Page 38 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Wet blanket,” Sloan mutters under her breath.

“Go before I fire you.”

“I’m your best artist; you’d never.”

Sighing, I don’t bother correcting her statement because she’s right; Sloan is my most versatile and consistent artist and can tattoo watercolor, new school, and American traditional as though she’s a founder of each technique. She must know that she’s got me by the dick because she turns and runs off, sliding the door closed behind her.

Glancing up at the clock, I note that it’s been thirty minutes since Serena left; she should be home by now. Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text before I’m able to second-guess it.

Wolf: You make it home okay?

It’s lame, but watching her walk out of my shop and drive with rage in her eyes is something I never want to fucking repeat. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down, smirking as I read Serena’s text.

Serena: Are you stalking me? I just walked through my apartment doors, and I have the sudden need to call a security guard or ADT.

Wolf: No, but I’m decent at math, so I figured you’d be home by now.

Bubbles appear on the screen before they fall away, and I curse myself for the words I said to her before she left. Long minutes pass without a reply, and I mentally say,Fuck it,and decide to double-text her.

Wolf: Listen, I’m sorry I pissed you off, but I need to fix the piece on your back. Why don’t you come in tomorrow so that I can see how we can incorporate a cover-up on your skin.

I bring my thumb up to my lip, biting on my nail as I wait for Serena’s reply.

Serena: Fine. But just so we’re clear, Sloan is doing my tattoo, correct?

I look past the question she asked, not willing to lie to her but also not willing to tell the truth and risk her saying, “Fuck you,” and never coming back to my shop. I settle on a happy, vague medium.

Wolf: Sounds good. See you tomorrow around eleven.

Serena: I have work until two. I can be there at three.

Three it is.

18

Serena

In my former life, I must have been a terrible person because that is the only reason why I felt compelled to agree to meet with Wolf the day after he pissed me off.

I worked in the tutoring center from nine until two, and following up my day spent correcting grammar and comma splices with Wolf’s shitty attitude seems like a unique form of torture. Truthfully, I’m not sure why I keep putting myself in this position, especially since he barely seems to tolerate my presence.

My phone vibrates in my cup holder, and I pick it up, smiling to myself when I see a notification for my group chat with Ava and CeCe, then frowning when I spot the text from Meg. Meg has reached out to me a few times since last weekend, but I’ve placated her questions with brief, vague answers that don’t do much except communicate, “Leave me alone.”

What happened last weekend isn’t her fault; hell, it’s no one’s fault except for Dylan’s. But I can’t help but associate her with the event since she’s so deeply ingrained in all of my sorority experiences. It makes me a really shitty friend.

Swiping her message, I read it quickly.

Meg: Hey, Little! Let’s get lunch next week? We have a lot to catch up on. I ran into Jack at the house this morning, and he mentioned that he had seen you. Is it okay to give him your number?

I bite down on my lower lip, considering her question. On the one hand, Jack is handsome, came to my defense, and seems to be genuinely interested in me. Glancing toward the tattoo shop, I think about how different it feels when I see Wolf, like a hoard of butterflies diving and dipping and dancing beneath my skin.

But whatever I feel for Wolf, whatever attraction there is, is misplaced.

Making a decision that I’m sure I’ll regret, I respond to Meg.

Serena: Hey, I’d love to get lunch next week. Yes, I ran into Jack; you can give him my number.

Swiping out of the conversation as soon as the message is sent, I open the group chat.

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