The energy I’d felt messaging with my at-the-time-faceless tattoo artist had been a bright spot over these past months, but it hadn’t yet translated to my everyday life.
I separated out the dough on a cookie sheet and popped the rolls into the oven. Unsurprisingly, the mere presence of pastries in my vicinity brought Henri crashing into my brain.More sweets, darling? So many empty calories. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that self-control is a virtue?Ugh. I was hearing him less these days, but this predictable appearance was enough to have me removing the cinnamon rolls from the oven and icing them, without daring to take a bite.
Zach came into the kitchen as I stared down at the tray.
“Did the Pillsbury doughboy do something to offend you?”
“No.” I looked at him, unfocused, sliding into a chair. “I was just wondering if I’ll ever stop hearing Henri in my subconscious, making me feel like shit.” Thinking about how ludicrous any sort of romantic attachment would be for me.
Zach frowned like he always did whenever Henri’s name came up. Then he leaned over to kiss the top of my head, reaching to snag a roll. “You’re getting better every day, doll. It might not feel like it all the time, but you’re so much stronger than you were on New Year’s.”
I hoped Zach was right. But as he attempted to persuade me into taking a bite—his methodology consisting of shoving it in my face to the point I’d probably be sneezing frosting later—I found it difficult to believe.
“Doll, you know what you should do…” He strode around the living room, also the dining room in our tiny space, waving his arms. “You should decorate the place a bit, put your mark on it.”
The apartment had originally been Zach’s. He’d lived there since before I met him twelve years ago. It was homey, sort of Goodwill chic, crammed with mismatched books and odd mementos he’d collected. Pint glasses from Hal’s dotted the space, serving various functions—flower vase, key caddy, coin catcher, M&M’s container, toothbrush holder, and occasionally, water glass. When I’d come back to Los Angeles, I thought I’d just be crashing with him for a bit, but we enjoyed being roommates and had made the situation permanent.
“You haven’t really done much,” he reasoned. “You know I don’t mind if you want to display your Vin Diesel figurine collection in the living room or whatever.”
“Oh my god!” Zach had a purple throw pillow with “Pretty But Kind of a Bitch” emblazoned on it. I threw it at him. “One time! One time I told you I thought he was hot, and you’re never gonna let me live it down!” I laughed.
Zach winked. “Seriously, doll. Feel free to make some changes.”
“Yeah. I’ll think about it.” But I realized in that moment I had no clue where I would even begin. I had spent so long choosing décor and clothing based on styles Henri preferred, I wasn’t sure what I liked. Yet another item to add to my mental “Shit to Talk About in Therapy” list.
Zach must have noticed the concentration on my face because he began pulling me toward the door. “C’mon, it’s a beautiful day, and I think some fresh air might do you good. Let’s take a walk.”
Our apartment was small, but the charms of our Silver Lake neighborhood more than compensated, with lots of cute little cafes and busy sidewalks. The walk was slow-going, since Zach had to stop and admire every baby in every stroller we passed, along with kneeling to inform each dog that they were the bestest doggo ever. He could scare the piss out of unruly bar patrons and be the tough guy when needed, but deep down, Zach was a softie. I took a moment to appreciate the sunny day as we meandered to the reservoir.
He eventually asked me how the tattoo appointment had gone, and I told him I’d decided to move ahead with things. I then changed the subject quickly. I wasn’t ready to open up yet about the flash of attraction I’d experienced with Renn, and I worried Zach would see it on my face.
I couldn’t stop my dumb-idea-loving brain from being drawn to someone. That was just chemistry. Acting on it was obviously out of the question. So I guess I could just…wait it out? After all, Renn was twenty-three and seemed so easygoing. We may have had some great back-and-forth, but what did we really have in common? This weird pull toward him would fade, right? I just needed to stay focused on my tattoo and ignore the rest.
Renn was thereearly for my first appointment on a Sunday at nine a.m. Nerves had kept me away from the Cap’n Crunch, but I’d managed coffee. He’d already told me the shop’s other artists didn’t usually work weekend mornings, so we would have the place to ourselves. The plan was for Renn to do the outline of my tattoo in black today. He’d fill in the rest of the design and add color during later appointments.
I took my sunglasses off as I came inside, grateful for the lack of overhead lights. I’d worked later than planned last night—not enough rideshares immediately available for the number of tipsy coeds who needed them. So I was tired and looked it, rocking a no-makeup face, my long wheat-blonde hair braided in a dull line down my back. I had on a pair of jean shorts and an oversized David Bowie concert tee, since Renn had said to dress for comfort.
“I like that shirt. It looks vintage,” Renn remarked as he printed something at the desk.
“It is. I have a box of concert tees from my parents. Mostly from the ’70s.”
“That’s awesome.”
“I guess. Although occasionally I’ll get someone at my work young enough to look at one of my shirts and ask questions like, ‘Who’s Carole King?’”
He looked up from the printer. “Wait…whoisCarole King?”
I frowned before Renn cracked up and started humming—badly—the first verse of “It’s Too Late.”
With its lack of windows to engage the morning sun, the studio was cool and dim. Renn had a variety of instruments laid out on a rolling metal table alongside squirt bottles of antiseptic and lotion. There were also medical-grade wipes and vials of what I assumed was ink.
Renn showed me the outline, printed out on transfer paper. It was large, taking up almost the entire eight-by-eleven sheet. Reality settled in my stomach, part elation, part dread. I was actually about to get a massive tattoo.
“I’m going to put this on your leg to check the placement. If you like it, I’ll go ahead and transfer it to your skin.”
Since my tattoo was on the larger side, and wouldn’t fit on an ankle or wrist, I’d opted to put it on the back and side of my thigh, so I could easily hide it with clothing if I wanted to. My bravery had its limits.
“I appreciate you scheduling around my weird hours. I always work nights and have been pulling lots of overtime at the bar. It was crazy yesterday since UCLA played. That’s the only time we’re ever super busy. Because Hal’s is kind of rundown, and there are better bars nearby. But it’s cheap, so the college kids come. I didn’t get home until three in the morning, so excuse me if I’m a bit off.”