Page 109 of Hired Help

The image is a small stream parting around stones shaped for her initials. A nod to her name but also a presentation of how she flowed into my life.

As she gently places her fingers near the swollen skin, the artist interrupts to spray with an anti-bacterial foam and cover the area with gauze.

“On the next visit, I’ll fill in the details,” the man says, moving towards the counter to tally the work so far.

“What about me?” Harrison asks and I frown.

“You want a tattoo?”

“No, but I’m your flesh and blood child. Shouldn’t you get one for me as well?”

It still gives me a shock sometimes to see the young boy peeking out from the eyes of a man taller than me. Who’d be broader, too, if he could be bothered to work at it.

A few sessions at the gym taught me a lot about Harrison’s motivation. He spent most of the time chatting with other men, pretending to wait for the chance to use machines or weights, but really gossiping to pass the time without putting in the slightest lick of work.

With his easy manner and genuine interest in other people, he’d make a great impression in my old line of work. It was no surprise to me when he announced he’d gone into sales. Commercial property isn’t the best fit but anything that allows him to chat with people, discover their concerns, and find a solution makes him happy.

It’s bittersweet to discover what I’ve missed out on by being absent from so many years of his life. Sometimes, I daydream what it would have been like if Gwyn and I had been able to make a go of it. If I could have spent every day with this incredible boy, had more input as he grew into a man.

It makes up for the days when we butt heads and I want to kill him.

“What about you?” the artist asks Brooke as I settle the bill and type the new appointment into my phone. “With your skin tones, we’ve got some fabulous designs that would suit.” He reaches for another card. “Scan the QR code and it’ll take you to our online gallery, but we’re happy to make an appointment and work out a custom design.”

I think she takes the card to be polite, then see her snatching glances around the shop and wonder if she’s interested. “How much does it hurt?”

“Barely,” I say, then immediately regret it as Harrison pokes my new addition. “If you’re lucky,” I add with a grimace. “Quite a lot, otherwise.”

“We can fit you in right now if you have something in mind,” the man offers, and I stare at him with a disgruntled expression.

I had to wait six weeks and only got today because of a cancelled appointment but put a pretty lady in front of him and suddenly his schedule’s free.

“I want initials, too,” she says as Harrison also notes the interest and slings a possessive arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

“You could get your scar tattooed,” he murmurs. “Put some flowers and shit around it.”

She arches her eyebrow at him in amusement. “If you wanted flowers around your initials, you had your chance to put them there. You didn’t seem interested in floral arrangements at the time.”

“It was five seconds after you asked me if you could fu—” Harrison breaks off as he notices how interested the tattooist is in our conversation. “If you could visit my dad.”

“And now he gets a nice tattoo, and you get a scar.” She purses her lips. “Such a pity.”

Harrison makes a dismissive noise. “A scar’s far better. You can always get a tattoo removed.”

“Here are a few designs you might like,” the artist says, flicking through a binder. “We can certainly incorporate other elements if you have a preference.”

I take a chair and pull Harrison away when he glowers at the man, deliberately standing too close. He wears his protective instincts far too prominently on his shoulder.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says in a gruff voice, slumping far too low, daggers still unsheathed in his eyes. His hair falls in his eyes, and he flicks it back, holding it for a moment before it cascades down to his shoulders.

His mother would say he needs a cut, but I wonder if he overheard a compliment Brooke paid me a few weeks ago.

We’re committed to this relationship, but we’re also still working our way around each other. The single dates have worked to release most of the pressure, but we’re both competitive in our own ways. No matter where we put out fires, others will spring into life. We just need to learn our ways of managing them when they do.

I wore a t-shirt to the appointment and now hitch up the shoulder, tapping my finger against a small design. A heart made of thin wavy lines, ragged around the edges. “This is you.”

He frowns at the design, nostrils pinching together.

“It’s your palm print,” I explain. We had your footprints and palm prints taken at the hospital and I took copies of the hands. The artist traced over the lines.

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