Page 15 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

Kiera Geraghty is the only person on earth who can call me sweetheart without making me bristle. She did it the first time we met. She shook my hand in the middle of her tattoo shop and said, “Hi, sweetheart. I looked at your work. You’re one hell of an artist.”

“I won’t pass a background check,” I blurted. It was the fourth shop I’d interviewed at by then, the previous three balking at my aggravated assault charge. My scarlet letter. My mark of Cain. If she was going to turn me down, I wanted her to do it now, before I could get my hopes up.

“That’s okay,” she said with a wink. “Neither would I.”

I started working for her two days later.

“I’m surviving,” I say. “Barely. There’s no AC at my friend’s place.”

“But you made it okay?”

“Yeah, no issues. And I know I was vague about how long I’d be gone, but—”

Kiera waves her hand dismissively, her blonde topknot toppling to one side with the gesture. The cat trees in the background tell me she’s at home. She’s the proud mother to an army of cats, half a dozen of them, all named after healing crystals. She has a son too, a human one, but I’ve always been more fond of animals than kids. “It’s your mother, Providence. Don’t worry about anything else. Your job’s not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.”

“Have we ever had a conversation that didn’t include you uttering those words?”

But Kiera deserves those words every time they cross my lips. Without her, I’d be homeless at best, back in prison at worst. She seeks out people who learned to tattoo in prison and gives us the space we need to evolve into real artists—and best of all, she never pries into our pasts. Her philosophy is simple: as long as we didn’t harm an animal or a child, she has a place for us. I know Kiera did time, but I’ve never asked what for. I’venever even Googled it. When the other artists gossip about it, I put in my earbuds and crank my music as loud as possible. All I know is whenever the news runs a story on gun violence, Kiera scurries out of the room. I don’t need any of the gory details.

I do need a cigarette. As I slide one between my lips, Kiera groans. “I thought you were trying to quit.”

“I said I was trying, not that I would succeed.”

“How are you going to pay your medical bills when you get lung cancer?”

“I don’t like to think that far ahead.”

She carries me into her kitchen and places her phone on the windowsill. She holds up a dirty pan to the camera as if to prove she’s doing something productive with her day off. “You seen your dad?” Her voice turns hard as anthracite.

“I saw Grace, my sister. I’ve told you about her a few times. She wasn’t even in kindergarten when I went away.”

“Is she a good kid?”

For a fraction of a second, I consider asking Kiera if we’ll need a new receptionist in a year’s time. Maybe I could arrange a job for Grace, give her a way to leave Annesville. I banish the thought before it can take root. There’s nothing I can give her that would atone for being an absentee sister all her life. “Better than either of us were at seventeen,” I say as I light the cigarette.

“Jesus, don’t put it like that. You couldn’t lower the bar more if you tried.”

I steer the conversation away from our pasts. “Can you make sure Margot is watering my plants? I don’t want my peace lilies to die. I gave her the key to my apartment before I left.”

“Sure.”

“And the guy I did the palm tattoo for before I left—will you call him to reschedule for a few weeks out?”

“Of course.”

“You’re an angel, Kiera.”

She rolls her eyes as she scrubs a greasy dinner plate. Her arms are turning red from an eczema flareup. “And you’re a flatterer. Anyway, I’ve got to run, Providence. You come back to us safe, sweetheart, you understand me?”

“Sir yes sir.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

The call ends and the loneliness returns, but I tell myself it’s a good thing. I’m lonely because I have people I miss. I’m lonely because I’m away from the people who love me.

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