Page 67 of Ink Me Three Times
Afterwards, I sit in the parking lot, gripping the wheel like it might keep me tethered to the present. I should go home. Shower. Sleep. Pretend things aren’t unraveling at the seams.
Instead, I text her.
Is it wise?
Who the hell knows, but I do it anyway.
Timothy: Any chance we could meet? I think we have a lot to talk about.
I stare at the message, heart pounding harder than it did during the workout. I almost delete it. Almost.
The three dots appear, disappear, then come back again.
Ivy: Yeah. After I finish work. Around seven?
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Timothy: Okay. Just tell me where.
Ivy: The Lookout Trail?
Timothy: Sounds good. See you then.
I pocket my phone and drive straight to the shop.
The bell chimes when I push through the door, and the air smells like green soap and citrus cleaner. Normal. Familiar. Safe.
But the tension?
It’s immediate.
Mitchell’s already here, hunched over his station, sharpening a pencil down to its bones. He doesn’t look up.
Freddie’s in the back with a client, voice low, careful, like he’s trying not to disturb the balance of the whole damn place.
No one says a word.
Even the radio, usually a steady stream of indie rock or 90s hip hop, is silent. Just the low hum of the autoclave, the scratch of graphite on paper, the occasional buzz of a machine.
I go to my own station and sit, pretending to scroll through emails I’ve already read. My eyes flick to Mitchell. His jaw’stight, like he’s been grinding his teeth all morning. He hasn’t spoken to me since Ivy.
And honestly, I can’t blame him. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
The bell over the door jingles, and I expect another client or maybe someone looking for touch up work, but instead, in walks Karl, in full uniform with his radio clipped to his shoulder and a coffee in each hand.
"Gentlemen," he says, lifting the cups in greeting. "Don’t mind me. Just dropping off caffeine before I head over to check a busted hydrant. See how you all are."
Mitchell grunts from his station, still not looking up. Freddie glances over from the back and offers a short wave.
Karl strolls in like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he always does. He shows up a couple times a week, always with a story, always with coffee, and never in a hurry to leave. He sets one cup on the counter and leans his forearm there like he’s settling in for a chat.
"Place feels like a funeral in here," he says. "Y’all lose a bet or something?"
No one answers.
He raises his eyebrows but keeps talking like he doesn’t notice… or like he’s used to awkward silences.
"Anyway," he says, blowing across his coffee lid. "You won’t believe what went down at Granger’s this morning. Marla Jenks and Carol Spence had it out in the baking aisle."
