming back for your tattoos. The girls you’ve hooked up with in the past—they all come to you.”
“Yeah, but Normal Luca is able to focus on his job. Normal Luca doesn’t have to worry about thinking about some girl who hardly gives him the time of day.”
“Normal Luca is lonely and, although maybe not cognizant of it, is in desperate need of attention and approval. You feel rejected because you aren’t used to having a relationship that isn’t being pushed onto you. Deep down, I think you want her to come to you and tell you exactly how she wants things to go. You want her to make all of the moves because you’re afraid of making the wrong ones. And because she isn’t doing that, y
ou’re projecting blame onto her.”
“I’m not blaming her for anything,” I defend.
“I think you are, Luca. You set the terms of casual friendship, and she is trying to respect that. Do you wonder if she sits at home after a long day and wishes you would knock on her door? Shoot her a text?”
“I don’t have her phone number.”
“Luca. You’ve had sex with this woman, and you knew going in that you wanted more of a connection, yet you failed to get her phone number?”
Not judgment. Only a question. I’ve learned this.
“Yes. I don’t have her number. I never thought to ask for it until these past few days when I wanted to text her or call her and I couldn’t.”
“And you don’t want to ask Padraig to help you get it?”
“No. I don’t want to involve Padraig in this at all.”
She knows how I feel about showing Padraig my weaknesses.
“Okay. How long did you say it was before her event is over?”
“The event is a little over a week away.”
“Here’s what I want you to do.”
I stare intensely at Dr. Kohl on the screen, hoping she’ll give me all the answers to make everything right.
“I want you to be patient.”
“What?”
“Be patient, Luca.”
I roll my eyes and run my fingers through my hair.
“First of all, this is all brand new, Luca. You are making this into a whirlwind situation because Kerry is different, and in your eyes, she’s special.”
“She is special,” I interrupt.
“Look,” she continues, “she said she’s busy. You have to trust that. You have to trust her. Don’t make her the bad guy for having a hectic career. Especially when the terms of your relationship, as far as she is concerned—from what you told her, remember—are casual. Let her come to you.”
I huff into the phone.
“If she’s a good person, she’ll come to you. If she’s not, then you don’t need to waste your time on her. That’s about all the subjective advice I can give.”
“Okay. That’s fair. And you’re right.”
“In the meantime, for tonight, if you still feel like your mind is racing too much before you have to work, write down how you feel. Like you used to do. That used to help, right?”
For months, I wrote hate letters to Mallory, expressing how she made me feel. The letters all remain in a journal, now tucked away in my closet. Mallory never read them. But putting the words out there made me feel like I had said them to her face, which was a little gratifying.
“Yeah, I can try that, I guess.”
“Good. And if you feel like you need to talk to me more, call the office. My schedule is usually pretty open on Mondays, after noon.”
“Okay, thanks, Doc.”
“Have a good day, Luca.”
We end the video chat. I do feel better, but not completely resolved.
I don’t have any regular notebooks lying around, so I grab my sketch pad and begin writing how I feel.
Dear Kerry. . .
Present Day
The writing didn’t cure me, but it did help. It calmed me enough to work on my hour-long session, which I finished up about ten minutes ago. I’ve cleaned the tools and the booth. I walk around and double-check that everything is shut down. I flip the lights and pull the keys from my pocket to unlock my apartment door. I hear a light tapping behind me. I turn around and see Kerry standing on the sidewalk outside the parlor.
She’ll come to you.
She cups her hands around her face in an attempt to look through the glass. She’s making no indication that she sees me. The space is dark, and I imagine it’s hard to see me standing in the shadow of the hallway.
I walk over to the door, watching her the entire time. As I get closer, she sees me. One of her hands curls halfway into a wave.
I unlock the front door. She enters.
“Hi,” I say.
Her lips hit mine instantly. I grab her by the hips and kiss her back. She leans into me so much that I have to take a few steps back so I don’t fall over completely. I wrap my arms around her and pull her with me. She breaks our connection, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward my apartment door. I pause and hold my finger up, indicating I need a second. I turn, still holding her hand, and lock the front door. I turn back, nod, and allow her to lead me to the apartment door. After I unlock it, we enter the stairway, and I pause again long enough to lock up. Still clasping my hand, she races up the stairs.
Kerry turns to me and kisses me like she did downstairs. I lift her, and she wraps her legs around me. I walk us to the bed and lay her down. I hover over her and kiss her neck while my hand snakes up her shirt.
“Luca,” she whispers. Her hands run through my hair, down my back, and around toward my belt. She fumbles with it for a moment, then whips it out of the belt loops of my jeans.
Holy fuck, that was hot.
She pushes up my shirt, and I lift up, grab it from behind, and snatch it off. She looks at my torso while she rakes her nails gently from my chest to my pants, which she proceeds to undo. I take her hand and pull her up, kiss her, and then remove her shirt. I focus my attention on her breasts.
Kerry whispers my name again.
I cannot get our clothes off fast enough.
I grab a condom from the drawer. She takes it from my hand, rips the foil with her teeth, nudges me onto my back, and rolls it on—all in one swift movement.
She’s like a gunslinger.
She straddles my body and lowers herself onto me. As she rides me, my hands roam her body until her moans begin to build. I grab her ass with both hands, squeeze her cheeks, and move my hips in sync with hers until she’s yelling my name into the vast space of my studio apartment.
I flip her with a swift move so she’s on her back. My tongue teases her nipples and blazes a trail up her chest and neck. She pants and writhes beneath me. I devour her mouth. She laces her fingers into my hair and responds with the same intensity.
I enter her, wrap my arm around her lower back, and lift her hips. I thrust into her as deep as I can. She moans. My movements are quick bursts. She grabs my ass, digging her nails in, begging for more. I quicken my pace, and when I think I can’t hold out any longer, she yells my name again. As soon as she relaxes onto the bed, I let go.
I move over and fall onto my back. I’m panting. She’s panting. I look over at her, her breasts heaving, her eyes closed, lips slightly parted. She looks completely sated. And fucking gorgeous.
I lean over and kiss her. “I’ll be right back,” I say. She nods, her breathing still elevated.
Other than her whispering my name, she never said a word to me.
I have no idea what that was about. Right now, I don’t care.
I slide back into bed and lean over to her. She’s lying there still, just as she was before, but sound asleep. I cover her with the comforter. I settle myself next to her and watch her sleep until I doze off myself.
I wake. It’s still dark out. I look over to see her still lying next to me. I shift myself onto my side and look at her silhouette. She’s so peaceful beside me. I reach out and gently touch her hair. She stirs.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey,” I answer. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I zonked out on you like that.”
“Not a problem.” I smile and run my hand over her cheek. She moves her face into my touch, then snakes her arm over my side and pulls herself into me.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I stroke her hair again. “You already said that. It’s fine, really.”
“No. Not for falling asleep. I’m sorry I just burst in here like that and started kissing you. I needed you. Yet I said nothing to you. I just—”
I pull her into me more. “It’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
We lie there in silence.
I run my fingers through her hair and down her back. Her breathing becomes slow and even. I eventually drift back to sleep.
I wake to her rustling again. I open my eyes to see her getting dressed.
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
“Work,” she answers. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to run away. I promise. I have to go.”
I throw on my boxers and a shirt. I walk over to her standing at the edge of my stairs.
“Can I have your number?” I ask. “I’ve been wanting to call you, or text you, but I don’t have your number.”
Fuck, how desperate did that sound?
“Oh my God, yes! I didn’t even think about us not having each other’s numbers.” She hands me her phone. “Here, text yourself.”
I do and hand her back her phone. “Good. Can I text you later on to see how you’re doing?”
“Please do. Your texts will be a welcome distraction.”
She reaches up and kisses me. I kiss her back. I pull her into me, and I never want to let her go.
“Thank you for last night,” she says. “It was amazing again. More than amazing. I really want to stay, but I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll be looking forward to your text. And hopefully, maybe I can see you tonight? If things don’t get too crazy at work?”
“I’ll be sure to text. Anything I can do to help. I hope I get to see you tonight, too.”
She kisses me one more time before she leaves. I watch her walk out.
My phone chimes and I take a look. It’s the text I just sent myself from her phone. I save her number into my phone. I plan to make good use of it from now on.
Present Day
I spend the better part of Monday sketching out a large design for a customer. He’s coming by in a few days for a session. It’s part two of what I’m sure will be a four-session tattoo. The rest of the day, I clean up the shop, man the counter, and order some inventory. None of this was done without thinking about Kerry.
I wait until late afternoon to text her. I don’t want to seem eager and needy. My text is simple and, in my opinion, quite thoughtful.