Page 36 of Beautiful Lies
“I can help you out with that stuff … and the social media … if you ever need—” Seriously? I needed to bitch-slap myself. Why was I offering my help?
Connor gave me a big smile. “Yeah?”
“Well … only if you can’t figure it out on your own, which I’m sure you will. You’re a smart guy.”
He didn’t comment on that, so I asked him more questions about the business which seemed like a safe topic. “Jared’s sticking around until the end of October until I get the hang of it and hire a tattoo artist to replace him. My lease is up in a few weeks, so I won’t lose my deposit when I move into his place. It’s all working out.”
“Jared’s place is nice,” I said, for lack of something better to say. But it was nice. He’d renovated the interior and put in a new kitchen with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances, a sleek bathroom with limestone-tiled floors, and dark hardwood floors in the bedroom and living room.
“Yeah, it’s a nice place,” he said, his eyes clouding over as if he was remembering the month he’d lived there. And maybe the day I walked out of his life.
Our conversation, already stilted and overly polite, came to an abrupt halt. Connor leaned back as the waiter delivered our food. A few minutes later, Connor asked if my food was good. I said yes and asked him the same question. Yes, he answered. After that, we concentrated on our food instead of trying to make conversation. Despite the silence and the tension, I managed to eat every bite of my food. I stared at my empty plate, racking my brain for something to say.
Our silence was interrupted by one of the little boys from the next table who was around five or six. He approached our table, his eyes glued to Connor’s left arm.
“Hey buddy,” Connor said with a smile. “You good?”
He nodded and held out a blue magic marker. “Can you do that for me?” The boy pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, indicating that he wanted a tattoo on his arm. It made me laugh.
“This isn’t magic marker,” Connor said. “It’s a tattoo. It’s permanent.”
The boy’s eyes widened as he stared at the birds and fish on Connor’s arm. “You can’t wash it off? Ever?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
His brother joined him, curiosity getting the best of him. “How did you do it?”
“With special needles and ink.”
The boy shuddered. “I don’t like needles. Did it hurt?”
Connor smiled. “A little bit.”
The boy cocked his head, his brow furrowed. “What if you change your mind and you don’t like birds and fish anymore?”
His brother elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s dumb. Everyone likes birds and fish.”
The kid shrugged. “I guess. But you can draw some birds and fish on my arm and I can wash it off, right?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
“You’d need to ask your parents for permission,” Connor said, surprising me. But most likely, he’d observed the same things I had about the boys’ parents and had decided to err on the side of caution for a change.
The kids raced over to their parents and proceeded to beg and plead, all the while pointing at Connor.
Their mother pursed her lips. “Magic markers are toxic. You can’t put that on your skin.”
“But—”
“No buts. We’re leaving,” she said, packing the markers and coloring books into their backpacks.
“When I get bigger I’m getting a tattoo,” the little boy said.
“Over my dead body,” the woman said, handing the boys their backpacks while their dad signed his credit card receipt.
“We don’t pay all that money for private school, so you can turn into a hoodlum,” the dad said, shooting Connor a look.
