Page 14 of Silent Is The Heart

There were resources available to him at Hampton even after he was discharged, but without taking advantage of them, he might have thrown away precious chances at restoring his voice. Why hadn’t he come back? How had he fared after he left?

He was a teenager from a broken home who’d suffered trauma and had a vocal disability. I was a college graduate from a stable home life and look how lost I feel. I learned the hard way that life is not a bed of roses, but Easton had already been dealt a rough hand before coming to Hampton Hills. Ihave toknow that things got better for him. It’s no excuse for being here, but it’s all I’ve got.

I just…needto witness somethinggood, one thing from my past that turned out right. If I stop to think about how selfish that makes me sound, I might not go through with this.

With that, my feet move me across the street, although I’m about as confident as a kid on ice skates for the first time over this foolhardy snooping mission. The second I’m inside the shop, it’s apparent I’m woefully out of place.

The large open room nearly spans the entire floor of the building, sectioned off throughout by low partitions that surround workstations. A woman with blue hair, a nose ring, and fully tatted sleeves is working on a female client’s stomach just beyond the desk. In the stall across from her, a large man with a scary build is inking a man’s exposed backside—fullyinking it. My word. There are at least three more artists at work deeper in the room, each marking bare flesh under fluorescent lighting. The thrum of rock music is drifting over the room from somewhere, melding with the ambiance of tin signs and framed tattoo model photos on the walls. It’s as though this is where night comes to meet the day, and yet everyone here seems to be acting as though that’s perfectly normal.

The space is a vast contrast to mine and Jason’s home. He’d turn his nose up at this in a heartbeat, but I tell myself he’s not here to guide my decisions anymore. As much as that instills a sense of guilt in me, it also feels liberating.

Continuing my perusal, I have to admit that what seemed rough and bold at first has a classy professionalism about it. Black tile flooring, polished to a shine. Pristine white paint on the drywall. Everything looks clean and tidy, and the workstations are impeccable. I’ve been in hospitals and clinicsthat couldn’t hold a candle to this level of hygiene. It’s not at all what I expected.

Hell, how did I know what to expect?

“Are you here for an appointment?” a woman calls out.

Right. There’s a reception desk. I had no clue people made appointments. Clearly, my knowledge of tattooing is from inaccurate films that only portray drunk people making spontaneous mistakes in the middle of the night.

Straightening my dress shirt collar over my sweater, I smile at the familiar face.

“Hi. No. Um… I stopped by your booth last weekend at the festival…”

“Oh, yeah! You’re that old friend of Easton’s, right? I totally forgot your name to mention to him.”

I said I was an old friend? We were friendly, certainly, but that’s a far stretch from patient and therapist. This is getting worse by the second. I need serious help.

“Aaron,” I supply, grateful she didn’t ask me my name that day.

Would it have mattered? Maybe he won’t even remember me. If he does, he’ll probably wonder what on earth I’m doing here. I can’t say I’d blame him.

“I…just moved back to town and thought I’d drop by to catch up with him. Is he working today?”

Slapping the cap back on the end of a marker, she chuckles. “Not this early. He’s still upstairs.” Leaning on her forearms, she gives me a curious once-over and then shakes her head, grinning. “All right, you look harmless. I can’t believe I’m getting to meet someone other than Wolf, who knew Easton as a kid. Go through that door. There’s another one at the topof the stairs,” she informs me, pointing to a black steel door at the far end of the parlor.

Nodding dumbly, I thank her and make my way down the aisle between the tattoo stalls. The buzz of the tattoo guns hums in my ears as the black door gets closer.

Where is she sending me? Is it a VIP room? Something more illicit? What have I gotten myself into?

Depressing the door lever, I push through to an empty stairwell. When the door clicks closed, it’s as quiet as a tomb. Only the sound of my breathing and a pool of sunlight from a window over the landing above are my companions.

I could turn around and leave, go back to the cottage, and look at job ads. I could fry up some eggs to fill my stomach that’s always so twisted up I never feel hungry anymore. I’m sick of eggs, but they’re a cheap, nutritious meal. I could go visit Mom and Dad, but I’m tired of pretending I have my shit together in front of them, and I need to save my gas to get to work. I already logged a few unnecessary miles coming here.

Staring up the darkened stairwell at the pool of light at the top, ascending feels like it would be a pivotal life choice. I pinch my eyes closed, shaking my head at that fortune cookie-sounding logic; but in a way, it’s true.

I have no friends. The ones I had in Seattle were just colleagues or friends of Jason. I spent eight years there, and there’s no one I was really close to. It took losing Jason for me to realize that. Everyone I knew, everyoneweknew, were the kind of people who weren’t really friends, but rather just acquaintances, and definitelynotthe kind of people who still check on you a year and a half after your life implodes.

I need… roots.Newroots. A starting point to be my sounding board for my future, no matter how bleak thingsseem right now. Something that makes me feel like I’m making wise decisions and being a good human being—the way I felt years ago. If finding inspiration in the past gets me there, I think I need to take that chance. I can’t stand feeling like a ship adrift at sea much longer. Something’s got to give.

CHAPTER 9

Easton

Steam rolls out of the shower as I step out and towel off my hair. It’s like it’s chasing after me and knows I’m not yet healed from the effects of last night. I swear my eyelids are scraping my eyeballs. I can only imagine how Wolf must feel right now, no doubt still passed out on my couch. That’s what he gets for being a serial boyfriend.

Blow-up number fifty-seven with Melissa. And who gets to do damage control? Me and my liver. Maybe someday he’ll learn his lesson and stop dreaming of white picket fences. I don’t have the heart to tell him that his quest to be married with two point five kids likely stems from his issues with his mom. He’s a big boy. He needs to figure that shit out on his own.

The towel fibers caress my skin as I wrap the fabric around my waist and my stomach lets out a growl. My alcohol is starting to beg for food. Great. It’s always fun trying to peel Wolf off the couch after one of his relationship drinking binges. I got him drunk enough that he shut up about it and had a good time, though, so he should at least take me out for breakfast. Fair is fair. I’ll give him exactly ten minutes to rejoin the living.

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