by Claire Adams
“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 aid, 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 af
ter 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.
“It came out so good,” she said. “I love it.”
I smiled, feeling that familiar sense of happy pride I always felt whenever I saw my work out in the world. The feeling never got old; I guessed it was similar to the way a parent must feel seeing their kid score the winning point. “What about your parents? Do they love it, too?”
“It would seem the weather gods are on my side,” she said. “It’s been mild enough that I’ve been able to get away wearing longer sleeves. Plus, I get cold easily, so I haven’t really been arousing any suspicion.” We went into one of the studios, which was a large room with big windows. There was a table set up in the middle, and several easels pushed into the corner. A counter and sink were against the far wall, and opposite that was a big cupboard that housed all the supplies.
“So, the show is at the end of August,” Chloe said. “I’ve got some ideas, but I haven’t decided on anything yet. That always seems to be my problem—whenever I have a project to do, I have okay ideas, but nothing spectacular. And I’d really like to come up with something spectacular, because this is the first show that I’ve been in that wasn’t held by the school. Also ...” she paused, and I could tell she was debating whether or not she wanted to actually tell me whatever it was she was about to say. “My parents think that I shouldn’t be pursuing art as a career, and I’d like to prove them wrong. I’d like to show them that I actually do have talent and that I haven’t just been wasting my time at art school.” She looked at me. “Were your parents always supportive of your art? I mean, you’re obviously really successful.”
I stifled a laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say that my parents were supportive of my art at all.”
“I’m sorry. It sucks, doesn’t it? It’s really shitty to be passionate about something and then have your parents just kind of shit all over it.”
“It does, but I think it also just makes you work harder for it. Kind of like you’re doing now, you know? You want to prove your parents wrong, so you’re going to make this wicked dope sculpture. Maybe if your parents were more supportive of it, you wouldn’t feel the motivation to work so hard. That’s how it was for me, anyway.”
She was quiet for a moment and then nodded slowly, a smile spreading across her face. She had a dimple on her left cheek. “When you put it that way, it really doesn’t sound so awful. Almost like it’s a good thing!”
We sat at the table and she pulled her sketchbook from her bag. “I didn’t really even need to come into the studio today; I’m not going to start working with the clay until I at least get some sort of sketch down,” she said. “But sometimes places like this give me inspiration.”
We spent the next few hours talking about art and doodling in her sketchbook. I was surprised when I looked at the clock to see how much time had gone by.
“Shit,” I said. “I better get going; I need to go open the shop.”
We walked out to the parking lot. Her car was parked just a few spots over from my truck.
“Thanks so much for helping me,” she said.
“It’s no problem, though I really didn’t do anything.”
“No, you did. Just having someone to talk to and share ideas with is really helpful.”
We weren’t standing that far apart from each other; less than an arm’s length. It would have been oh so easy to just lean down and kiss her, which is exactly what I wanted to do. And the way her head was tilted back just a little, looking up at me, it seemed pretty clear that she wouldn’t have minded it either.
But I knew where that would lead, and seeing as not even a week had passed since that conversation with my mother—who had been so adamant that there was no way in hell I’d be able to go the whole summer without hooking up with someone—I took a big step back and reached over to yank the door of my truck open.
“All right,” I said briskly. “I had a good time, thanks.” It would be best to just get out of there as fast as I could. Not that I was unable to control myself, but making a hasty exit seemed the only way to ensure that nothing would happen right now.
“Oh, um ... okay. Sure. Thanks again.”
My exit wasn’t quick enough that I was able to miss the look of confusion that flashed across Chloe’s face, though she did a good job at disguising it. I felt something close to anxiety as I started the truck and took off, sticking my arm out the window to wave at her but not bothering to look again. What the fuck? I chalked the anxious feeling up to my psyche simply not being used to being denied what it wanted. I wouldn’t classify myself as a hedonist, but I’d always had good luck when it came to women, and until today, I’d never not allowed myself to explore my carnal urges.
I did allow myself a glance in the rearview mirror, right before I pulled out of the parking lot. She was standing there, watching me go, and though I was too far away to make out the expression on her face, I imagined it to be one of confusion, and possibly hurt—the same sort of look she’d gotten that first night I met her when I told them I wouldn’t be giving them tattoos.
Chapter Eight
Chloe
“All right, you’ve got to tell me everything.” Tara took a big sip of her latte and looked at me, her eyes wide. “And I mean it—spare no details.”
We were sitting at one of the outside tables at the Sidewalk Café. Tara had insisted I meet her here after I was done at the studio—unless, of course, Graham and I were going to do something after that. That had seemed like a possibility, until the last few confusing minutes when it suddenly seemed like he couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“There’s really nothing to tell,” I said. “We talked about art, actually. It was nice. He’s not pretentious about it, and he gave me some good ideas for the sculpture. Which was what this whole thing was about, anyway.”
“Okay, but then what? I know you didn’t just talk about art the whole time.”
“Actually—we did.” I shrugged, knowing that I had disappointed her.
“Did you at least make plans to see him again?”
“Not really. I mean, he’s going to help me with this sculpture, so I’ll see him again, but we didn’t set anything up.”
Tara grinned. “Maybe you should sculpt him—sans clothes, of course.”
“I don’t think that’s the kind of thing Claudia is going to want in her show.”
“So, that’s it? Really? Remember what we talked about? How you’re going to get some practice before you meet your Prince Charming? He’s the perfect one to do it with. He’s hot. I bet he’s great in bed.”
I felt myself starting to blush. “Will you stop it? He’s probably got a girlfriend, anyway.” I decided not to mention how abruptly his attitude had shifted right before he left. Maybe I was imagining it. I want
ed to believe that, but I knew it hadn’t been my imagination at all. But I also knew I didn’t want to hear Tara’s theory about it.
“No. He wouldn’t have offered to help you with this project if he already had a girlfriend, trust me. Although ... I had this idea last night. I need a few pictures of me and Graham together. Do you think he’d go for it? And then I can post them online and Michael will see them and he’ll feel like shit because Graham is way hotter than he is.”
I stared at her. “I’m not asking this guy I barely know if he’ll take pictures with you so you can make your ex-boyfriend jealous.”
Tara waved me off. “You don’t need to ask him—I will. We’ll go to the beach. It’ll be awesome. You can entice him in that cute bikini we got for you last year. You still have it, right?”
I did, somewhere, though I’d only worn that bathing suit once and felt embarrassed the whole time because we were at the beach surrounded by families with children. Not that any of them seemed to care, and I certainly wasn’t the only person there wearing a bikini, but I’d just felt weird, especially because all the moms had been wearing modest swimsuits.
“And don’t even try to tell me that you don’t want to wear it because you’re going to feel uncomfortable,” Tara chided. “You look great and now is the time to flaunt that. We’re not going to have it forever, you know, so we might as well enjoy it! Now, give me your phone.”
She leaned over and snatched my phone off the table. “Hey!” I said. “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling him and setting this thing up! You’ve got his number saved in here, right? Oh yes, here it is.” She had the phone up to her ear before I could grab it back. “It’s ringing,” she said, “so even if you make me hang up now, he’s going to know that you called—Oh, hey. Is this Graham?” She turned away from me slightly. “No, it’s not Chloe; it’s her friend Tara. I met you the other night. Yeah, it’s great!” She laughed. What were they talking about? I could sort of hear his voice but not enough to make out the words. I cringed. “I heard about that,” Tara was saying. “Sounds cool. So, hey, listen. You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you. No, it’s not about the tattoo, though I am still planning to come in and get it. Chloe and I are going to be beaching it tomorrow and were wondering if you’d like to join. Yeah, we’ll probably be heading out in the morning. I don’t know—around 10? That’s when they say the best tanning hours are—10 to 2.” She paused as he said something, and she started laughing. It was kind of hard not to be in awe of how easily she could just strike up a conversation with someone she didn’t even know—on the phone, no less. I hated talking on the phone, and rarely did it since texting was so much easier. That’s what I would have done, if I had been the one to invite him to the beach: I would’ve sent a text. Not Tara, though. She hung up the phone a minute later, handing it back to me with a satisfied grin.