Chapter Twenty
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Don’t worry about Warren… yet.
Wolfe
I received a letter from Leora this morning.
It’s been five days since Amia and I ran into her in the grocery store—six since I tucked Leora into bed with a note, a glass of water, and a bottle of hangover salvation.
When I left my number with her, it was in an in-case-of-emergency type of way, but I can’t say I haven’t been checking my phone every day, several times a day, in hopes that she might contact me through it.
My messages app has remained sadly Leora-free, boasting only the family group chat, messages from Sterne, and an absurd amount of unsaved numbers belonging to clients, potential and return alike.
But now, I have a letter. A beautiful, sea-green letter that will look absolutely gorgeous against my office wall.
I think I’ll frame it with the letter open and the envelope behind it, peeking out from the top corner.
She filled the missive with such beautiful words, it would be a shame to keep them tucked away.
You parent how I wish I would have been parented and how I hope to one day parent my own child.
The way you handled Amia at Rory’s was beautiful.
Firm, but loving. And it didn’t hit me until later, but when she found me and I had a little freak out about her running off from you, she told me that she was happy I was getting on to her, because that means I love her—just like how you get on to her because you love her.
It’s a beautiful thing to have a child be both disciplined and loved, and aware of each.
You’ve done a good job, Wolfe. You’re doing a good job.
My heart squeezes just thinking about it, and so does my hand.
“Hey, man, that’s my skin you’re pinching,” Warren Hale, brother to October’s esteemed mayor, says, regaining my attention. Attention he should not have ever lost, considering I am currently stabbing him with a needle some thousand odd times or so.
I curse, pulling my tattoo gun away from his pinched skin, and apologize.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind the pain, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be stretching it, not squishing it. And if I’m going to be in pain, it might as well be from the needle, you know?”
I do, indeed, know.
I apologize again, and he suggests we take a short break. “I’m hungry anyway, and the diner is having a special on reubens. I’ll swing by and grab us both one. Some food would do us good.”
I set my gun down on the plastic-wrapped rolling cart beside me and nod. “That would be great, Warren. Thank you.”
I wrap his partially-tattooed arm in a temporary bandage for when he’s out in germville, then take the opportunity while he’s gone to stretch and check my phone. Just in case.
Consider me flabbergasted when I unlock the device to messages from an unknown number.
My lungs cease proper functioning, and I wheeze as I open the message.
Unknown: Hi. It’s Leora, your pen pal, and… uh… Leora.
Unknown: Are you at work right now?
My fingers tremble as I compose a response, and I have to draft it four times before all of the typos are finally gone. I read it twice, assure myself it sounds perfectly normal and fine and not desperate at all, then hit send.
My gut roils when it reads “Delivered,” then, immediately, “Read.”
Wolfe: Hello, my pen pal, and my… Leora. I’m glad you found my number, and especially glad you’ve decided to use it. I am at work right now. My client is taking a break, then we have a couple more hours on his sleeve. Why? Did you want to see me?
I gulp, and profanity spills from my lips in a regretful wave. Not desperate. Right. Sure. Just like the moon is not big.
Bubbles appear as Leora starts her reply.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I don’t blink.
Unknown: I can’t tonight, but if you want to take some pictures of the whiteboards in your office for me right now, we can meet at the bar tomorrow and discuss your progress.
I need to review the boards first, though.
Hence the photos. That you’re going to get.
For me. Right now. Right? I need them to paste in my journal so I can give them a proper review and still stay portable.
Right. But also…
Wolfe: How much “progress” do you think I’ve had? Out of curiosity?
I know at least once she’s declared a con could be crossed off the list, but I’m not sure if I’ve done anything else to earn her praise. And if this meeting is only going to be more of the pummeling I got when the whiteboards came to fruition…
Oh, who am I kidding. I’ll still show up. If Leora is there, I will always show up.
While I’m adding her to my contact list, she replies.
Darling Starling: We’ll talk about it tomorrow night. 9:00 sharp.
Darling Starling: The whiteboards?
That’s… foreboding. Right? Surely we all see how foreboding that is.
Nevertheless, I trot to my office like a good little project boy and take a picture of each whiteboard containing my life’s sins and pitfalls. I send them to her with an emoji that lets her know how very much I’d rather not.
Darling Starling: Stars, I forgot how much there was…
Darling Starling: No matter. Thanks, Wolfe!
Wolfe: Miserably, you’re welcome. Lamenting, it’s no problem. Dismally, anytime.
She replies with a series of star-eyed emojis, follows them with a purple heart, and finishes it off with a hand heart.
I stare at the string of messages, which are clearly a full and complete and ended conversation.
I wonder if I could say something else without making it weird. I could ask how her day has been. I could ask if the slow season is still bothering her. I could ask what she made with the chicken thighs that were in her cart on Saturday…
The bell above the shop door rings, and the smell of garlic, onions, and meat fills the studio.
I sigh.
“Stay there!” I call to Warren, walking around my tattoo chair and past two others to reach the waiting area near the front. “No eating in the booth area. It’s not sanitary.”
Warren nods, golden hair flopping with the motion, and sets a plastic take-away bag from the diner on the front counter.
I round to the employee side, grab the two rolling chairs stored there, and slide them out to where clients and companions are invited to chill when not being tattooed.
Warren and I sit, and he hands me my sandwich before tipping his head at a drink. “Mel said you like root beer.”
Mel would be correct. I take a sip, and we eat our food mostly in silence.
Warren is a repeat client of mine, and he’s one of my least talkative.
I have a theory that when his parents were having children, they saved up all the pomp, aplomb, and chatter for their youngest, Veryan.
Honestly, if they didn’t look so alike, I don’t think I would have ever known they were brothers.
Warren’s bigger, and quieter, and all around…
saner, but he is undeniably Veryan’s brother.
No one else has eyes so golden as the Hale brothers, nor hair so bright.
And, despite Warren’s I’m not clinically insane outer shell, there is something…
something in his eyes, that matches the same sort of something Veryan carries around.
Plus, no one completely sane sits for an entire sleeve in one day, and this is Warren’s second. And the only reason he didn’t get it at the same time as his other one is because I tapped out.
“So,” he rumbles, his default sound. “I heard you and Leora are finally together and that you yelled at an entire bar to leave you alone.”
I nearly choke on my reuben.
Warren grins, and that something in his eye becomes a whole lot more something. “Good for you, Wolfe. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I cough, and he pats me on the back—hard.
“Neither did I,” I wheeze, honestly. “Truly.”
Warren laughs.
Then, he asks if he can see the infamous whiteboards.
I choke again.