Page 35 of Yours Truly

“Spit it out, Calhoun.”

I clear my throat and meet his gaze. “I was thinking of losing the Calhoun, actually.” I finish the warm root beer. How come I can slam a beer in ten seconds but getting through a root beer has taken me ten minutes? I’m stalling. “Since I’m here in Bluebell now, working at Ink Time, I thought I’d go back to Wade.”

A faint smile curls Deuce’s lips. He takes another sip of soda and strokes his inked hand down his beard. “In my heart, you’ve always been Trace Wade.”

I roll my eyes as he enjoys his mocking, his chest vibrating with quiet chuckles.

“I mean, Trace Calhoun is the guy on Trace Tats and Needle Ninjas.” I shrug, plucking invisible lint from my long-sleeved flannel. “I ain’t him anymore.”

Deuce makes an aggravating show of looking around us. “Last I checked, the only Trace is right here, and all versions of him are here, too.” He shakes his head, peering at the mirror backing of the bowling alley bar. Old, partially empty bottles of bright-colored alcohol rest beneath a layer of dust, and below them a rack of old beer glasses sit upside down. An older woman in a pin-striped apron works the length of the bar, where a total of nine old men are scattered about.

I hate when he goes thoughtful. Deuce is smart, and he always finds a way of hitting me with a dose of truth when I’m at my weakest. I always need it, but it brings a wave of emotion that I could live without.

Finally he faces me again after finishing his soda, catching a burp with the back of his hand. “Needle Ninjas Trace and Ink Time Trace are the same guy. When you separate yourself into versions, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Working here in Bluebell as a tattoo artist ain’t ever gonna be the same as what you did before. But the part you aren’t seeing is that… it ain’t supposed to be a replacement. It’s the next step. And you can look at it as going downstairs, and if you do, then that’s what it’ll be. And you’ll stay buried in bottles and pussy forever, because you’ve made yourself a victim of your situation.”

“It ain’t about losing the show,” I grumble, eager to defend myself. Habits are hard to break. Trace Calhoun isn’t wrong. He never is. That’s what the viewers liked, and that’s what my ego needed at the time. To win. Over and over and over. To prove to myself I’m not second best.

“No, it’s not. But you’re gonna use that as your reason, so you don’t gotta tackle what happened before the show,” he says, making note of the months I’d begun to spiral before I was signed to Needle Ninjas.

I don’t say anything.

He knocks his elbow against mine. “Don’t clam up. I’m in a bowling alley full of senior citizens with you. My wife is at home in bed, and my son is asleep. Don’t you dare clam up.”

Opening my mouth, I snap it closed a moment later, embarrassed.

“Spit it out,” Deuce says, voice brimming with impatience. We may be middle-aged men, but I have no doubt he’ll drag me outside and square off with me if I don’t comply. He’s got every right to be over my shit.

“It’s fucking embarrassing, man.”

From my periphery, I see his arm lift. A moment later, the old waitress appears. “Hey ya, Deuce, how ya doin’, honey? Another?”

He smiles. “Hi, Sally, yeah, I’ll take another and so will my friend.”

My eyes lift to the woman with the paper pad in her hands. She smiles at me, crow’s feet pinching the corners of her eyes. She looks like someone I kind of remember, but since I’ve never been to the bowling alley in Bluebell, and she doesn’t strike me as someone with a tattoo, it’s unlikely I know her.

“Another root beer, baby?”

“Thanks.” I dip my head.

She scribbles on the pad and scampers off.

“Sally is Lucy’s mom,” Deuce says, reading my mind. “Lucy is the waitress at Goode’s.”

I nod. “Makes sense. She looked familiar.”

“Yep, and I’m telling you because Bluebell is small, and you gotta start learning ’bout people here.” Sally returns with our drinks. After twisting off the tops, Deuce clinks the neck of his bottle to mine and continues. “Tell me what you’re embarrassed about. If you make me guess, you’re gonna leave here feeling a lot worse.” He smirks.

“Is that right?”

He nods. “You embarrassed by your ugly face?” he prods, sipping his drink to hide his smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

He gives me a minute and I need it. It’s been years but this is not something I talk about with anyone. Ever. I spin the bottle in my hand by the neck a few times, take another sip and keep my gaze focused on the bartop. “I’m embarrassed that it’s still the root of everything. That I let it control me ever, much less… for this long.”

Deuce nods, though I don’t feel brave enough to look him in the eye. “Cat?”

I haven’t said the name aloud in what feels like forever. And I haven’t heard anyone else say it, either. My heart leaps for one single beat before steadying again. I nod. “Cat.”

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