Chapter 8
CLARISSA
Biscuit is a warm loaf of dog on my feet, chin between his paws, and he’s so cute it makes my heart ache. Margot is cross-legged on the other end with a mug of coffee, and she’s waiting me out.
I sip my coffee and try not to wince. Margot uses the cheap grounds and too much water, and I love her for a thousand reasons, but her coffee isn’t one of them.
“Have you decided if you want to talk to your dad?”
I look at the bruises on my arm and gently touch the edges. Five oval smudges, going purple at the edges, the exact width and spacing of my father’s fingers.
“I don’t know what I’d say.” My voice is steadier than yesterday. Though nearly anything is better than yesterday. “The last time I saw him, he was gripping my arm in front of five men and calling me a disgrace. He basically disowned me.”
“Okay, but hear me out.” Margot sets her mug on the arm of the couch. “You also need to talk to Carmine.”
“I know.”
“Do you? He stepped between you and your father, the whole crew lined up behind him, and then you came here and haven’t called him.”
“I don’t know what to—”
“Clarissa.” She takes my face in both hands. “You don’t have to have the perfect speech ready. You just have to pick up the phone. It’s obvious you have feelings for him. And he stood up for you.”
I pull back. Not because she’s wrong, but knowing what I should do and being able to do it are not the same thing right now. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I press my thumb into my finger pad under the blanket. “Because if I call him, I have to know what I’m telling him. Am I coming back to the shop? Am I coming back to him? Are those the same things?”
Margot pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them.
“You know you don’t have to choose between your dad and Carmine, right?”
I nod but look away. Her comment is sincere, but I don’t think she fully understands how serious my father is about basically disowning me if I don’t do what he wants.
“It sure doesn’t feel like that. My father is the one who said I couldn’t go home if I worked at King Ink, Margot. He made it a choice. Not me.”
“That’s your dad’s line in the sand. You get to make a choice, too, and his options don’t have to be the same options you choose.
And Clarissa, I’m damn proud that you stood up to your dad.
I respect him, but trying to control your life like this is going too far.
” She tips her head. “But that’s not actually what I want to ask you. ”
“Then ask.”
“Is this about caring for Carmine and liking working at King Ink? Or is this about rebelling against your father?”
I turn the question over in my head and reach down to scratch Biscuit on the head. “Honestly? I don’t know. I care for Carmine – a lot. But…is it enough to let a wedge form between me and my dad? My family? There’s so much going on in my head, Margot.”
“That’s what you need to figure out today.” Her voice is quiet, and I know she’s right. “Not what to say to your dad. You need to figure out whether you’re choosing Carmine or rejecting your father’s expectations.”
She stands and grabs her bag. “I’ve got to go to work. Call Carmine and check in with him. Don’t make him think you’re cutting him out of your life like your father wants you to do.” Her green eyes hold mine.
I pick up Biscuit and hold him in my arms, then I call Carmine. He answers on the first ring.
“Clarissa,” Carmine exhales into the phone, and I immediately understand how stressed he is. “How are you?”
“I’m… it’s all hard,” I pause. A large part of me wants to go over and see him, talk to him. But deep down, I know I need to sort through all this on my own. “I need to think about things. But I wanted to check in with you. I also need you to know my feelings for you haven’t changed.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice sounding wary. “Take the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you.” I hang up before my voice cracks.
I take Biscuit to the dog park and let him off-leash so he can play with other dogs and chase birds. Once he’s exhausted himself, I find a bench at the far end where the path curves, and I sit.
Choosing or running.
I think about the first week at King Ink.
Walking in was rebellion. It was right after the first time my father was on my case about getting a summer job at a company that he approved of.
But King Ink was captivating, with its neon sign, the buzz of the tattoo guns, the men with ink climbing their arms—everything my father would look at and dismiss as coarse and uncouth.
I was aware of that. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.
But then all the guys welcomed me and were nothing at all like the evil, violent men my father always told me that men who looked like this were. They were—are—just regular guys who just happen to love art, tattoos, and giving clients permanent art that they wear on their bodies.
Working at the front desk, with the phone ringing and people coming in and out, talking to people while they waited for Carmine or Ford or Knight or Liam or Clancy, it’s been fun.
Managing the front desk, especially when it gets busy, can be challenging, but I discovered I was good at all of it and that it was fun. Being at King Ink feels right.
And Carmine. He’s so much more than I ever dreamed of. He went from being my boss to someone I want to explore life with. And the way he made me feel in the office? I want so, so much more of that, and I want to give him pleasure, too. But is it real? Or is it part of my rebellion against my dad?
I’m turning that over when an elderly woman settles onto the other end of the bench. She doesn’t move quickly, but she moves like this is a familiar routine. She reaches into the paper sack on her lap, tears off a piece of bread, and tosses it toward some ducks.
She glances at me and smiles, but stops when she looks into my eyes. “Are you all right, honey?”
I should say I’m fine. That’s what I’ve been brought up to say. Don’t talk about the hard stuff, especially with strangers. But my eyes are still swollen from last night, and I don’t have the energy to perform fine.
“Man troubles.”
She nods and chuckles as she tears another piece of bread. More ducks have appeared, and they’re all jostling for bread. Thankfully, Biscuit is tired enough that he doesn’t want to chase the ducks.
“I’ve had those.”
I almost smile. “How’d they turn out?”
“Forty-three years of marriage.” She drops bread for the smaller duck, who keeps getting edged out. “And five hard years before that, when I almost lost him because I was too scared to stand up to my daddy.”
My hand stops on Biscuit’s head. She’s not looking at me—she’s watching the ducks—and her voice is matter-of-fact.
“My father hates the man I like. Actually.” I pause, allowing myself to voice what I’m feeling in my heart. “I think I love him. But it’s all so new, and I can’t pick through everything swirling in my mind.”
She tears bread slowly. “My daddy hated my man, too. My high school sweetheart, Ray. Grease under his fingernails that never fully came out.” A small smile. “My father took one look at him and said absolutely not.”
“What did you do?”
“Listened. For five years.” She drops bread for the smaller duck, who keeps getting edged out.
“Dated every clean-handed boy Daddy approved of. And the whole time Ray was thirty minutes up the road, waiting for me.” Her hand goes to her ring—a thin gold band worn smooth.
“I woke up one morning and I thought—whose life is this? Because it certainly wasn’t what I would have chosen for myself. ”
My thumbnail digs into my fingertip.
“I called Ray that afternoon, and we married three months later. We had a glorious lifetime together before cancer took him.”
“And your father?”
The woman sighs and shakes her head. “Daddy didn’t speak to me for a long time.” She says it simply. “A long time. It hurt, but I knew I had to be true to myself. Ray was a good man, and he loved me well, and slowly my daddy saw it. Not all the way, but enough.”
“Would you do it again?”
She folds the empty sack along its creases and looks me directly in the eye, her voice filled with passion and energy. “In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t have wasted five years ignoring my heart.”
After she’s gone, I stay on the bench until Biscuit stirs. He puts his chin on my knee, and I stroke his ears, wondering what to do. Talking to the woman was like talking to an older version of myself. But can I be as strong as she was?
Still, what she said about doing what her father wanted versus finding her own way, it echoes why I said no to everything my father tried to set up for me, like the summer internship.
In a rush of clarity, I realize I didn’t take the King Ink job to spite my father.
I took it because it looked interesting, and I wanted to expand my world beyond the boundaries my father had laid down.
Maybe it was a little rebellion to take the job, but working there now is normal and what I like—not something I’m doing to spite my father.
Working there is something I’m doing for me.
I know what I need to do.