Page 19 of Yours Truly

I narrow my eyes at her, both hating and loving how satisfied she is by this.

I was creating large-scale, custom Alphonse Mucha style pieces – ethereal and beautiful, bold colors and sweeping shapes to highlight the chiseled features of a woman, usually some sort of warrior or champion. Wild flowers or animals would accompany each piece, and when I was done, people would stare in awe, cupping their hand to their mouth, sending photos to their friends, writing on message boards, recording the episode on their DVRs to show their own tattoo artists.

And now I am tattooing a large belt buckle replica that says “HOWDY” with a rope and spurs beneath the words.

“Great,” I say finally after I take in the large brass belt buckle image for a minute. It may not be what I’m used to—typically people come to see me and they want what I have to give them—but I realize in a small town, people don’t care much about my art. They just want a capable tattoo artist.

That’s me.

“A lot will let you create whatever you want. But they have to trust you first, or know of you. Just… hang in there,” she says softly, as if reading my mind. I hate that she knew what I was thinking.

“Did you get dimensions?” I ask Ivy as she gathers herself a cup of coffee from the snack station behind reception.

She sips her steaming brew. “Dimensions are in the file, which you can access from the iPad at your workstation.”

I blink at her, twirling my favorite sketching pencil in one hand.

“You can’t use an iPad?” she asks, and it’s just now I’m noticing her long, dark hair is wavy today. But, like, curled wavy. And her lashes are darker. My eyes drop to her pouty lips, and I notice their usual pale color is now dark and bold, brave like permanent dark ink.

I was so into her just being here earlier that I didn't even notice her looks.

Awareness jolts through me, and I reactively sink into my seat at the sketch table and give her my back. I move my pencil from memory, knowing I need to see the damn buckle again but right now, I can’t look at her. I can’t talk to her. I can’t do anything with or related to Ivy Ellington.

Because I didn’t notice her black lips and curled hair.

I was thinking of her. Will she notice me? Will she acknowledge I’m not late? Will she approve of me?

Those are questions that only come when I give a shit.

“I can use an iPad, Ivy, I’m not four,” I gripe, the shape of the buckle already easily visible on my paper. “Print me the image and leave it here,” I tell her, still keeping my back to her.

I don’t want to look at how fucking beautiful she looks today. So I reach under my desk and grab the little flask I have taped to the underside. I feel a bit like a junkie hiding booze but moments like this, I’m relieved. I take a quick swig and return it.

I have no business doing anything but getting comfortable at Ink Time in Bluebell. I need to find comfort and stability and happiness in this type of tattooing. I need to stop drinking. I need to focus my efforts now on being a local legend, not the guy who once was.

And falling for someone just like her… who reminds me so much of the woman who destroyed me… that’s not part of the plan.

A moment later, a printed image of the belt buckle is pushed onto the desk next to me.

“Thanks,” I grumble, and am surprised when a gruff tone replies.

“Welcome,” Deuce says.

Swiveling, I look up at my friend. I’ve known him before his hair went salty and lines filled in around his eyes. I knew him when he didn’t know Everly, when Ink Time was just something we talked about in the back of our buddy’s van while we passed a joint and stewed on dreams.

Now he’s wise and mature. He’s a father and a successful business owner. The thing I’m most proud and jealous of is his role as a husband.

We always thought it’d be me first.

It was going to be me first.

“You ready for a full morning session?” he asks, his eyes darting around my station. Thankfully the flask isn’t out.

“I’m not drunk, or even hungover,” I say, leaving off the ‘anymore’ weighing guiltily on my subconscious.

“Not what I meant per se,” he says, thumbing through a stack of sketches on my desk. It’s the stack of stuff I’ve told Ivy I need to get through. The stuff she wants me to look at. The truth is? I’ve looked at every single piece of art in that pile at least ten times.

I can’t bring myself to tell her how good they are, how good she is— so instead I pretend I’m too busy to even look at them.

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