Page 25 of Falling in Love with Two

Either way, I’m happy to have some quiet time. My head is pounding. As much as I’d love to go back to bed, I have shit to do.

Adult responsibilities and all that jazz.

Besides, I’m no stranger to hangovers. For me, they seem to be the gift that keeps on giving. A shower, some water, and some Ibuprofen, and I’ll be good as new.

Well, I’ll be vertical anyway.

As I’m getting dressed, I look over at my small pile of belongings in the corner of the living room. When I came from Portland, I traveled light—not that I had much of a choice. My ex decided to throw most of my stuff in a bonfire before I left.

He was a real gem.

But surprisingly, I think I’ve been with worse.

Not sure if that says more about them or about me.

Not sure it really matters. I’m a fucking mess either way.

I throw on some jeans and a tank top. I consider doing something with my wet hair, but when I see what time it is, I decide to just run a brush through it and let it air dry.

After some makeup, I’m out the door. On the short drive to the shop, I keep my eyes peeled for any places that may be for rent. That’s something I didn’t have to do yesterday. Since my options will be pretty limited, I may have to open up my mind to moving to one of the neighboring small towns. I make alright money at the shop, but my mountain of credit card debt doesn't do me any favors—nor does my awful credit report.

Before last night, neither one of those things was that big of a deal. I was slowly paying everything down and getting back on track. But a new sense of urgency is front and center now.

Oh well.

Shit happens.

And when the chips are down, I’m pretty damn good at landing on my feet. I’ll just have to keep kicking ass like I normally do.

Soon enough, I’m pulling into the parking lot of the shop. Right on time. We get to make our own hours here, so punctuality isn’t heavily monitored, but I have a client at ten. I make it a point to be on time for appointments.

As I walk in, Rich is already sitting in the waiting room. His eyes flick up at me.

“You’re late.”

“Check your watch, old man,” I tease. “I’m right on time.”

“If you’re not early, you’re already late.”

“That’s military speak for you’re lame.”

I’m normally not so informal with clients—especially if someone is new—but this is about the tenth time I’ve inked Rich. We always give each other shit. I’m surprised a former military general continues to choose me for his tats, but I’m grateful for the business.

Luanne, our young receptionist, gives me a cheerful “good morning” as I walk past. She’s super sweet and does a good job of handling all our schedules.

Quickly, I walk back to my room and throw my stuff under one of the tables and get all my equipment set up. I’ve done it so many times that it only takes a minute.

When I’m done, I walk back to the waiting area and ask Rich if he’s ready. He puts down the magazine he was reading and follows me.

“You know, Rich, I think you’re the only one who reads those things,” I say. “Most people just play on their phones.”

“I hate that stupid thing,” he grunts.

“Of course you do.”

I adjust the chair so he can get comfortable while I work on his huge back piece. I have no idea what prompted this retired military man to decide on all this fresh ink, but once again, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

“You want any numbing cream?” I ask, slipping on some latex gloves.

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