5. CHAPTER 5
Ican’t sit still. My hands fidget, my legs twitch, and my brain won’t shut up unless I’m busy, so I start fussing with the counter.
I check the shop's email account again, even though I checked it an hour ago. I flip each of the art books on the side counter to a different page. I wash the coffee cups and spoons, put them on the drying rack, and cover them with a fresh tea towel so stuff doesn’t fall on them in the night. And still, Tek doesn’t say anything.
He’s done nothing but stare at me, with the occasional grunt thrown in for good measure, since I called him out on his bullshit this morning.
It’s actually quite entertaining how similar to Eden he is.
They’re like two halves of the same brick wall.
Or maybe more accurately, it’s like someone took one personality, cracked it down the middle, and poured it into two different bodies.
Eden got the hot-headed, break your face if you look at me wrong, side.
And Tek is the brooding martyr. So I guess that makes me the idiot who can see straight through the both of them.
I might not have lived with Eden most of my life, but I still know the rules of the game. You can’t give an inch. You can’t accept their moods as gospel. You’ve got to shove back, call their bluff, and remind them that they’re not always the boss or you’ll get walked all over.
I lean beside the sink in the back room and watch Tek through the half-open doorway. He’s hunched over his client, shading something between their shoulder blades. His arms flex, pulling the fabric of his black shirt tight as his muscles push against it.
I wouldn’t mind if he actually wanted to walk all over me… I'd let him.
Then, like he can read my thoughts, Tek looks up, his eyes locking straight on me.
My stomach flips. My face burns hot, and I break the stare.
What the hell am I doing?
Trash.
I need to take out the trash.
Now.
I grab one bag, tie it tight, walk quickly and don’t look back.
In the lot behind the shop, I heave the bag into the dumpster and notice a pile of sketches.
Even crumpled, the lines are clear, smooth, and intricate.
One is a snake coiled around a dagger. Another is a skull wreathed in flowers.
They’re not trash. They’re art. And he threw them out.
Like they aren’t worth the space they take up.
It feels like a crime to leave them in there, but I don’t touch them.
When I walk back inside, the shop feels heavier.
I try my hardest to not look at Tek, but I’m weak, and crack within seconds.
We’re alone, and his eyes—so dark compared to the silverish bleach of his hair—pierce through me.
“Where’s your client?” I blurt out so I’m not just standing there, staring at him like an idiot.
“Having a smoke.” He peels off the black surgical gloves and tosses them away. He walks to the reception desk and I shuffle to the side until he settles in front of the computer. Moving the mouse around to wake up the screen, he tells me, “You can head out.”
“It’s cool. I’ll stay till you’re done.”
“This guy’s not my last.” His voice is flat, not unkind, but not warm either. “When he’s gone, I’ve got a booking till nine… If it doesn’t run over.”
“And dinner?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t run on fumes.”
“I’ll live.” The cash draw dings open. He takes out a $100 bill and holds it out to me. “Here.”
I look down at it, then back up to his face. “No sexual favors then?”
I can see his jaw clench and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a frustrated breath.
He shakes the note again.
I smirk and snatch it from him. “Are we gonna do this dance again tomorrow?”
“Seven-thirty.” Is all he says then turns away from me to walk into the backroom.
“Are you actually gonna tell me what to do?” I ask, following him. “Cause I can’t just keep guessing.”
“Seven-thirty,” he repeats, walking back past me.
I sigh, and take down my brother's plaid jacket from where it’s hanging on an open locker door. It drowns me, making me feel smaller than I actually am.
I pick up my skateboard and head out.
At the front door, I stop and turn back to Tek who’s sitting back at his station, flicking through his phone. “See ya tomorrow, old man.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait this time. He doesn’t even look up. The rejection stings, and I snarl in his direction.
As I reach for the handle, Tek’s client pushes open the door and I’m hit with the smell of cold cigarette smoke. “You headin' out?”
“Yeah, The Emerald Dragon is callin’ my name.”
“Best Chinese between Seattle and the Canadian border,” he says, patting me on the shoulder before shrugging off his coat.
I nod goodbye and let the door close behind me. Then I’m quickly jogging over the zebra crossing in front of the neighboring store and pushing through the double doors painted with red and gold.
It smells like garlic and ginger, and my stomach growls the second I step inside. It reminds me of Bali, but also not quite because there’s no galangal and coconut milk thrown into the mix.
The menu is big with way too many options, just like every other Asian restaurant I’ve ever been to.
Ordering for myself is easy; chicken chow mien always for the win.
Then, without thinking, I add something else.
Fried rice because everyone eats it, even brooding and angry thirty-four year old tattoo artists.
Ten minutes later I’m walking back across the street, my board in one hand and the takeout bag in the other.
Before opening the door I can already see that Tek isn’t on the shop floor, which actually makes it easier.
Tek’s client looks up when I enter but I press my finger to my lips to shush him. He nods and places his attention back on his phone.
Creeping to the desk I take out the fried rice and place it where Tek can’t miss it. I don’t leave a note or an explanation why, because I'm fucked if I know why I’m doing this. He doesn’t deserve it with how he’s spoken to me the past two days, but here I am, doing it anyway.
Stepping back, I have a strange moment of contemplation.
I don’t want to leave and go back to the apartment just to eat on my own, yet the alternative is even more pathetic. Even so, it takes a lot for me to make my way back to the exit and not just pull up a chair and start chowing down right here.
Back on the street, the frigid night air doesn’t affect me, even though I wish it would.
It doesn’t distract me from the loneliness, or shock the heavy feeling of abandonment I’ve been carrying around in my guts since I arrived here out into the ether. It compounds them.
I drop my board and kick off as fast as I can.
Broadrock’s main street is only small but the lights are sweltering.
The wheels rattle over every crack in the sidewalk. Sometimes the sound is a high click, sometimes it’s more of a hollow thud. There’s no rhythm to it and it jars in my head.
With the wind rushing against me, I unzip Eden’s jacket and let it billow out behind me as I sail home. Except it’s not home. Not my home. I don’t have one of them.
My mind circles back to the shop, to the look on Tek’s face when our eyes locked, and to his unreadable expression.
I wonder if he’ll eat the food or if he’ll just roll his eyes and throw it in the trash?
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, that it’s just food and Tek isn’t my friend, but my stomach still churns.
My board clacks hard against a hole in the concrete, jolting me back. I kick again, harder this time, trying to outrun my desperation to be needed.
I dig the thumb and middle finger of my free hand into my cheeks and push them back, forcing my lips into a wide toothy grin. My teeth clench and tears start to well, but I maintain the expression.
I am happy.
I am fine.
I have somewhere to be tomorrow.