Meanwhile
Callaway
Seven days. That’s how long I’ve been in this small-ass town. And I won’t lie, I’m a little confused. I thought the South was supposed to be charming and hospitable. In fact, I’m pretty sure the South Carolina slogan is some bullshit about being “the state of hospitality.” Where is it then?
Because all I’ve gotten are judgmental stares and old hags whispering as they pass me on the sidewalk.
Oh, and my six-foot-four neighbor across the street who’s done everything in his power to try and get my business license denied.
Apparently, he’s a misogynistic asshole who can’t fathom a woman having her own tattoo shop. Or better yet, he’s threatened by me.
He should be. I’m a damn good artist, and from what I’ve seen he’s… decent.
Fine, he’s talented. But his attitude overpowers whatever skill he may have. I swear, I’ve never seen someone scowl as much as he does. It’s like he has no idea how to smile.
In the beginning, I expected a warm welcome, and not just from him, from everyone.
TV shows from the 90s had me thinking I’d have neighbors knocking on the door of the van bringing me fucking casseroles.
As the week went on, I realized I’d been lied to by mainstream media, and not only was no one going to bring me a welcome basket, but they’d rather gossip about me—openly.
Being a single mom to a non-binary kid who’s living out of a camper van until our place above the studio is ready has been…
tough, to say the least. And I’m a strong bitch.
I grew up in Brooklyn. I’m used to dealing with people who are rough around the edges, shit, I’m rough around the edges, I just expected more. That was my bad.
Actually, no. I blame Archer.
He definitely framed this place differently. And if I didn’t love the fucker so much, I’d throat punch him for lying to me. I still might honestly. He claims they’re all just wary of the new girl in town.
Sure. Wary. That’s why the salon I walked into to get my hair retouched told me they didn’t have availability despite multiple stylists standing around not working. I fear this place has softened my brother. Clearly, he’s let small town life go to his head.
It’s fine though, I can play the small town game. That’s why I went to the grocery store to pick up brownies. If Mark of Mason himself isn’t going to bring me baked goods or a goddamn welcome basket, I’ll just reverse psychology the situation and show him how kind his new neighbor is.
I grab a plate from the cabinet, one of the few we have in this hunk of metal we’re currently calling home.
Small as it is, I can’t let my frustration with our situation show.
River has seen enough, they don’t need to see me upset about living in a van.
I’m trying to make it fun. Live, laugh, love, or whatever those social media moms say.
Otherwise, I’ll just cry, scream, kill—which is frowned upon. And also illegal, but not the point.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the brownies from the container, placing them on the plate, then moving them around again. I want them to seem like they’re homemade… Maybe I should put them in the oven for a few minutes to—
“What are you doing?” River asks, and my hand flies to my chest as I jump out of my skin.
“Fuck, kid, you can’t sneak up on me.”
“Is it sneaking up when we’re constantly within six feet of each other in here?”
Fair point. Taking a deep breath, I mentally shuffle through the positive responses I can give them. I use “this is just temporary” so often I’m concerned they’ve started wondering which one of us I’m trying to convince.
“So… what are you doing? Are you planning on eating all of those?” The judgment in their voice is thick as they put their phone down and look from me to the brownies.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
I have to constantly remind myself they’re half me, so of course there’s more attitude than blood in those veins.
“Okay, first off, if I were, the shaming would be out of line. But no, I’m bringing them to the tattoo artist across the street.”
“The giant guy who always looks like someone pissed in his Cheerios?” River asks as they look out the window toward the giant’s shop.
“Language,” I attempt to scold knowing it’s useless. The eyeroll is heavy as they make zero effort to hide it. “Yes, that one. I think his name is Hayes or maybe it’s Hades, I don’t know. Either way, I’m doing the whole neighborly thing.”
Hard as they try to hold it in, the laugh bubbles up from their chest. My stone-cold expression doesn’t change as their laughter dies down. “What?” they ask, falling to the couch by the microwave. “That was a joke, right?”
“No, Riv, why would I be joking? You’ve known me your whole life, do I seem like the type who would joke about this?”
“Well…” they start, fiddling with the fraying bits of the knee-hole in their jeans. “No. But I’ve also never seen you take baked goods to someone, so…”
Touché, kid, touché.
“I’m just trying to make a good impression,” I say, turning away from them so they can’t see how poorly I’m lying. I don’t give two shits about making a good impression. I’m trying to bury this man in fake kindness so he feels like the ass he is.
Moving the brownies around once more, I realize if I’d actually baked them myself, I could have added a laxative or something.
But there’s also the cute girl who works for him, and she is someone I’d like to get to know…
more intimately. I’d hate to take it out on all of them.
Maybe they don’t even know he’s trying to sabotage me and my business.
“Sure. I guess that’s why you took them out of their original container too? So he didn’t see you bought your so-called good impression?”
“Exactly. Thank God you got your brains from me,” I say with a smile as I ruffle their blonde hair.
“Uh huh,” they hum, checking out of the conversation and opening a game on their phone.
I turn back to my plate of brownies, shuffling them around one more time. I don’t want them to look too perfect. Satisfied, I cover the plate in cling wrap.
“Alright, I’ll be back in a few, gonna go deliver these,” I tell River as I put my jacket on. It’s not nearly as cold as it is back home, but the air still has a chill to it.
I’m given a nonverbal wave in response. I’m still not used to this version of my child.
Being cooped up inside with no friends around is very new for us both.
Seeing them disappear into themselves over the last week has made me question my decision.
But then I remember why I moved us here—who and what we’re escaping.
I know they’re upset about leaving their friends, I’m just hoping they meet some here next week once I enroll them in school. River is outgoing like me with less of a chip on their shoulder. It won’t take them long to find their people.
Shutting the door to the van behind me, I pick my head up high, brownies in hand, and walk across the square to the rival tattoo shop: Mark of Mason.
I haven’t been inside yet, but I don’t expect the place to be nice.
Based on the man who owns it, I suspect the decor to be very grunge forward and not in the aesthetically pleasing way.
Pushing the door open, I do a double take as I cross the threshold. This can’t be right. My gaze finds the “Mark of Mason” logo on the window confirming I’m in the right place.
This is far from what I expected. I’m instantly annoyed. The studio looks like something I’d find in the city with a year-long waitlist.
A large wooden receptionist desk sits at the front, blocking access from the work stations.
Grunge rock music filters through the space, and no one is at the desk, in fact, I don’t see anyone anywhere.
Placing the brownies on the counter, I take my fill of the studio, glancing around at all the small details.
Within seconds, I hear footsteps walking toward the front. I turn to see the owner round the corner, needing to catch the look on his face when he realizes the woman he’s tried to sabotage all week is standing in the middle of his studio.
The look of shock doesn’t disappoint, but he tries to hide it.
“Can I help you?” His voice is just as deep as I thought it would be, matching his insane size.
I walk toward the desk, grabbing the plate of brownies. “I’m Callaway, owner of The Prickly Rose across the street. I wanted to bring you these homemade brownies.”
There’s a long pause as he looks from my face to the brownies and back. “Why?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, his stoic nature only pissing me off more.
I take a moment, looking him up and down before I respond, “What do you mean ‘why?’ It’s the neighborly thing to do.” I plaster a sickly sweet smile on my face. I refuse to let him get under my skin any more than he already has.
“Uh huh…” he says, bringing his gaze to the baked goods in my hands. “And you made these… where? In your van?”
I didn’t expect much from him considering his antics so far, but I won’t lie, I thought bringing these over would at least embarrass him into being a tad nicer, maybe stop his attempts at delaying my opening.
“Maybe. Would that be an issue for you?” I keep my face impassive.
“What’d you use? An Easy-Bake Oven?” I swear he puffs his chest even more with the remark.
“Hilarious.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a joke. I’m dead-serious. Did it take you all week to make this many?”
So when I walked in here, I strongly disliked this man, but I think I hate him now. Who the fuck does he think he is?
“You know what? Eat them, throw them away, I don’t care.
I just thought I’d be nice and bring something over to say hi.
” Turning away from him, I let the plate fall from my grasp, clanking as it hits the surface.
I don’t even care if it’s one of three plates I own and he never returns it. I’ll go to the dollar store for more.
The worst part? This is the first time I’m seeing him up close, and he’s way hotter than I realized.
Not surprisingly, he’s covered in tattoos, but he also has striking light green eyes.
Not only is he a foot taller than me, but he looks like he could throw me around.
My fucking weakness. Someone who’s this much of an asshole shouldn’t be allowed to be this attractive.
So far, two of the employees here are tens.
It’s unnerving. I need to get out of here.
“Oh, by the way,” he starts as I meet his gaze again, “your house-van is illegally parked, might wanna move it.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to give into his jabs. If my parking was an issue, I’d have gotten a ticket by now. I walk past him, not giving him the decency of a goodbye but gracing him with my middle finger instead, then push through the door, and walk back to my house-van, as he called it.
Fuck him.