CHAPTER 9
My watch says I went to bed at eleven last night, but it’s a lie I’m happy to keep.
If my schedule has healthy sleep patterns my denial doesn’t seem so pathetic.
When the reality is, I crawled into bed around three a.m. but the pillow case was too rough, and my house’s ceiling felt so white it broke through the moonless Northern Washington night.
I've spent the past two nights sprawled out on the couch doom-swiping through Tinder like a mad man. My matches are always high, and my inbox is always full, and despite some amazing prospects in Mount Vernon, I never locked anything in.
I was at the gym by five-thirty this morning, only to mindlessly stroll on the treadmill for an hour, never breaking a sweat.
Nothing sticks.
Nothing burns it off.
Nothing distracts.
The emptiness had started to wane. The weight was beginning to lift. Then he looked at me with that cocky twitch to his lips and I didn’t see Eden’s little brother, I saw—
Nope.
I push the thought out of my mind as I dump my backpack behind the reception desk because I’m too tired and lazy to walk to the back room.
Sitting down, I flick on the computer then rest my hands on the desk top beside it, and stare at them. They’re dry and starting to crack, more proof of how little I’m taking care of myself.
I tear off a small hangnail with my teeth. It tastes like hand sanitizer. Wonderful.
Like an idiot I check my phone, but there’s been no correspondence in or out since I texted Carey on Saturday morning.
He never wrote back, but why would he? My message was a threat more than anything, not an apology.
If I haven't killed you by the first of January…
I wanted to send something after that. 'Please come back,' or 'I'll try to be less of a dick,' but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Every time I typed the words out I could feel the same heat that was there when I yelled at him. When I backed him up against the wall. When I could smell him.
I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.
I should be grateful he isn’t here instead of questioning everything I’ve done since he walked into the shop last week as a virtual stranger to me.
I was in the seventh grade when he was born, then at five his parents took him to California and left Eden behind.
I’ve met him sporadically over the years, but I don’t know him.
And what will happen if he does show up?
Will he have the balls to say anything?
Will he look at me the same?
Will he treat me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world?
Or will he just glide in and get to work like before, humming an unfamiliar tune, always there, closer than I wanted but never close enough—
Fuck. I hate that I want him around.
I hate myself for being the reason he left in the first place.
I want to believe that I don’t care if he comes back or not, but I know it's a fucking delusion.
I start opening drawers, relying on the universe to throw something at me. Anything.
I spot my sketch book and flick past a jellyfish smoking weed and half-naked zombie girls to the refined Dick-Shark art. A small smile stretches my lips and I shake my head. So stupid.
This book is pure brain rot. It's perfect.
I take out a fine-tipped marker and turn to the next blank page.
I start with a female leopard, instead of realistic spots I give it an overlapping pattern of blackwork hexagons like I did on Reeze’s thighs last summer. I give her large eyelashes, a seductive snarl, and tag it with the phrase 'Pussy’s out of your league’.
I think it’s funny.
I check my phone again; seven-thirty.
Looking up, I can see through the condensation on the front windows, the sun is just starting to make an appearance over the top of the Emerald Dragon.
My feet take me to the break room and I make a too-strong Americano on autopilot.
Coffee in one hand and the pen in the other, I draw a demon; an amalgamation of a western looking devil and a Dokkaebi from Korean folklore.
Then, inspired by stories my Halmae told me as a kid when I’d spend my summer breaks from school in Seoul, I start outlining a Jeoseung Saja.
Similar to the Grim Reaper, except they don’t bring death, they transport souls to the afterlife.
Tall and slim, they dress in traditional black Hanbok robes, and wear a Gat on their head—its brim wide and almost perfectly flat.
I spend longer on this drawing, adding extra details, and finishing it off with a long string of Gatkkeun beads strung from the Gat that hang from above his temples to the middle of his chest before looping back up again.
I sign near the bottom out of habit, like I always do, and put the pen down.
The floor is due to be mopped, but I can push it another day.
I stare at the computer screen and the open tabs.
Clicking on the shop's Instagram, I spot a DM from Brooklyn right at the top. ‘LMK if u need someone who knows the shop.’ It was from two days ago, and she shall continue to be ignored.
Looking outside again, I see Main Street flooded with morning sun and know I should move. So I take a towel from the back room and wipe the condensation from the windows.
For a second I swear I see a shadow move behind me. My pulse jumps on reflex, but it’s just the empty rack where the after care kits should be but we sold out and new stock isn’t arriving till next month.
In a huff I snatch up the rack and walk it to the back room, forcing it as far into the corner as I can get it. Right beside Reeze’s discarded table.
Back at the reception desk I slump down onto the stool.
Looking at the Jeoseung Saja, I scrunch up my nose at it.
There’s something not right. Taking a thicker tipped marker, I outline the Hanbok and color in the Gat.
Then I go over the face, making the jaw sharper and the nose bridge higher.
I take out the pack of colored pens and fill in the beads and eyes.
When I'm finished, I rub my knuckles over my eyes and dig in so hard I see fireworks behind my lids. Then I sit there in the echo of my own breathing, counting out the seconds.
I don’t know how long it’s been when I hear a tap on the glass. I jerk my head up, but there’s no one at my window, it’s someone knocking across the street and waving inside.
I check my phone; Eight-fourteen.
Standing up, I stretch, then start preparing my station, but it’s too quiet.
I go to the Bluetooth speaker and put on the loudest, old-school metal I can find.
The spray bottle is where I left it, and after wiping my station down I wrap it in new plastic film.
I line up the sterile packed needles, the disposable ink cups, the roll of paper towel.
Everything by muscle memory, letting the routine drown out the rest of my thoughts.
Though when I’m done, my sketchbook compels me to look at the Jeoseung Saja again.
My head tilts to the side as I stare at the face. It takes a second for my brain to click, but when it does, my whole spine goes cold.
I’ve drawn his eyes. One pale blue, one gray, both of them round and piercing at the same time. The mouth is a little thin, but the nose and chin are his and I can’t unsee it.
I want to tear the page out and eat it so there’s no proof it ever existed.
There’s a rattle and a metallic pop as the back door sticks in the frame before opening. I freeze, my heart racing. The presence behind me feels so big, like it could tear the door from its hinges, yet all that follows is a dull thump as it closes again.
I know it’s him.
Not even Brooklyn would be dumb enough to show up uninvited expecting to work like he did.
He forced his way in.
Insisted himself upon me.
Gave me no other option.
I hear a slap against the tiles and glance over my shoulder to see that he dropped his slippers to the ground. I watch as he kicks off his Vans and scuffs into the navy ones that match mine.
The ones I’m wearing right now.
He turns around and I quickly look back at the counter.
Fuck. My sketchbook is still out.
I slam it shut and shove it in the top drawer under the desk. My hand finds a pen, and I start drawing random lines on a sticky note with my head down so he can’t see my face.
He walks past without a word. He drops his board in the storage locker, then takes off his jacket—still his brother's plaid parka—and hangs it on the metal door.
I wait for him to say something, anything. But all he does is fill the kettle with water and set it to boil.
I try to relax by chewing on the end of the pen.
Carey steps onto the shop floor and heads straight for my station.
He picks up the work table by the stand beneath it, careful not to touch my set up.
After taking it to the back room, he returns to fold up the tattoo tables, stacks them by the back door, then wheels the tattoo chair and stool into the back room, as well.
He collects the foot pedal and power cords, and the waiting area chairs.
He knows exactly what to do, needing no approval.
He grabs the stick vacuum from the back and runs it twice over the tiles.
He mops, taking the time to switch out the old head for a new one.
I try to read over the file for my first client, but every few seconds I’m looking over at him. He's all business, not cocky, not showing any anger, just working steadily and with purpose. Which is more than I can say for myself.
It’s comforting.
I assumed, if he returned, that he’d come flying back in in a dust cloud of chaos—loud and demanding—and ready for another round of fuck you. But now I realize that’s just my own prejudices. I’m projecting mine and his brother’s behaviors onto him.
He might challenge me and call me out, but he’s never been an asshole.
By the time my first client is due to arrive, the shop looks better than it has in weeks.
Carey is at the desk, scrolling through the remainder of Eden’s appointments he needs to reschedule, and when I move nearer, he picks up the phone and starts dialing.
I think about saying something, maybe just a simple 'thanks,' but the shop door opens and my mouth stays shut.
The rest of the day is a blur of the mundane.
People come and go.
I put a butterfly on a girl’s ankle.
I explain after care for the one-hundred-thousandth time.
Carey takes a call about a deposit, his voice calm and bright.
Every time I walk past the counter I feel the mismatched eyes of my sketch staring at me from inside the drawer.
At lunch he disappears.
We don’t talk the entire day. Not once.
If I need something, he’s there with it before I could ask anyway. It’s nice, but also, it’s miserable.
I like his banter. I miss the push and pull.
Two hours into a five hour session, I look up to see Carey standing at the end of the tattoo table by my client’s feet, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Tapping my phone screen with my elbow, I see it’s five-past-five p.m.
“You can go,” I say, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of sand.
'Cheers,' or 'See ya tomorrow,' might have been a nice way for him to leave things, but I shouldn’t complain. He showed up, did his job, and left without incident. As a boss, I shouldn’t expect anything more.
At the back door, he slides out of his slippers and back into his Vans, and seeing them remain after he leaves fills me with a really fucking weird kind of happiness.