I shake my head. "He's not."
His smile jumps back to playful as he flips me off.
Leighton laughs. Her eyes find mine. They're greener today. It must be that purple makeup. Or the teal and black cat-print dress. "I, uh. I do agree with Dean. It's a stupid idea. But if you're going to do it, you might as well do it with someone you trust."
It's a fair point.
But it's not enough.
There are only three times my world brightens: when I'm doing a tattoo, when I'm working out, and when I'm with her.
I'm not risking that.
Not for something as stupid as proving I've moved on.
I stare into her eyes. "I'll find a way to call it off."
She nods sure, but her expression screams you won't.
My client shows. I sit her down, clean her up, talk her through the first line of the day.
The world fades away as I fall into the piece—an epic sleeve of produce. This girl loves fruits and vegetables so much she wants them on her body forever.
It's weird in a charming way.
She's going against the grain.
Same way I did when I first walked into a tattoo shop. I never managed to please my parents, no matter how hard I tried. My B.A. in business is useful (not that I'd ever admit that to them), but it didn't do anything to get them off my back.
I started apprenticing halfway through college. I always wanted to do tattoos but as soon as I actually put ink to skin—a spade on my ankle—I fell in love.
This is where I belong.
This is the place where everything makes sense.
Always.
For three hours, I work to the buzz of that gun and the breathy groan of Leighton's favorite band.
Technically, no one is in charge of music. Technically, me, Dean, Walker, and Brendon each own a quarter of the shop.
We each get a quarter of the say.
Really, I'm the boss and Brendon is second in command. I do the books, I make the schedule, and I veto the music.
Only I let her listen to whatever.
It's not altruistic.
I love the way she hums along with the music, tapping her toes, smiling as she swoons over some damaged lyricist.
Hell, it's not just her reaction.
I love her miserable taste.
It's comforting. Somebody else out there is as fucked-up as I am.
Thousands of screaming women adore this singer for all the pain in his breathy, raspy voice.
They love that he's hurt.
They want to save him.
I guess I'm still a romantic at heart.
Deep down, I still believe in all that shit. Even if my head knows better.
The album shifts to the next as my appointment ends. I walk my client out, schedule our next session.
Leighton is still sitting behind the counter. She's staring at something on her laptop, humming the melody of the angsty anthem flowing through the shop.
We have an understanding. As long as she does everything she needs to do for Inked Hearts, she's free to use her time to work on whatever.
Like homework for her summer school class.
Her eyes flit from her computer. "Unless you're about to show off my first-class ticket to Hawaii, save it. This is due at midnight."
"The design?"
She nods. "Design 201." Her eyes fix on the screen. She adjusts something with her mouse. "I don't see tickets."
"Leigh—"
"It won't be weird. But suit yourself." Her brow furrows as she leans back. Takes in the design again. She bites her lip.
I know that look.
It's almost there.
But something is off.
"Let me see," I say.
"It's not done."
"That's why I can help."
Her eyes meet mine. She stares at me, assessing my intentions.
I don't get it. I don't fuck with her the way Dean does. I don't play everything cool the way Walker does. I… all right, according to Leighton, I "brood all over the place," even more than Brendon does.
But I don't do it at her.
I'm always clear about what I want.
"It's not good enough," she says.
Unlikely. Leighton is amazing. A better designer than I am. She does all the shop's graphics. She slays them, but she never takes credit.
I press my palm against the counter. Stretch my fingers. I love this job like my life depends on it, but it's too sedentary. I need to move. "I'm gonna go for a run. If you don't want help—"
"I do. Thank you." She turns the laptop to me to show off a green on white logo design. Health Express. "It's a fictional fast casual restaurant. I want it to look healthy. Is the green too obvious?"
"Obvious is good."
Her shiny silver nails tap the counter. "You… you aren't saying anything."
"It's good."
"Good?"
"Yeah."
"Just good?"
"Great."
"But?"
She taps the counter with her pointer finger. "Something's missing."
"I know that. I need to know what."
I blink. Stare with fresh eyes. It's a great design. Bold. Classic. But too busy. "Pick one, the eggplant or the name."
"No name? All eggplant. Is that really—"
I chuckle. "That's what you're going for."
"I'm not sure what you mean." She plays coy. "It's a simple vegetable."
"That's shaped like a dick."
"Never considered that." She holds her poker face for a few moments.
It cracks.
Her laugh bounces around the room, drowning out every other sound.
I can't help but smile. It feels so fucking good, seeing her like this. "Send it to me tonight. After you revise it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I'll let you know what I think."
"Thanks."
There's nothing left to say, but I don't want to tear myself away from her. I want to linger at the counter, helping her with the design, teasing her about her taste in broken musicians, talking about nothing.
But there's something in her expression.
Something that says leave me alone.
So I do.
With every stride, my thoughts unfurl. The messy lines straighten. Arrange themselves in order.
Fail to offer clarity.
Bringing some woman to Penny's wedding is a terrible idea.
Pretending she's my girlfriend is worse.
But there's this voice in my head screaming you have to do this.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I tell that voice to quiet and wish for distraction.
Leighton: It's done. Just emailed you. Tell me it's not horrible.
Ryan: On a run. I'll check it out after I shower.
Leighton: It's a million degrees.
Ryan: And?
Leighton: Are you dying?
Ryan: Yeah.
Leighton: You are not. You walk in here like you're fresh from a shower after half your runs.
I snap a picture of my surroundings—the ocean, the Santa Monica pier, the busy Venice street, the bright lemon sun—then I turn my phone to selfie mode, and snap a picture of my sweaty shirt.
It's hot as hell today.
But I don't feel the embrace of the sun. I don't see the brightness. I know it's there—I always end these runs dripping sweat—but I miss the comfort of it.