I laughed tightly through my shame and humiliation. "It's really not a big deal, Cee."
"No, it's not, but ... I don't know. It's just weird you've never mentioned it. I'm like your best friend."
I cocked my head at the declaration. My best friend? Celia and I had been working together for years, developing a strange relationship based on craft, casual conversation, and the rare occurrence of sex. She was one of the few people to know Jake, to know my moods, to know me. Yet, I had never thought of her as my best friend before. Maybe I’d never thought that I deserved a best friend. Maybe I never thought I could have one, with my world being the way it was. But turns out, it had happened anyway, and it was fine.
You're fine.
So are you.
"Sorry," I said again, unsure why.
"It's okay," she brushed it off. "Anyway, you want chicken? I'm in the mood for Bonchon."
"Bonchon's good," I agreed.
"Cool. You want your usual? I'll pick it up while you finish up in there."
"That works for me." I reached over the counter and ruffled her dreadlocks. "Thanks, Cee."
"You're welcome," she mumbled, and I headed back to work, feeling just a bit happier and lighter.
I have a best friend.
***
"Blake, Blake," my brother ran down the stairs from his bedroom in a hurry, clutching a Blu-ray disc in his hand. I turned from opening the front door to give him my attention.
"What's up, buddy?"
"It won't play. I keep putting it in and it won't play. You gotta fix it, Blake. Fix it."
"Okay, let me see."
He thrust the disc into my hand and I didn't need to look closely to see hundreds of tiny scratches etched into its surface. It was his favorite movie, Gremlins, and I knew he'd have a fit if I told him it was broken. "You know what, Jake? I think I'm gonna need to fix this tomorrow, okay? It's gonna take too long right now and I gotta get home.”
He eyed me with worry and a dash of panic. "But you're gonna fix it? I need it fixed, Blake. Can you fix it?"
"Yeah," I assured him, making a mental note to stop at the store the next day to grab a new one. "I'm gonna fix it tomorrow."
"Pinkie swear?" He held up his pinkie and offered it to me.
"Pinkie swear," I nodded, wrapping my finger around his.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but his eyes remained on the ruined disc in my hand. I tucked it gently into my pocket before laying my hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.
"Did you brush your teeth?" I asked.
"Uh-huh."
"You sure?"
His eyes looked to the ceiling, studying the paint and light fixture as he ran through the sequence of the night. "I went to the bathroom, peed, and brushed my teeth."
"Okay, go back upstairs and into bed. I'll find another movie for you to watch before I head home."
“I wanna go home with you,” he told me, and I noted that in all the years I’d lived outside of this house, he had never said that before. Never expressed an interest in leaving these walls.
“Maybe you can sleep over one day this week,” I offered.
“I wanna sleep over every night.”
With those words ringing loudly in my head, I coaxed him back into his room and under the covers. I put on The Goonies and after saying goodnight once again, headed home way later than intended. All to take care of him. To do the things my parents wouldn’t.
Lying in bed, I browsed social media. Since Shane's mention, the hype had died down, which hurt with a faint flick against my ego. It was a reminder that the world we live in today, is full of people with short attention spans and the need for instant gratification. But I moved on just as quickly. It was for the best. I'd gotten a handful of new clients, and that was fine. A handful was manageable, for now. Soon, if my parents had their way, I wouldn’t need to devote any time to Jake. No more picking him up, no more dropping him off. No more staying late at my parents’ place to help care for him.
The thought was a knife, thrust deep between my ribs. Scraping bones, piercing my heart, digging deep until I thought I'd die. What the hell would I do with myself, if he wasn't around? What the hell would I do with all my time?
I posted a picture of Ryan’s tattoo from earlier today. The dagger against his sternum had been painful but worth it, he'd said, and I was pleased with the work. Delicate lines and heavy shading created the image of something that could've been used in the darkest of fairy tales, and I nodded with self-approval.
I continued to browse the pictures on my feed. Tattoos done by Cee, Gus's daughter Kara, and a few other shops in the area. But, it didn't take long to grow bored with the posts from the few people I followed, and my attention was drawn toward browsing other black ink tattoo artwork.
The artists I found from around the world were brilliant and masterful at their craft. They received great amounts of praise in the comments, their follower counts were plentiful, and I could only imagine that their list of clients kept them in very comfortable lives. They deserved it and their art spoke for itself. But the more I browsed, the more it occurred to me that, while they were excellent, so was I. I don't think it'd ever dawned on me before, that my skills were easily on par with some of the greats. And wouldn't I be able to do more for Jake, and myself, if I was making more money? Maybe I could even convince Mom and Dad to let him stay with me, if I could prove myself to be a more reliable support. But even if my parents insisted on putting him in a facility, which I would fight tooth and nail, I could at the very least ensure he'd be put in a suitable one ... If I was making more.
My wandering mind drove my fingers to find Shane's Instagram page. The picture of his tattoo I'd done was liked well over a thousand times, with nearly four-hundred comments of praise. There wasn't a single bit of negativity from what I could see and a sensation I hadn't felt in a long time, maybe ever, swelled in my chest and overflowed, sparking the prick of tears against my eyes.
I was proud. Absolutely and completely proud of something that I'd created.
I could feel like this all the time, I thought. Hell, I should feel like this all the time. It felt good, and didn't I at the very least deserve that? To feel proud and good about my work?
Without a moment's hesitation, I opened my inbox, found my conversation with Shane, and typed out a message: Hey, man. So, I was thinking about that interview. If the offer still stands, I’d love to do it. Give me a call. Hoping to hear from you soon. – Blake
Chapter Eleven
JAKE WAS AT my place for a sleepover when my phone rang. It was Shane and I couldn’t miss his call. So, I answered, hoping Jake could contain himself long enough for us to have a conversation. But I should’ve known better. Shortly after the formalities were out of the way, my brother was badgering me with desperation, and my patience was wearing thin.
"Blake, Blake, Blake." Jake had my name on repeat, trying to grab my attention, and in a huff, I pulled the phone from my ear.
"Jake. Buddy. I need you to be a little patient right now, okay? I'm on the phone." I sighed at the blank expression on his face and said into the receiver, "Sorry about that, Shane."