The woman bites her lower lip, fighting a smile as she tugs on the front of her t-shirt just enough to expose the top of her left breast.
“Here.” She presses a fingernail into her fleshy skin, making an indentation that leaves a white spot for a few seconds.
I nod. This isn’t the first time someone’s asked me to tattoo their tit, and it won’t be the last.
Another teenage girl in back lets out a shriek, followed by something inaudible. Kind of hard to talk when your tongue swells up to twice its size.
“How long you been in business?” the woman asks as I sketch the symbol.
I exhale. I fucking hate small talk. And when I work, I prefer to work in silence so I can concentrate. It’s not like I can exactly erase any mistakes, and fixing shit is a pain in the ass. “About eight years. Give or take.”
“You from here? From Olwine?”
“I am. Yourself?” I trash my current drawing and grab a fresh sheet of stencil paper.
“Nah. New to the area. Met a guy online.” She rolls her eyes. “Followed him here like an idiot.”
“It happens.” I’m vaguely listening.
“I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me he was only after one thing.” She brushes her blonde hair out of her face. “They say love is blind, but I think love is wicked. It casts a spell on you. A moron spell. And it makes you do stupid shit you wouldn’t normally do. Like move to BFE, Illinois because some guy by the name of MidwestAdonis77 promises you the world.”
“Midwest Adonis, eh?” I chuckle. “Let me guess. Beer belly, porn addiction, and still lives with his mom?”
“Nailed it.” She huffs, watching me sketch. “You have a girlfriend?”
Pierce passes us, a gaggle of teenage girls sucking on ice cubes behind him.
“Girlfriend?” He chuffs. “Madd doesn’t even have a tattoo.”
“You’re kidding!” The woman sits up, bug-eyed. “Tell me he made that up.”
“’K, I’m going to need you to lay down so I can transfer this,” I say, readying the stencil as she lies flat on the client bed and tugs the front of her shirt down. "Actually.” I stop and pull the curtain around us for privacy. “I’m going to need you to remove your shirt completely. Got to make sure this thing is straight. If it’s crooked, it’s going to be crooked forever.”
“My pleasure.” She winks at me, maybe an attempt to make this less awkward, but I glance at my watch and check the time. It’s been twenty minutes now, but this tattoo is small and simple enough we should be done before ten-thirty.
A minute later, she’s sanitized and I’m gloved and we’re in business.
“So,” she says over the buzz of the machine as I make the first strokes. “You really don’t have any tattoos?”
I concentrate on my work. “Nope.”
“But … why?”
If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that, I wouldn’t be living in that shit hole place above my shop, that’s for damn sure.
“Long story,” I say.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, laughing through her nose.
“Nah. It’s all right.” I turn to grab another needle cartridge because there’s something off about this one, which also gives me an excuse not to elaborate.
When I turn back, the woman studies me. “Seriously though. I’m curious.”
You’d think after this long and after being asked the same question a million times, I’d come up with some bullshit answer to appease people and get them to drop the issue, but lying is one of my biggest pet peeves.
Lying and liars.
“I bet you are.” I get to work again. “Going to need you to hold perfectly still.”
She releases a forced breath and stares at the ceiling, clearly annoyed at the fact that I won’t tell her my reason. But quite frankly, it’s none of her damn business.
It’s none of anyone’s business.
Seven
Brighton
* * *
You’d think Laurel just won Publisher’s Clearing House the way she’s acting.
Mascara-stained tears streak her porcelain cheeks and her hands cup my brother’s face, her giant diamond glistening in response to the romantic candlelight that fills the Briardale Country Club tonight.
My brother kisses his future bride-to-be and she throws her arms around his shoulders, rising on her toes and all but squeezing the life out of him.
I’m happy for them. I am.
But I’m also a little bit wistful because it’s the end of an era, a bittersweet farewell of sorts because things will never be the same after this.
They’ll marry next year, likely move somewhere else because they both work in the medical industry and can find jobs anywhere in the country without a problem. Laurel has made no bones about the fact that she wants kids, like, yesterday, so nature will likely take its course sometime shortly after the honeymoon. After that, I’ll be lucky to see my brother on days that aren’t Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving.
But still. His eyes glint like flawless diamonds and I’ve never seen him smile so big.
He loves her.
She loves him.
It might be the end of an era, but it’s the beginning of an entire lifetime together and I couldn’t be happier for them.
I lift my champagne glass, ignoring the way my parents watch me from the corners of their eyes. This is officially the first time I’ve had an ounce of alcohol in front of my family.
Someone clinks their knife against a crystal wine glass and my father stands, proposing a toast and welcoming Laurel’s family into ours.
My brother, Graeme, sits to my right, and I watch as he takes his wife, Cara’s, hand in his and lifts it to his lips for a small kiss. The two of them flew in from Manhattan earlier this afternoon. Tomorrow they’ll fly back. He just opened an otolaryngology practice in Midtown, which has consumed their entire lives as of late. It’s also the reason Graeme opted not to do Doctors Without Borders this summer.
Eben and Laurel share another kiss and the other patrons dining in the club offer a congratulatory round of applause.
Laurel’s parents rise from their seats, hugging their daughter and shaking my brother’s hand.
“Let’s see that ring!” my mother says, joining them.
From across the table, I watch them fawn, ooh-ing and aah-ing as it glimmers in the light.
I wonder if Eben will ever tell her that I chose that ring for her. Not that it matters. It’s a classic princess-cut. Three carats. A scarf of diamonds around the side and down the band for a little something extra.
Laurel is very much a traditional kind of woman. She dresses like a British royal when she’s not running around in scrubs at the pediatric hospital where she met my brother. She wants two kids and a dog and a house in the suburbs, and she wants it yesterday. Not that she’s explicitly stated that. With some women, you can just see it in their eyes. They want that next thing. They want to level up. Like life’s a game. One achievement after the next.
College? Check.
Fiancé? Check.
Marriage? Next.
Babies? Soon.