Ink My Heart lj-2

by Jean Haus

  Regardless that I’ll always wish for Ben’s sake that one day we could be a family, Trevor will never grow up. He’s good at inking. He’s good at partying. He’s good at making a girl feel like she’s the center of his world, even if it’s not true. Being a father? Not so much. And he definitely sucked at being a husband.

  If it weren’t for Ben, I’d view the years between fifteen and twenty as a total waste. But not all the memories are bad. There are good ones, like Trevor’s look of awe holding Ben in the hospital for the first time, Ben smashing his first birthday cake in Trevor’s face, and Trevor playing with a newly walking Ben on the beach. But Trevor never cared for the small things, the day-to-day stuff of Ben’s life. Teething, diapers, reading books before bed, even following Ben on a tricycle up and down the block—things that would have taken up too much of his valuable time. Time that he could spend inking or partying or screwing Jazz.

  I sigh and pull out a can of soup for Ben. As I reach for the bread, my phone vibrates on the counter. Justin’s been texting me all day. Other than glancing at the first one, I haven’t read any of the messages or even picked up the phone. When I find the heart, I’ll erase them without reading. Then I’ll have to find the courage to call him and break it off.

  As I slide the bread into the toaster, I’m guessing that might take a few days.

  Though I’ve had doubts about dating him from the start, I’m attracted to Justin—okay, really, really attracted—and slamming the door on the chance to be with him is going to hurt a little. Between his gorgeous face and his insanely hot inked body, how could it not? But his reaction today solidified all my reservations. I couldn’t tell if he was shocked I never told him or filled with disgust to learn that I was a parent—either way, he pissed me off. His response also made my recent idiocy clear.

  I absently grab the butter dish as I wait for the toast to pop up.

  A future for Justin and me is implausible. He’s a college student and the lead singer of a local college band. He parties all the time, appears to have a trust fund, and hooks up with different women on a regular basis—for goodness’ sake, he has groupies. I’m a single mother running a business, going to school, and paying her own way. He lives a carefree life. I have too many responsibilities to count. Important responsibilities.

  I glance at Ben watching TV as I stir the chicken noodle soup.

  If I’m going to date, he has to be someone who is settled in life, knows where he’s going, and has a sense of responsibility. I feel old and judgmental thinking like that, but I’ve been down the Trevor road. Both Ben and I need stability. And Justin is the farthest thing from stable.

  I’m aware that many people would call me uptight. Other single mothers date regularly, and don’t consider it a big deal. My reluctance is partly because the only person I’ve ever really dated is Trevor—from when I was fourteen to when I was sixteen. Then, when we got back together after an especially bad breakup, I stupidly let him talk me into marriage. Okay, he didn’t have to talk much. I was on cloud freakin’ a million after he asked me. But having wedding rings didn’t make our problems go away, and less than two years later I was freshly divorced. At the time I imagined being a teenage mother would have guys crossing me off their possible lists. Once I got distance from Trevor though—and got my head screwed on right—I realized I would be crossing men off my list. Shuffling a parade of men in and out of my son’s life wasn’t an option. And I had no interest in dating someone who wasn’t interested in being part of Ben’s life.

  And Justin, with his harem of fans, doesn’t belong anywhere near my empty list of possible men to date.

  After cutting the toast into bite-size pieces and letting the soup cool, I take a tray to the coffee table.

  Ben sits up. “That smells good,” he says.

  I’m hoping his enthusiasm is a sign the bread and soup will stay down. I open the cabinet under the TV. “You want me to put a DVD in?”

  Chewing on toast, he nods vigorously.

  “The Magic School Bus or Sid the Science Kid?” I ask. I’m not sure where my son got his insatiable curiosity. Except for art, I was never more than a decent student. Trevor was a bad boy in high school and his grades reflected it. But our son is going to be a scientist or a mechanical engineer or something amazing.

  “Bus,” he says through a mouthful of toast.

  Done loading the DVD, I move to the couch as he splashes soup all over the coffee table. “Here,” I say, sitting next to him. “Let me help.”

  We watch TV as I feed him soup. Done eating, he curls against me. I let him watch one more episode, then run him a bath. He doesn’t play like usual, just lets me soap and rinse. Clean and dressed in warm pajamas, he leans into me.

  “Can I sleep with you?” he asks, his mouth a cute pout.

  After Trevor left, I let Ben sleep with me far too often. Breaking the habit had taken one hellish month. But when he’s sick, I usually cave. “Just tonight,” I say, hugging him back. “Tomorrow you’re back in your bed.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll feel good enough for my bed,” he says firmly with a soft smile. My heart warms.

  Ben always melts my heart.

  I read his favorite book. He falls asleep. Too tired to do anything but brush my teeth, I trudge to the bathroom. The sound of my phone vibrating on the counter comes at me in the hall.

  I ignore it and the tug at my heart.

  Because if I do ignore Justin, my heart will be safe. It’s not only my practical thoughts concerning Ben that are keeping me from picking up the phone. It’s mostly my torn, beaten, fearful heart.

  Chapter 17

  Justin

  Hey, Justin,” Marcus says, pressing a controller and jumping in front of a flat screen. “What’s up? You want next game?”

  I pause at the door of his dorm room, trying to decide if I can deal with the scene—dorks playing video games.

  It has been twenty-four hours since I talked with Allie. She won’t answer my texts or her phone. My reaction about her son was fucked up, sure. But her not telling me was fucked up too. And her refusing to communicate with me pisses me off. Then I get pissed because I’m pissed. I don’t do this. I don’t “care” about girls.

  The loud sound of the video game spills into the hall, and I realize Marcus is giving me a questioning look. The guy is in the college marching band, and is one of Riley’s best friends. He’s been in awe of me since he moved into the dorm in August. His awe pumps my ego. Selfishly, I like my ego pumped. And it seriously needs to be pumped right about now.

  “Invite him in and you’ll be sitting out, bitch,” Marcus’s roommate, Don, says.

  “Please. Here comes the boom!” Marcus yells as his quarterback throws a bomb across the screen. The receiver catches it.

  “Oh, you are one lucky asshole,” Don says.

  “Luck? It’s all pure talent.” Marcus glances over his shoulder. “You in?”

  “Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Just passing through.” Usually I find their freshman antics amusing. Not today. I’m finding them both beyond annoying. And other than at band practice, I rarely get annoyed. I push out of the doorway. “Catch you later.”

  In my room, I drag my acoustic guitar out of the closet, sit on the bed, and strum the few tunes I know. I’m hoping that playing will distract me from thinking about Allie. I tried doing homework earlier but couldn’t concentrate. Yet hearing the chords of the guitar echo in the room reminds me of her. Frustrated, I put down the guitar next to me and pick up my phone. No missed calls. No new texts.

  Something snaps inside me, and I lose it. Before I know it, I’m smashing my guitar on the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. Pieces of splintered wood fly all over. Some hit me. Others bounce off the walls and the desk. In seconds, they cover the floor.

  Breathing heavy, I’m sitting there staring at the shards of wood strewn all over when a knock sounds. After about the fifth knock, I let out a deep breath, drop the broken guitar stem on my bed, and answe
r the door.

  “Justin!” Riley says, confusion turning her lips down. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ah, I live here.”

  “Shut up. You know what I mean. You’re never here.”

  “Right now I’m here.”

  She still appears puzzled. “Romeo in?”

  I shake my head.

  “Huh,” she says, still looking confused. She twists her ponytail between her fingers. “He’s supposed to meet me here. Can I wait inside?”

  “You don’t really want to come in,” I say from behind gritted teeth.

  “Why?”

  Reluctantly I let go of the door handle and head for the bed, sitting down with a sigh.

  “What is that?” Riley asks, staring at the pieces all over the floor.

  I shrug. “What’s left of my guitar.”

  After shutting the door, she takes a couple steps into the room and picks up a piece of wood. “You smashed your guitar?”

  “Apparently.”

  “You and Romeo fighting again?” she asks, her voice low.

  “Nope. This one was all me.”

  She picks up some of the bigger pieces and tosses them into the trash. “Must be nice to be able to afford to smash things.”

  “Please don’t remind me that I’m a rich prick.”

  After staring at me for several seconds, she falls on the other bed across from me. “What’s going on, Justin?”

  I rub my temples. “Nothing.”

  “So you look all devastated like something awful happened and smashed your guitar for no reason?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  She stares at me with a stubborn expression. Riley really is a decent person, even if she is madly in love with Romeo. But I don’t talk about feelings. Because usually, other than the occasional flash of anger at my bandmates, I don’t have them.

  She crosses her legs. “So?”

  I scowl at her.

  “Why did you smash your guitar?” When I don’t answer, she persists. “Well?”

  “Because I fucked up.”

  “Big surprise there,” she mutters.

  My eyes narrow.

  “O-ka-ay,” she says, drawing out the word. “What did you mess up?”

  When I’m silent, she gives me an expectant stare, drops her chin in her palm, and waits.

  “I kind of lost it with this girl I’m seeing.”

  Her eyes get big. “You’re seeing someone?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  Riley glances at the mess on the floor. She gives me a pointed look.

  I run my hand through my hair. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I’m not taking it well.”

  Her expression conveys that’s obvious. “Why do you think she doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

  “Who are you, fucking Dr. Phil?”

  “What are you? A five-year-old who can’t talk about emotions? Just answer the question.”

  The kid comment hits a nerve. I lean my elbows on my knees and sigh. “Probably my rep. And because I’m an ass,” I say, hissing out the words. “And most definitely because I freaked out when I found out that she has a son.”

  Riley’s eyes widen.

  “We met like a month ago. We went on a couple of dates.” There’s no way in hell I’m explaining to Riley that the first one was mostly fake. “We’ve talked. We’ve texted. She never said anything about a kid. I found out about her kid in a roundabout way earlier today.”

  Her fingers tap the metal frame of the bed in a slow, rhythmic beat. “So she was never serious about you.”

  I stare at her with amazement. There are so many unfamiliar emotions warping my thoughts that Riley understands the situation more clearly than I do.

  “But were you serious about her?” she asks, her tone questioning.

  “I…She’s different. There’s something about her, something in her eyes. They’re lonely or…”

  Riley stares at me to the point her eyes almost pop out of her head. “I’m shocked,” she says. “I’d never expect—well, you use girls for one thing, you know?”

  “Yeah, and now I know why.”

  “Maybe you need a couple scars on that heart of yours.” She kneels on the floor and starts tossing more of the broken guitar pieces into the trash. “Other than her lonely eyes, what’s different about her?”

  “Well, she has an ex-husband to go with the son.” I bend and toss in the pieces closest to me.

  Her mouth turns down in distaste. “What the—? You hooking up with a cougar?”

  A sad laugh escapes me. “Not exactly. She’s only twenty-two.”

  “Well, that’s different, but how is she different?” Riley taps her fingers on a broken piece of wood, obviously waiting. “What else about her has you so hooked?”

  “I don’t know. She—when we’re together, there’s no bullshit between us. She makes me feel real. I haven’t felt real in a long time.” I rub the back of my neck. “I know that sounds stupid.”

  “No,” she says, and shakes head. “That makes it sound like you shouldn’t let this girl go.”

  Suddenly, Romeo is standing in the doorway, looking between us. “What’s going on?”

  Riley stands and brushes the knees of her jeans. “I’m waiting for you. Justin’s playing rock star and smashing guitars.”

  Romeo glances at the mess on the floor. “What the fuck? What instrument you plan on playing next Saturday?”

  “I’ll get a new one,” I mutter.

  “Damn right you’ll get a new one.”

  I scowl at his bossy ass.

  “Come on.” Riley winds an arm around Romeo’s. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  He smiles at her and she smiles back. For once, I’m truly jealous of their relationship.

  “See you later,” Riley says over her shoulder as they leave.

  Once they’re gone, I slam the broken stem against the mattress in frustration. I’m about to slam it again when a guitar riff comes out of my phone.

  At the sight of the name on the screen, the stem falls from my hand.

  After picking up my phone, I cautiously say, “Mom?”

  “Hello, Justin,” she says in a formal tone. I swear the older she gets, the more uppity she sounds. “I’m calling you back.”

  “I called you almost a month ago.”

  “We returned this week.”

  Not today. Or even yesterday. They got back days ago. “I’m pretty sure they have phones in Barbados.”

  “We were getting away.”

  “From your son?”

  “Please quit the dramatics. What was the reason for your call?”

  To talk to my mother, but the need is fading with each passing second. “Can’t remember.”

  “Well, if your memory comes back, we’re home now, but please don’t call past ten.”

  “What if it’s an emergency?”

  “Then call the local authorities, that’s what taxes are for. Besides, what am I going to do across the state?”

  “Give a shit?”

  “How lovely. Drama paired with vulgarity. Good night, Justin.”

  She hangs up, cutting off my response.

  After tossing the phone on my bed, I forget about smashing my guitar stem against the bed and start beating it against the garbage can, trying to forget my mother’s icy, nasal voice. Even more than that, I want to forget the reason why my temper exploded in the first place.

  Chapter 18

  Allie

  I slowly climb the stairs to the apartment above the tattoo shop, pulling up my hood to ward off the cold rain. I’ve been putting off talking to Shay, but Trevor keeps bugging me to increase her rent. Usually, I’d agree. I tend to make decisions with a business head when it comes to the shop, but with Shay, it’s a different story.

  After noticing her wandering the streets one too many times—in the cold, in the
rain, late at night—I started talking to her when I’d see her in the parking lot or passing on the sidewalk. Then I started inviting her into the shop. At first, it was just a few minutes at a time. I’d give her sodas or cookies or candy—Todd has a wicked sweet tooth—and say good-bye. But eventually she started showing up at the door more and more often. Within a month she was a regular at our pizza and takeout nights. And gradually her story started coming out.

  Shay’s mother not only parties constantly, but she goes through men like some women go through shoes. As Shay got older, the boyfriends started hitting on her. One even tried to get into her bedroom late at night. After that experience, Shay made a point of leaving the house whenever her mom brought a new boyfriend home. Sometimes she’d hang out at a friend’s house; other times she’d roam the streets until four or five in the morning. Neighbors told her they’d reported seeing her out late, hoping that notifying child services might change her mom’s behavior, but nothing happened.

  Working at the shop was Shay’s idea after hearing that I was advertising for another receptionist. When she asked about the job, she also asked about the FOR RENT sign in the window of the studio upstairs. I thought about it for maybe a total of fifteen minutes. Between her work hours and renting to a minor, the whole thing was illegal any way you looked at it, but then, Shay hanging out on the streets was dangerous. Even though we don’t live in a high crime city, I knew something would eventually happen to her.

  Illegal or not, I decided to hire her. The local authorities obviously didn’t want to fix the problem. Between my parents and some friends, we rounded up enough used stuff for the studio apartment and Shay settled in. I didn’t have the heart to charge her much rent, so we agreed on a few hundred bucks a month. She’s been working for me for over a year. I’ve watched her change from a timid, sad girl to a happy, independent almost adult. She used to miss school regularly. Now she goes in the morning and co-ops at the shop. She loves working at Dragonfly Ink. Looks to Todd and me as older siblings, but she hates that we won’t ink her until fall, when she’ll turn eighteen.