“Sorry,” he says, shooting me a glare.
He’s not. I know he’s not, but I’m glad he’s being nice enough to pretend.
“Thanks,” I say, then lean against the counter. “Sorry.”
“Seth, you okay?” Daniel asks. “You seem rough.”
“Fine,” I say.
It’s not true and everyone in this room knows it’s not true because I showed up hungover with a giant basket of scones. Ever since I finally learned to bake a few years ago, it’s been my go-to when I feel shitty about something.
Had to fire someone at the brewery for stealing beer? Bake some cookies.
Younger brother threw away his whole entire life for his student? Brownies can help.
Spent a day and a night with Delilah, only to leave before sunrise because without saying goodbye? It’s scone time, baby.
Life is uncertain. Uneasy. Unpredictable.
A cake, however, is very straightforward.
I don’t even like desserts that much — I give most of it away — but baking always makes me feel better. There are explicit instructions. Expectations are clear. If I fuck up a recipe the first time, it’s easy to pinpoint where I went wrong and get it right on the second try.
And at the end I’ve got a tangible, delicious foodstuff.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, though my audience looks unconvinced. “It’s what I do, right? One night, no strings, no big deal. Move on. I’m good at that.”
I lean back against the sink and try for a charming smile, though the hangover gets in the way of that.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Charlie finally says, though she clearly doesn’t believe it. “Eli. Is there pie? We should put dessert out so we can get the kids home.”
“Yes ma’am,” Eli answers.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Delilah
I glance up at the clock on the wall behind the counter. It’s 4:07 on a cold, shitty afternoon, and that means my four o’clock appointment is officially officially late, and I’m allowed to be a little annoyed.
Generally, I give people a five-minute grace period before I get annoyed with them for being late. Clocks are different, parking can be tricky, red lights exist, and God knows I’m not always precisely on time.
Ten minutes is pushing it. Sure, sometimes disaster strikes, but ninety-nine percent of the time people who are ten minutes late just need to get their shit together.
After fifteen I consider someone a no-show and move on with my life and appointment book.
Deep down, I’m hoping this coverup consultation is a no-show. It’s been five days since Ava’s wedding and I still don’t feel up to my friendly-yet-bubbly-yet-professional persona. I mostly feel like sulkily making Sailor Jerry style knife-through-a-heart tattoos and telling nineteen-year-olds that the picture of an eagle ripping away their skin to reveal the American flag underneath is dumb, unoriginal, and won’t look good in five years if the sun damage they’ve already got is any indication.
At 4:13, the front door to my shop opens and a woman with blond hair and an enormously puffy coat comes in, already talking.
“…and I completely forgot that they’re fixing the light over on Harrison, and that intersection where it crosses Salem Church took me absolutely forever to get through. And then of course I got stuck behind the school bus coming all the way down Smith Station, and you know they stop at every single house.”
“I hate getting stuck behind the school bus,” I agree, switching off my tablet and straightening up. “Welcome to Southern Star.”
“Anyway, sorry I’m late,” she says, and finally finishes shoving things into her purse. “I’m Mindy, I had an appointment?”
Then she looks around, taking everything in: brightly lit, big windows, incredibly clean. A lot of people seem surprised when they walk in, as if all tattoo shops are seedy dens of iniquity with dirty floors and walls hung with AC/DC posters from 1985.
Sure, some are. Plenty of people like that vibe in a tattoo parlor, but since mine’s the first and only tattoo place in Sprucevale — small, Southern, socially conservative — mine’s not.
Southern Star Tattoo Parlor is bright, cozy, and slightly kitschy. There’s a waiting area with a midcentury modern-looking couch, a natural wood coffee table, and a tall cactus that’s not doing spectacularly this winter. The floor in the front room is hardwood. There’s a teal accent wall with my logo painted on it in bright pink.
“Of course,” I say, cheerfully, still leaning on the counter. “Coverup consultation, right?”
Mindy comes right up to the counter where I’m standing. She looks over her shoulder, at the door, as if she’s nervous that someone else is going to come in, and she places her purse on the counter right between us. It’s got about thirty keychains hanging off one side, and they all clunk into the glass top.
“Yes,” she says. “You did one for my brother-in-law’s brother’s cousin’s friend and it turned out good, so he referred me on back to you.”
Excellent. I love a referral.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Jim Faulks,” Mindy says, and then leans in a little more, lowers her voice. “He just got out about six months ago? He heard about you from his parole officer.”
Right. One of the many things I did during Dating Detox was start volunteering with INKredible Transformation, a questionably-named nonprofit that helps ex-cons get their prison tattoos covered at no cost to them.
I think Jim had an ugly, poorly-done spider on one forearm. Now it’s a stylized motorcycle.
“Of course I remember Jim,” I say. “How’s he doing?”
“Back inside,” Mindy says cheerfully. “You know how people are.”
“Oh,” I say.
There’s a brief, awkward pause.
“Well, at least he’s got a better tattoo now. What do you need covered up?”
At the question, Mindy’s body language changes. She stiffens. She looks down.
I say a quick prayer that I’m not about to cover a swastika. I’ve done it a couple of times — people in prison aren’t there because they make great decisions — but wow is it uncomfortable.
“It’s easier to just show you,” she says. “In the back room, if that’s all right?”
“Of course,” I say, and double down on that prayer.
The back room of [tattoo shop name] is even more scrupulously clean than the front room, if that’s even possible. I go through buckets of sanitizer every week, and every Tuesday and Thursday night a professional disinfecting crew comes through.
It’s got mirrors, counters, two filing cabinets. A shelf of succulents along one wall, a colorful panoramic painting of the mountains, only they’re pink and purple.
On one side of the room there’s a reclining chair that looks like a dentist’s chair, and on the other side, I’ve got a massage table.
Mindy hangs her purse on a hook, then looks at me apologetically.
Mentally, I cross my fingers.
“It’s on my,” she pauses.
Looks away for a split second.
“Booty,” she admits.