“Wow. Uh…I’m sorry.” He didn’t go back to work, looking nonplussed. “Thank you for telling me…I, uh, I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing. I mean, is there anything people say that feels right when they find out about your dad?”
“If there is, I haven’t heard it yet. The grief is so raw, it’s just easier not to talk about it.”
“And that’s the thing, Renn. My big confession, if you want to call it that, is that the type of grief you have—I don’t feel it.”
He put down his instruments, and I had his full attention. “What do you mean?” An adorable wrinkle appeared between his eyes as he scrunched his forehead.
“It’s hard to explain, but I don’t experience the sadness the way you do. Partly because they died when I was young. I don’t even remember them. And partly because they weren’t really interested in me even before they were gone. They died when I was six, but even before then, I had been living with my grandma. They’d dumped me off with her when I was a toddler, so when they died, I was just like, ‘okay.’ I feel guilty that I don’t mourn them the way the world expects me to. I mean, I’m not totally indifferent. I wish they were here and that I knew them, but I don’t truly grieve them as people.” It was a testament to my comfort level with Renn that I could spit out these truths without stammering and staring at the ground.
“But that makes sense, if you weren’t close, even before they died.”
“You’d think so. Except sometimes things can ‘make sense’ and still be completely fucked up and confusing. My parents were missionaries. They died while working with a migrant camp in Mexico. By all accounts, it was a flu, likely treatable, but they couldn’t get to a proper hospital. They died two weeks apart. All my life, people have told me they were heroes, that they died serving humanity, or doing God’s work, stuff like that. But to me—they are just the people that had a kid and then left me with grandma to go off and save the world. Like, how are they heroes if they were such bad parents?”
“Damn.”
“I always ask myself why they bothered to have a kid in the first place if they didn’t want to raise one. My grandma never said much about it, wouldn’t talk about them. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to have the task of raising me, and she died while I was in college. I don’t have any aunts or uncles, so there’s really no one left to ask. I have concert t-shirts and their record collection, but mostly I just kind of live with not knowing. I try not to think about it too much.” I’d learned in therapy the past few months that I was a champion compartmentalizer.
“That sucks, Sadie. It sounds sort of lame to say I’m sorry again, but I really am.”
“I told you because I figured you’d understand. I don’t know what to do with it, other than just live with it.” I rolled my neck in a circle. Unburdening myself to Rennhadmade me feel better. I didn’t fear him judging me.
“Well, we have that in common—figuring out how to live with it—me with the certainty of what I’ve lost and you with the certainty that you’ll never exactly know.”
I recalled Renn’s theory of awkwardness as humanness from my first appointment. I hoped life never beat him down so much that he stopped being an amateur philosopher. His simple acceptance of my story had made me lighter, so I couldn’t help but smile at his words. “That was deep, Renn.”
He grinned back. “This is a full-service tattoo studio. Comes complete with armchair psychology.”
We left it there. I spared a last glance at the unfinished outline on his leg before closing my eyes, barely registering the pain as Renn worked on filling in my lotus. Sirius XM was playing now, set to a station that specialized in easy-listening rock of the ’70s—James Taylor, Carly Simon, Jim Croce, and the like. I loved how Renn and I shared a taste for music released before we were both born, the age gap between us seeming more irrelevant with each moment we shared. But while our bond was undeniable, and Renn seemed solid, our almost-kiss had been a reminder that I was still basically made of wet paper.
Renn suggested webreak for lunch just after one o’clock.
“I’m feeling pretty fancy right now, Sadie, so I was thinking…Taco Bell?”
I huffed. “I hope you’re not thinking you’re making a joke, because I am totally fine with that.”
He wasn’t kidding. As we walked three blocks toward the siren call of processed and sodium-enhanced goodness, we discovered a shared loathing of high-end restaurants. We also had a healthy appreciation for all varieties of fast food, especially late at night. Since we both worked strange hours, there was a mutual understanding of the euphoric delights of a three a.m. cheeseburger after a long shift. Proof of our culinary compatibility was further revealed at Taco Bell, where we shared the same order—basic bean burritos, with plenty of mild sauce packets.
Heading back to the studio with our food, still shuddering over the prospect of white tablecloth venues, I relayed the horror story of a bad date I’d gone on in college where the guy had cut it short because he said my accent was appalling when ordering at a French restaurant.
“He ended the date because of that?”
“Uh-huh. He told me he was going to be working at his parents’ law firm one day and while it might be fine to date a bartender, he couldn’t really see it going anywhere because he needed a girlfriend that could be an ‘acceptable plus-one at elegant functions’—those were his exact words—and he didn’t think I fit the bill.”
“What an asshole.”
“True. But also, he wasn’t wrong. I really hate fancy parties and stuff like that.”
“Yeah, but what a dickwad that guy was. Any guy would be lucky to have you with him.” Renn’s voice was rising and he used his non-bag-holding hand to sort of wave around in my general direction. “I mean, look at you. You’re, like, you know…” At this point, his waving evolved to more of an up-and-down motion. “Beautiful…especially now I’ve gotten to know you. Any guy would be lucky…” He trailed off, looking only slightly abashed.
My face flushed instantaneously. I was grateful to be outside in the cool air, and for the two greasy bags of burritos keeping Renn at a safe distance. “Um…thanks. That’s really nice.” What else could I say?
He didn’t speak again until we were back in the studio. Once we got inside and he had cranked the ’70s yacht rock up again, Renn pulled two Cokes out of a mini fridge hiding behind the admin desk, and we sat down in the studio’s small waiting area to eat.
“Sadie?”
“Um hmm?” I was busy unwrapping a tortilla. I was firmly in the camp of unwrap-the-burrito-and-put-the-sauce-packet-on-the-whole-thing-before-you-start-eating-it, as opposed to the murderer way of put-a-dollop-on-each-individual-bite-as-you-go type of burrito eating.
