Page 22 of Tell Me It’s Right

“I kind of desperately want to get the fuck away from my family around the holidays, so what if we spent Christmas together instead?” suggests Alison. “Then we’d have like, what? How many months away is that?”

“Six months,” I say, my shoulders relaxing. That’s a perfectly reasonable amount of time to find a boy to bring…or fake a breakup, if need be. The rest of it, well, hopefully I can figure that out in six months too.

The alternative—being in this exact situation half a year from now—kind of makes me want to swan dive off the edge of my bed.

“Right!” says Alison. “So that gives us plenty of time to come up with a game plan.”

Martina shrugs. “Works for me.”

Trish cracks open a beer and raises it to her camera. “I’m in!”

“Gracie?” says Alison. “We’re not doing it unless everyone agrees.”

The chat falls silent, everyone looking at their screens.

Everyone looking atme.

I force a smile. “Of course I’m in.”

Chapter Nine

LIAM

This girl is going to kill me. Gracie left her notes on the desk yesterday, and being the nosy bastard I am, I had to investigate. They were full of charts, pros and cons lists, and everything was color coded. Starting social media pages was at the top of her list, then she broke it down into which accounts she thought we should start first. Seeing as I’ve never been on any of them, naturally, I wanted to do some research before I saw her again so I could at least have an inkling of what she’s talking about.

Her highest-ranked suggestion—some short-from video app—looks like an invention from the deepest pits of hell. The scrolling is endless. I tried to narrow the search by looking for other artists or shops similar to mine, and even that yielded millions of results.

The top-ranking ones being weird thirst traps of guys posing and zooming in on themselves in a mirror before transitioning to whatever piece they’re doing that day.

Maybe Idohave limits on what I’m willing to do to save the shop.

And I don’t see the point. What are the odds a video like that would make a difference in the business? That it would convince someone to come to me specifically for a tattoo? I don’t get it.

Okay, yeah, once I was down the social media rabbit hole, I also stalked Gracie a bit. Because that’s what employers do, I told myself. They check up on who they’re hiring. They usually do itbeforehiring someone, but semantics.

Gracie was always artistic growing up. Always taking pictures, planning elaborate birthday parties, customizing the hell out of her screensavers. She was also a good student—or whatever the step above a “good student” is—so it was safe to assume she’d be good at her job.

But damn. The first result that pops up from googling her name is her website. Upon further inspection, it seemed more like a digital résumé. It showcased her graphic and website design abilities, as well as a portfolio of her photography and previous social media work that she did through internships in college. It also linked to her personal social media—of which she has an account on what must be every site available. Every profile is meticulously branded and polished. How this girl hasn’t already landed a job is beyond me.

I sigh and tuck away my phone. It’s early enough that the skatepark is empty—it could also be since the crowds have been gravitating to the newer park by the water. That one’s nicer without a doubt, but something about this place will always feel like home.

The smooth glide of my board’s wheels against the concrete fills the silence as I kick off the ground and close my eyes for a moment, reveling in the feel of the cool morning air against my face. It’s been a while since I had this place to myself.

I drop down in the bowl, letting my muscle memory take over, but even after a while, it’s not enough to turn my brain off.

I crunched the numbers after Gracie finished yesterday, something I’ve been avoiding for months. It was easier to stomach the idea without knowing how far we were in the red.

Maybe my dad’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I’d be better off tattooing in someone else’s shop instead of trying to run my own.

I hit the curve sooner than expected and lose my footing.

“Shit.” I roll to the side so I don’t completely bite it while my board flies off in the opposite direction. I slide down the wall until I hit the ground, then sigh and brace my arms on my knees.

“Brooks! I thought that was you!”

I groan as Fletcher rolls up and stops just above where I’m sitting. Once upon a time—give or take ten years ago—I taught him how to skate in this very park. He was the new kid in town, awkward and waiting to grow into his nose and ears, and a few years younger. I don’t know why I took him under my wing. Maybe he reminded me of my younger brother. Or a version Asher could have been if I actually liked him.

“Tell me you didn’t see?—”

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