Chapter 8
64 hours until the wedding
Dusk flickers on the horizon when the train rolls into Lancaster. I have no clue where that is, except that’s what the flashing sign outside the station says.
Beside me, Jack has drifted off. The side of his face is smooshed into the seat, chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. He looks so soft and tender when he’s asleep. Good thing I know better.
“Wake up,” I hiss, jabbing him in the ribs.
Jack jolts up. “Huh?”
I point overhead as the train conductor’s muffled voice comes over the loudspeaker. Apparently due to some kind of train strike we will be changing trains in Lancaster.
“I’m starving, let’s find food while we wait,” Jack says, handing me my bag from the overhead compartment.
“I don’t know…” My eyes dart across the platform. “I don’t want us to miss our train.”
“We have forty-five minutes,” he says. “That’s plenty of time.”
We collect our belongings and exit the train onto a small double-sided open-air platform.
“How about this?” I gesture to a small kiosk selling snacks and candies I’ve never heard of before. Smarties chocolate. Aero. Flake.
Jack shakes his head. “I need real food. Sustenance. Not candy. Aren’t you hungry too?”
As if on cue with our arrival, my stomach roars to life, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything today.
“Fine. But let’s be fast,” I say.
We exit the station and make our way down a high street lined with narrow stone buildings that bend with the curves in the road. At the end of the street is a medieval tower rising in the distance.
It looks like the type of place that’s probably bustling with tourists in the high season. Unfortunately, the gray weather doesn’t appear to be doing the local economy any favors, because the street is mostly empty.
We walk a few blocks until we find a takeaway place with the word kebab flashing in neon letters outside.
“Come on. Let’s try here,” Jack says, leading me inside the doorway. The bell on the door rings as we step inside.
“Table for two?” the man behind the counter asks.
“Just to-go please,” I say.
The man shakes his head. “Sorry. No takeaway. Sit-down service only.”
I check the time. We have thirty-five minutes.
“We can’t,” I whisper to Jack. “We don’t have time for a sit-down meal.”
“Yeah, but it will take time to walk and find somewhere else to eat,” he whispers back. “I didn’t see any other restaurants on this street.”
I shift uneasily, eyes darting the length of the restaurant. On the one hand, I really don’t want to miss our train. But on the other, Jack’s got a point. It might take us just as long to find somewhere else to eat. Besides, as evidenced by my noisy stomach, I’m just as hungry as he is.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s just be quick.”
We take our seats and I order a chicken shawarma and chips, and Jack orders a lamb kebab and chips. The man behind the counter slices meat from a giant stick while I cast nervous glances toward the door.
“We’re fine,” Jack says, giving me an insistent look. “We’ve still got plenty of time.”
“I don’t want to be late.”
“We won’t.”
Hmph. Easy for him to say when he doesn’t have a sister who will kill him if we don’t get to this wedding on time.
Fortunately, the food arrives quickly, and I dive into my hummus-slathered chicken with gusto.
We eat in silence until I ask, “So are you going to tell me what you do for work? Or am I going to have to guess? Because I’m either gonna go with hit man or evil Bond villain.”
Jack looks up from his food . “I’m an environmental lawyer, though depending on who you ask they might say that’s the same thing as evil Bond villain.”
My eyes stretch wide. I can practically hear my mom now. A lawyer? Is he single?
“So you’re, like, smart?” I ask.
“What? Like it’s hard?” he says in a perfect impression of Elle Woods.
A cackle rips out of me and he smiles like he can’t quite help it.
“Why environmental law?” I ask.
“I just think it’s important to be good stewards of our planet,” he says. “My job’s mostly paperwork, but I like to think that in some small way I’m doing some good in the world.”
“Do you yell at big corporations?” I ask, inexplicably hot at the thought of Jack, dressed in a well-tailored suit, taking on corporate America.
“Sometimes,” he says, pushing his food back and forth with the back of his fork. “My last case was against a beauty company that claimed to be cruelty-free but experimented on rabbits. It was really horrific, so now I’m extra careful to do my due diligence as a consumer. I think it’s really important to be discerning about what we put in our bodies.”
“Oh, I agree,” I say, nodding vigorously.
His eyes hook up, meeting mine. “You do?”
“For sure. That’s why I didn’t want to sleep with you last night.”
For a moment Jack just blinks at me before erupting into a full-bodied boyish laugh. The sound crackles like electricity in the air between us.
“So if you’re a lawyer, I don’t feel so bad about you paying for me,” I say, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork.
“Easy there, I’m in environmental law. The big bucks are in mergers and acquisitions.”
“Whatever. I see the Rolex you’re wearing,” I say, pointing out the fancy hunk of metal on his wrist.
He looks down as though surprised to see it. “It was a gift from Collin’s family after I graduated law school.”
“Wow, that was really nice of them. When I graduated, all I got was a Target gift card and a big fucking student loan bill. You must be close with his family.”
He swallows then nods. “They’ve always been really supportive of me.” He says it with a smile, but I notice he shoves his hands under the table, putting the watch out of sight. “What about you?” he asks. “You said you had a business?”
“I did.” I glance toward the door, not sure if this is a conversation I want to have right now. Losing the business was hard enough. But having to relive that pain every time someone asks about it? Agony.
“What was the business?” he asks.
“I owned a tattoo studio.”
His eyes widen. “Really? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, it was super awesome, until the bank took it after I couldn’t pay my bills anymore,” I say, pushing my food around on my plate.
Before Sleeve It to Me, I took safe jobs. Corporate roles with 401Ks and dental insurance. But opening the business was the first thing I ever did that was just for myself. Not Carter. Not my mom. Not Allison. Just for me. And I loved it.
Growing up, art was the one place where I felt like I could break the rules. Where I could draw outside the lines and try new things without consequence. I didn’t have to be perfect or in control or responsible. I could just be.
So when I had the idea to open the shop, I naively thought it would be like Field of Dreams —all I’d have to do was build it and they would come. The only problem is that despite majoring in business, I hadn’t known the first thing about running one.
Sure, I got a favorable review in a big-time blog and someone on Instagram called me Michelangelo with a needle (a quote I’d considered inking myself with), but it hadn’t been enough. At least not in the traditionally measured definition of success. And after two years of working myself into the ground, I had to close shop.
Logically, I know that the business closed for financial reasons and not some kind of intrinsic, personal failing, or because I wasn’t a good enough artist, but it’s impossible not to single out the one thing I’d ever done for myself as my biggest failure. A reminder that my art is a cute little hobby, but it can’t— shouldn’t —be more than that.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack says, cutting through my memories.
I slip lower into my seat as though I’m hoping the upholstery might swallow me whole. “Me too.”
“So why tattoos?” Jack asks. “How’d you get into that?”
I play with my fork, picking it up, then setting it back down again. Reliving the failure of my business isn’t exactly a fun subject for me. But something about the sturdiness of his gaze and the softness of his mouth, like he’s really, genuinely interested, coaxes the words free.
“I majored in business in college because it was sensible ,” I tell him, using air quotes around the word sensible . “But my favorite class was an elective art class. I loved it so much I took it every quarter all four years.”
“What kind of art?” Jack asks.
“I was mostly into painting. Acrylics and stuff. Then I got into stick and pokes and everyone told me I’d be good at tattoos, so after I graduated I started an apprenticeship with a local artist. I totally fell in love with it. It was like painting, but instead of the work ending up on a wall or behind glass, it was out in the world, taking on a life of its own. I love the idea of the human body as a canvas. It’s so much more active, so much more intimate,” I explain, voice picking up with excitement, like the words are tapping into some long-forgotten enthusiasm.
Jack smiles and I can’t help but admire the way it seems to catch fire across his whole face, a flicker burst forth into a flame.
“One of my dreams is to spot one of my designs in the wild,” I go on. “Like I’m out and about, and bam , I’ll spot something I did, and it will be this full circle moment of knowing that long after that client walked out of my shop, my art followed them for the rest of their lives. That it became part of their identity.”
“Have you had that happen yet?” Jack asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet, but maybe someday.”
Jack’s eyes peruse mine like my face holds the answer key to a test he’s been studying for. My skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze and I reach for my water glass, suddenly terribly thirsty.
“Do you still paint?” he asks.
“I haven’t for a while,” I admit. “Not since my boyfriend and I went on a break.”
I look down at my hands. They used to be stained, pinks and reds and blues. Yellow crusted under my fingernails. A swipe of green on my knuckles. But these days my hands are about as blank as my canvas.
After the break, I wanted to focus, to create. I wanted to do something to make myself feel normal and in control while everything else was spinning out around me. But I couldn’t. It was like all the creativity inside me just dried up and I was left with nothing but tumbleweeds blowing through the barren wasteland of my mind. Now it’s been months since I’ve so much as doodled on a napkin.
“Do you have any examples of your work?” he asks.
I stiffen, taken aback by the request. “You want to see my art?”
“If you’re open to sharing, that is.”
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable sharing my work. My clients literally walk around with my art on display for everyone to see. But showing my work to someone new—someone whose response I can’t predict—is always a little nerve-racking.
I scroll through my phone until I find a photo of one of my favorite pieces: a naked woman being embraced by a skeleton. Their limbs are wound around one another in a way that makes it hard to tell where the woman’s arm ends and the skeleton’s bones begin. It’s one of the last custom pieces I did. Inked onto a forearm at 1:8 scale, it’s edgy and provocative, but also tender and quietly intimate.
I hand the phone to Jack and he spreads his thumb and index finger across the screen, zooming in. “Wow. This is very cool. It’s so…” His eyes narrow in thought. “Detailed,” he says at last.
“Thanks. Line work is my specialty, actually.”
“You’re obviously incredibly talented.”
My skin warms. It’s not the first time I’ve been called talented. But somehow, Jack’s praise seems to carry a little more weight. Though perhaps that’s because Jack doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something just to be nice. He means what he says.
Jack hands me my phone and I shove it back in my pocket. “So…” He pauses, gaze sweeping over my body. “Do you have any tattoos? I sort of expect someone who does tattoos for a living to be covered in ink.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Well, from what I’ve seen—”
“Which isn’t much,” I point out.
His eyes crinkle with silent laughter. “So do you have any?” he asks again.
I chew on my bottom lip, letting a coy grin sweep across my mouth before I say, “I do have one.”
He leans across the table. “Where?”
“None of your beeswax.”
Jack’s mouth rises in tandem with his eyebrow. “It’s on your ass, isn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His eyes flash with a mix of amusement and intrigue, and I let my eyes dip into my lap as I fight back an inconvenient grin.
Last year on her birthday, I gave Allison and myself matching tattoos at Sleeve It to Me—something we’d talked about doing for ages. She’d jumped up and down screaming as she hugged me, telling me over and over I was the best sister ever. Now the once sweet memory feels sour, another reminder of how far we’ve drifted apart.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back into tattooing?” Jack asks, bringing a napkin to the corner of his lips.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I tell him.
I think about all the nights I cried myself to sleep, tormented by thoughts of overdue bills and everyone I’d disappointed. It wasn’t just about the money. It was the stench of failure that seemed to permeate everything around me, lingering like cigarette smoke in a couch cushion.
Growing up, teachers and parents were always telling my mom how proud she ought to be to have a daughter like me. Someone so mature for my age. Someone so responsible . Carter used to say the same thing. He’d tell me he loved how sensible I was. How reliable. So much so that he used to call me his North Star.
I clung to those compliments like little mental life rafts. Each one telling me where my value was. Who I was supposed to be. But then the business failed, and it wasn’t just a crushing blow to my self-esteem, it was a devastating blow to my very identity. Who was I supposed to be if I wasn’t the responsible, reliable one? How was I supposed to take care of the people around me if I couldn’t be the person they counted on me to be?
“But why not try again?” Jack asks. “You’re clearly talented and you have a passion for it.”
I look at him, baffled. “Talent isn’t enough, Jack. My credit score is fucked. The whole thing was a failure. I’m a failure.”
“Just because something didn’t work out the first time doesn’t mean you’re a failure,” he says, giving me a pointed look. “Besides, you’re young, you have lots of time to rebuild your credit score.”
A hollow laugh rattles inside me. “You make me sound like I’m some young whippersnapper with all the time in the world.”
He studies me. “What’re you? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“In that case, yikes, better get it sorted. You practically have one foot already in the grave. Leonardo DiCaprio won’t even date you.”
I laugh, annoyed that he’s actually being funny right now.
“If I have one foot in the grave, you must be long dead. What are you? Thirty-eight?” I ask, scanning the network of creases in his forehead.
He presses his palm against his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Thirty-three, and easy there, you ought to respect your elders.”
A breathy snort escapes me. “While I appreciate the enthusiasm for my business ventures, it’s not a prudent financial move for me. At least not right now. Besides, the business was sort of a sore spot between Carter and me, and I’m afraid that if I reopen, it will mess everything up for us.”
“Carter.” Jack repeats the name like it’s some kind of rare species he’s never heard of before. “So this is about your ex?”
My insides shift like an internal alarm’s been tripped. “No…well, sort of . But it’s complicated.”
And I mean it. It is complicated.
At first, Carter was supportive of the business. On the night of the grand opening, he bought a bottle of expensive champagne he totally couldn’t afford, and we sat on the fire escape, drinking and talking until two a.m. I remember how light my chest felt, like I was full of hot air and fizz, drunk on possibility. But over time the business became a sort of wedge between us. Carter didn’t like the long hours I put in, how much time I spent at the shop—time that used to be with him.
He never said it exactly, but I always wondered if maybe he was jealous. If he resented how passionate I was about my work, while he’d spent years waffling between careers, always looking for, but never finding, that thing that thrilled him the way tattooing did me.
I figured he would eventually get over it, that one day he’d find something he was just as excited about, and everything would be okay. But when things started to go downhill with the business, he withdrew. He got more distant. Like he could see the iceberg ahead. Meanwhile, I stayed aboard, listening to the band play its final songs.
Later, after everything crashed and burned, Carter told me, Maybe it was for the best . That I should probably get a regular job.
He hadn’t meant it to be unkind. But the words still stung. Probably because I’d spent years supporting Carter in every side hustle and shiny new life plan, and it didn’t seem fair that my support for him was a blank check, while his support for me came with limitations.
But deep down, I think what really bothers me is that maybe Carter’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out to run a business and it’s better if I move on and get a regular job. Something sensible and reliable.
After a beat, Jack says, “I get being scared to try again, but every choice comes with a cost, even the safe ones.”
I frown, not sure whether to be alarmed or annoyed by how well he can read me. “It’s not that simple,” I tell him.
He tilts his chin, studying me. “Why not?”
I shift my weight, newly aware of just how sticky this leather seat is. How tight my jeans feel around my middle.
When I don’t answer, Jack says, “The first time I took the bar exam, I failed. Which made me even more nervous to take it the second time. What if I failed again? What was I supposed to tell people? I’d be humiliated. Not to mention I’d have wasted three years of law school. But I pushed past that fear and took it anyways, and I’m glad I did. Otherwise I’d never be where I am now.”
“You mean this fine establishment with your best friend’s fiancée’s sister that you tried to sleep with?” I say, gesturing to the Formica tables and plastic chairs around us.
His mouth quirks into a half smile. “Well technically that’s true. Aren’t my four-hundred-dollar-an-hour legal fees bankrolling this trip?”
I make a face, but no comeback, and we return to silence like actors exiting the stage after a vignette.
But as Jack goes back to his food and I go back to mine, my thoughts stay stuck on what he’s just said.
It’s easy for him to tell me to take the risk when he doesn’t have to bear the consequences of it. When he doesn’t have to worry about failure, or if Carter’s going to get back together with him, or if he can pay off his debt. But all that aside, he sort of has a point. Every choice comes with a cost. I don’t know if later down the road I’ll regret not going after what I want, but I can’t deny the ember of curiosity lingering in the back of my mind. The part of me that’s still hungry to try again. Not just because I want to prove myself, but because I miss it, the thrill of making art, of taking an idea from inception to a sketch to a tattoo. I miss the power and wonder and awe of creating something special, and I don’t want to lose that.
The realization makes my stomach lift into my throat, and suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore. I look at the time and see we have seven minutes until our train departs.
“I’m going to find the restroom,” I tell him. “Watch my stuff.”
Before he can answer, I stand up and walk away.
The toilet is tucked away in some back room that I have to walk through the kitchen to get to. Inside, the toilet water is rusty and the floor is coated in a thick layer of sludge. I hold my nose and hover over the toilet seat.
After I finish peeing, I wash my hands and flick them dry because there aren’t any paper towels. Then I try to open the door, but it won’t budge.
It’s stuck.