Chapter 15 So Not Fetch
SO NOT FETCH
IVY
After the Earl debacle at the farmer’s market, Delilah got a call from her mom asking her to meet them at the high school.
Sadie took a tumble during her game and scraped her knee up pretty badly.
Not enough to need stitches, thankfully, but enough that the kid was crying for her mama.
Artie offered her a ride in his pickup truck, which I insisted she take, since she and Little Bean had already been out here in the summer sun for far too long.
I stayed behind to finish out the last hour of the market and then break down the stand.
I also wanted the alone time to mentally freak the fuck out about having just kissed my very straight best friend and then claimed her like a dog pissing circles around her feet in front of the entire town. A woman needs privacy for a mental spiral of that caliber.
I’m just loading the last of the empty crates into the back of my Jeep (a simple task since we sold out of jam and I left the roof of the car in the garage this morning. I can just heave everything into the exposed trunk) when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
“Hello?” I say once I fumbled an AirPod out of the case clipped to my belt loop and shove it into my ear.
“Hey, Ivy. It’s Devi.”
“I know, Dev. Believe it or not, after all these years of working together I have your number saved in my phone. What’s up?
Everything okay over at L&L?” It’s been…
hell, two weeks since I checked in on the team at Lilith & Lace.
Part of my laissez-faire approach as of late is because I know the crew can handle running the shop in my absence so I don’t have to hover.
But mostly, I’ve been so wrapped up in my life here in Fox Hole that I sort of just forgot.
“Yeah, everything is going really well. I just needed to check in with you about Daren Miller.”
“Ugh,” I roll my eyes. That damn fool never did schedule a time with me at The Inkwell, despite the number of emails I sent to follow up with him. As if it’s hard to find the time in his ‘unemployed-wannabe-honkytonk-rock-star’ life to drive a few hours east of Nashville. “What does he want now?”
“Well…” Devi trails off, her nerves crackling over the phone line. “He sort of…asked if I would be willing to finish up his chest piece here at L&L instead of you…”
“And you don’t want to do it?” I ask, sliding into the driver’s seat and blasting the AC to cool off from the afternoon sun. Once I get moving, I’ll let the fresh air do the job.
“I mean…”
Her unwillingness to finish a sentence without trailing off at the end is making me nervous.
“Devi, has Darren made you feel uncomfortable in any way? Because I might not be willing to make the drive to tattoo him, but I sure as hell will make the drive to kick his ass if I need to.”
“No! Oh my god, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just…he’s your client, Ivy. You’ve done almost all of his work. The chest piece extends from his sleeve, and I know you spent hours and hours on that. Wouldn’t it be like I was poaching him from you or something?”
Oh my lord, she is too damn cute. It is true that there is a bit of possessiveness amongst tattoo artists and their clients, particularly if they’re good friends or good tippers.
And especially when it comes to an artist starting a piece and another one finishing it.
At the end of the day, it’s the client’s body and their choice what to do with it, but I’ve seen business partnerships and coworker relationships go up in flames over client poaching in my years.
“Oh, Devi, my sweet angel baby. I appreciate your hesitation, but I promise you, it is not necessary. I am merely the mother hen of Lilith & Lace. You are my bright, shining little chickadee, and it is time for you to spread your wings and show us all that you’re capable of.”
Not to mention, Daren Miller is a pain in my ass that I’m glad to be offloading on someone else, but I don’t need to rub that in Devi’s face.
“Are you sure? Because, to tell you the truth, I’m kind of excited.
He was in here last night talking about blending the folksy vibes of his arm with an American Traditional eagle situation across his pecs, and even though that sounds totally vulgar and will render him unfuckable by every woman with an ounce of taste in Tennessee, the details I’m thinking for the wings are pretty fucking baller. ”
God, Devi is so damn cute. She reminds me of myself when I was still a young thing, getting so excited over every new art style and skill I could sink my teeth into. I love my work, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that sort of excitement for myself.
More and more, it’s becoming clear to me that a change of scenery is exactly what I need.
“I am one hundred percent sure. Why don’t you send over any workups you’ve done and we can talk about them this week?”
I can practically hear Devi’s smile on the other end of the phone as she tells me all about what she’ll have waiting for me in my inbox tonight. And while she catches me up on some of the more mundane, business-y type things happening at L&L, I can’t help but think of Cliff’s offer.
If I bought The Inkwell, it would require me to be around full-time. Unlike Lilith & Lace, The Inkwell is small but managed one hundred percent by Cliff. Without a team I’d be picking up the bulk of the work until I’m able to lure artists into our small corner of the world.
I’d be out of the house, but close by when Delilah needs me.
If I worked the schedule out just right, I could have a construction crew working on the shop while Little Bean is still a newborn, which would afford me time at home to take care of the girls.
And with Devi proving herself with all the extra responsibilities I’ve entrusted her with since I’ve been gone, Lilith & Lace might be at a point where it is ready to thrive without me as an ever present boss-lady.
Hell, it is at that point. I haven’t been an ever present boss-lady in weeks, and Lilith & Lace is thriving.
And I’m not totally sure, but I think the vacant space next to The Inkwell is zoned for a commercial kitchen. If I could get my hands on that spot too, well…
This might be the answer I didn’t know I’ve been searching for.
“Hey, Dev,” I say when she starts to say her goodbyes. “Before you go, I want to talk to you about something.”
The hour I spent sitting in the parking lot, hashing out the details of my idea with Devi, followed by my visit to The Inkwell, provided a nice reprieve from the mental gymnastics I’d been doing since kissing Delilah.
But now that we’re both home with a bandaged up Sadie playing “Teen Girl At The Mall Talking On Her Phone Except There Are Actually Stores And No Mean Old Ladies In Tracksuits” (that is the game’s real name, according to Sadie), there’s nothing for me to hide behind.
Sure, I can’t exactly bring up the kiss or the inappropriate things I said in front of the kid, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there, lingering between us like bad perfume.
Every time Delilah looks at me, I can feel the weight of her questions pushing down on my shoulders.
I don’t have a good explanation for why I did what I did.
Sure, my protective instincts kicked in and I wanted to shield Lilah from whatever other crap Earl was going to throw at her this morning.
He can scream all the foul-mouthed, backward, pea-brained homophobic insults that he wants at me, but I can’t stand back and let him shit talk Delilah when she’s the one who has been holding down the fort and propping up his bitch-ass for years.
Why I decided to take a stand in the form of kissing Delilah and pretending we were in a romantic relationship?
I’d like to say I don’t know or that the answer is complicated, but honestly, it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out why my first course of action was to publicly lay a hot kiss on my best friend.
I mean, it’s practically a rite of passage that every gay girl develops an ill-advised, sometimes inappropriate but inevitably unavoidable crush on their best friend at some point in their life.
For me, it was pretty much instantaneous.
When the Hudsons moved to Fox Hole and Delilah took the seat next to me in homeroom, securing her place next to mine for the rest of middle school, I was done for.
I took one look at her skin, tanned from hours spent out in the sun, her wild curly hair that flowed down her back and the Fall Out Boy patch ironed to the thigh of her black skinny jeans, and I was hooked.
At fourteen, I wasn’t the pro at picking up women that I’ve come to be in adulthood.
My version of flirting was pretty much identical to how a person makes a regular friend.
I complimented Lilah’s hair, her clothes, her sick three-ring binder with the zipper and the multiple compartments.
During study hall, I shared my headphones with her, and we both listened to the new Panic!
At The Disco single on my Video iPod. We exchanged cell phone numbers and instant messenger names and chatted all night long.
But one afternoon when Delilah started gushing about the cute boy in her geometry class and how she totally wanted to kiss him (even though they both had braces and they might get stuck together), I knew my crush was dead in the water.
Delilah was as straight as I was gay, so I shoved my feelings to the side and went on being her friend. Because really, no one at Fox Hole Middle School was listening to Panic! At The Disco at the time, and who else was I supposed to discuss A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out with?
And so was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, one that I wouldn’t trade for the world, but also one where I have to periodically remind myself that Delilah has never shown an interest in women and has certainly never shown an interest in me.