Page 70 of Falling in Love with Two

“Need me to help you get laid?” He asks with a cocky smile.

“No, idiot. Are you still in contact with Amy?”

“Yep. We were actually just together last night.”

“Perfect. You think you could give me her number?”

I could have told him right away that it’s concerning Leah. But the look on his face right now is too perfect to pass up. Maybe it’ll teach him to quit being so damn cocky.

twenty-two

It’s a New Development

Leah

“So, how long have you been tattooing for?” The man sitting in my chair asks me.

“About ten years now,” I reply while shading in the skull that I’ve been working on for the past hour.

I don’t know what it is about the guys, but they always seem to feel the need to fill the silence. A very few of them try to get way too personal way too quickly. One time, I had a guy ask me at what age I lost my virginity. When I ignored the question, he then tried to ask how many men I’d been with. I told him if he didn’t knock it off, I would give him a misspelled tattoo that read NO REGRATS.

Oh, the irony.

Thankfully, clients like that are few and far between. Most of the men I have just want to make small talk the whole time. Women usually either bring a friend with them to chat with, or they listen to earbuds the whole time. Men feel the need to chat—which is fine.

Most of the time, it’s fine.

Today, however, my tolerance for small talk is at an all time-low because today, of all days, my body has decided that it wants to revolt against the thing growing inside my stomach. Morning sickness has reared its ugly head. It’s taking every ounce of my concentration to not empty the contents of said stomach all over this guy.

“How many tattoos would you say that you’ve done?” He asks.

“Uhm, I don’t know. Hundreds, maybe thousands,” I say, unsure of how many I’ve actually done.

“Wow, that’s crazy. Do you have one that’s been your favorite?”

“Uhh,” I stammer as I try to stop my guts from churning.

I pull the tattoo gun away from his skin while I try to compose myself.

“Are you okay?” He asks. “You're just as pale as a ghost.”

I want to respond, but I’m worried that if I open my mouth, the only thing that will come out will be vomit. Knowing I don’t have much time, I jump up off the stool I’m on and take off down the hall toward the bathroom.

I barely make it in time, but I manage not to make a mess. This morning, before I left Dylan’s, I ate some fruit and yogurt. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know I’m pregnant, I’d assume my body was just revolting against anything even remotely healthy.

I take a moment to put myself together before returning to my room.

As I enter and sit back down, my client says, “Shit, Leah. Are you okay? Are you sick or something?”

“No, not sick. Just pregnant.”

No matter how many times I say that out loud, I don’t know that it will ever stop sounding weird.

“You’re pregnant?” He asks, looking confused. “You don’t look pregnant.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a new development.”

“How far along are you?”

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