Tattoos & Teacups (5 page)

“I need some new linens,” I said in my most airy, offhand manner. “And some new clothes.”

“You’re seeing someone,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement as she spun me around. I blushed. She squealed and danced on the spot. “You are! Tell me about him.”

“I’m telling you nothing,” I said. “We’ve only been on one date. I’ll tell you more if it goes any further.”

She pouted but acquiesced. “Clothes shopping? For you? Well, it happens so rarely we should make the most of it.”

“I buy new clothes,” I protested, stung.

“Yeah, a new corduroy jacket to replace your last corduroy jacket. You’re such a cliché.”

“I need jeans,” I said, ignoring her. “And shirts. And maybe a new sweater.”

By the time we sat down for lunch, burgers sitting like kings on unfolded wax paper and shiny golden fries split between us, I had spent nearly three hundred dollars. On clothes. We hadn’t gotten to the linens yet. I was desperately not thinking about the money lest it cause another panic attack.

“Please tell me?” my sister begged. Her eyes widened, and her lower lip was thrust out in a parody of childish begging. Which had always worked on me.

“He’s nice,” I said, giving in. “He makes me feel… I don’t know. Younger. And so much older than him at the same time.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“So much older than him.”

I sighed heavily. “Somewhat.”

“Ooh,” she said, grinning. “A younger man. You old dog, Robert.”

“He calls me Rob,” I admitted, swirling a fry in blood-red tomato ketchup.

“And he still has his balls?”

I snorted with laughter. “Apparently so. I haven’t gotten a good look at them yet, I’ll admit.”

“Yet?”

“Yet. I’ve said too much. Don’t tell Mum, for God’s sake.”

“I won’t.”

She wouldn’t. We were far from close, Jilly and I, but we had the shared experience of being uprooted from our home at a young age and being forced to relocate to a new, scary environment. She had adapted much better than I had. Being younger had its advantages, as did her naturally extroverted nature.

I paid for lunch, treating her since she’d helped—there was no denying that—with the shopping.

The only thing left was for me to actually call him so all the effort was worthwhile.

In lieu of making a call, I diverted my attentions via a barber’s.

“Trim?” I was offered.

I wrinkled my nose. “A little bit shorter than normal?” I posed it as a question, leaving room for mocking if my suggestion was stupid.

“Sure,” my barber, Alfred, said. He was closing in on seventy-five, at least, and refused to retire until his son returned from his tour in Iraq. Only then, Alfred claimed, could he close up shop. And who was I to challenge his superstitions?

The satin-smooth cape was tucked around my neck, and as the first curls of my hair dropped to the floor, my phone buzzed in my pocket, causing me to nearly leap out of the chair in shock.

“Gracious, boy, what on earth was that?”

“Just my phone,” I said, sitting back down, blushing furiously. “Sorry, Alfred.”

I pulled it out from under the voluminous cape and opened the text message.

Hey.

From Chris. Just one word. And a smiley face comprised of semicolon, hyphen, and close brackets signs. Oh. A winking face.

Hey.

I sent a message back. Waited.

What are you doing?

Getting my hair cut.

Alfred asked, “Who are you sending messages to like a teenager?”

“A friend,” I said, ducking my head.

“Oh, come on, boy, I’ve known you too long for you to be embarrassed. Tell me about her.”

Her. Her her her her her. Female. Er, no.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said honestly. Sort of honestly. There was nothing to tell about a “her.”

“I know when not to push,” he said, remaining aloof.

He didn’t push, to his credit, and I tipped him well for keeping his nose out.

My phone beeped again in the car.

Are we still on for tonight?

My heart hitched in my throat.

Yes, I am if you are?

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the Send button for long moments while I contemplated the possible ramifications of my actions, closed my eyes, and pressed down.

There was no way I could drive until I had heard back from him. The mist of rejection hung heavy in the car, swirling around the air freshener and clogging up the rearview mirror. In an attempt at distracting myself, I pulled down the visor and checked out my hair in the little mirror, turning my head from side to side to get a better look. It was okay. Shorter at the sides than I’d worn it in a long time but still longer on the top and at the nape of my neck, folding back nicely from my forehead and held there with viscous gel that gave it a dull shine.

The phone beeped.

Sure. What time should I come over?

I took several deep, cleansing breaths.

Is 7 okay for you?

Yup. I’ll bring a movie.

With that decided, I swung by the supermarket on my way back to the flat to pick up the last of the groceries I’d need. Then spent a further twenty minutes roaming the aisles, trying to decide what on Earth to cook. I wasn’t a particularly bad cook, but I wasn’t Gordon Ramsey and never would be. I could make lasagna… nice, tasty, inoffensive lasagna. And ciabatta bread—not garlic. Just in case.

Popcorn, that rare Saturday-morning-pictures treat from my childhood, now readily available “pop in the bag” style, was added to my basket. Though I would mourn the loss of the sweetened kind we preferred in Scotland, I had nevertheless adapted to the buttered version here in the States. It would be ready, freshly popped in a bowl, for either pre- or post-dinner consumption.

The rhythmic task of preparing the food calmed me somewhat; it was a focus for my scattered nerves, which were being soothed by my favorite album by my favorite band, my cat’s namesake. Flea wound his way around my legs, crying for attention as I simmered the sauce. I scooped him up and gave him a tickle under the chin, then the catnip that was all he’d really wanted in the first place.

When the doorbell rang, I was freshly showered, the food smelled good, and the new shirt I’d bought with Jilly did, I’ll admit, look good. Better. Better than the last time he’d seen me.

I opened the door with a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning in to kiss me quickly. To my absolute disgust, my stomach fluttered at the gesture. Such a fucking girl. “This is for you.”

He was holding out a bottle of wine, a nice bottle by the looks of it, an Italian merlot that would be lovely with the lasagna.

“Perfect,” I said. “Thanks. Come in. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.”

I watched, all attempts at surreptitiousness failing miserably as he stripped out of his leather motorcycle jacket and boots, hanging the former on the coat hook and setting the latter down next to the door. Neatly. I was in love.

“I made lasagna, I hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Smells better.”

There was a glint in his eye that I recognized from the first night we’d met, something dark and humorous, dangerous, maybe, intensely… intense. Like a private joke he was unwilling to share. I cocked an eyebrow at him, questioning. He was still smiling as he took a step toward me again, bracing his palms flat on my chest as he leaned up and in for another, slower, sweeter kiss.

I let my fingertips feather through his hair; the lightness of it surprised me, as if the pale strands were somehow less substantial due to their lack of color.

“What was that for?” I asked as we broke apart.

Chris shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

The dining table—such as it was; it only sat two people—had been set already, and I’d stuck a candle in an old bottle and let it burn down low. A little corny, maybe, but nice. I directed Chris to a corkscrew and wineglasses as I served up and placed a large bowl of salad on the table between us.

Fortune or fate had us sitting at the same time.

He raised his glass, the smirk back on his face, and I clinked mine against it.

“To….” I let my voice trail off, letting him finish the toast.

“To dashingly handsome Scotsmen and their sublime taste in men?” he suggested.

I laughed. “And to rather beautiful young percussionists who know how to flatter.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he said.

For all of my concern that the spark between us would have fizzled out, I needn’t have worried. He was still charming and funny and sweet; the conversation flowed between us like the wine from the bottle, which eased the conversation along nicely. It was only when the candle started to flicker, having burned down to nearly the end of the wick, that I noticed the time. We’d long since cleared away the plates and sat down again, hands cupping the bowls of our wineglasses to bring the rich liquid to body temperature. Our bodies were angled together over the table; the ledge dug into my stomach, but I wasn’t going to lean back. When he moved, I mirrored his actions. When I tilted my head to the side, he followed suit.

“Tell me about Scotland,” he said.

I smiled sadly. “I haven’t been back in a long time.”

“How come?”

“It’s a long way away. I don’t really keep in touch with my family over there anymore, not past the annual exchange of Christmas cards, anyway.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Some days,” I said, sipping the wine. “I miss… the driving rain.” I laughed. “You’ve never seen rain until you’ve seen Highland rain. And the sense of history. Everything is so old.”

“I’d love to go there one day.”

“A lot of Americans do,” I said. “It’s very picturesque. All, you know, cobbled streets and medieval churches. Hundreds and hundreds of years of history and development and change. It’s easy to get lost. I heard once that Edinburgh defies all laws of geography and physics inasmuch as when you go somewhere, you go uphill. And when you take the same route home, you go uphill again. It’s true.”

Chris smiled and reached over for my hand. I let him take it. He stroked my wrist with his thumb for a moment, and then I flipped his hand over to reveal the bright skull tattoo.

“Tell me about this?” I asked.

“It’s a Day of the Dead skull,” he said. “It’s a Mexican Catholic tradition, honoring those who have passed. This one was for my best friend; he died of meningitis when we were seventeen.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “He was the one who got me into playing music. I wanted it on my hand so I could see it every time I play.”

“What about the others?” I asked, gesturing to his bare arms. Once again, Chris had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the collection of tattoos dotting his forearms.

“Oh, they look pretty,” he said, smirking again. He allowed me to turn his arm over, inspecting the stars, the roses on his elbows, knuckle dusters (of all things), swallows and a ship and an erotically twisted mermaid.

“Siren,” he corrected me when I asked. “She’s not a mermaid, she’s a siren. A warning to men at sea: don’t get too close.”

“There are many ways to interpret that statement,” I said, laughing.

“And so you should,” he agreed.

“Are there more?” I wondered, thinking under his clothes.

“There are.”

“Can I see them?” I asked.

“I’m sure you will,” he countered. Winked. “I’m guessing you don’t have any?”

“Oh, God no,” I said. “My mum would kill me.”

Chris laughed, open, genuine laughter that crinkled his eyes and shook his chest. “Mine isn’t too fond of them. She likes this one, though.”

He pulled his shirt aside to reveal a heart and a banner with the word “Mom” on it.

“Very traditional,” I said, smiling.

He hummed in agreement. “I like the old Americana style. It’s so bright and vibrant.”

“Like you,” I said without thinking.

The smirk returned.

“There’s something else you should probably know,” I said, taking his hand and tracing the brightly colored skull on the back of it with my fingertip. I didn’t pretend to understand why he would want tattoos, but they were undoubtedly beautiful.

“Okay. Go on.”

“I, uh….” How to explain Chloe? “I have a daughter.”

My fingertip stopped its gentle stroking to give him a chance to pull away if he so wished. He didn’t. “Oh.” Chris turned to me with an amused grin. “You had sex with a girl?”

I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Yeah. Once.”

“Now that’s a story I need to hear.”

Sighing, I settled back into my chair. “Once upon a time, there was a confused young man and a very pretty girl.”

“Uh-oh,” he interrupted. “I think I know how this one goes.”

I laughed, relieved at his easy acceptance so far. “Maybe. Luisa was a very good friend of mine from high school. We went out on a couple of dates with friends, but I didn’t come out properly until I got to college. I didn’t want to humiliate her.”

“Understandable,” Chris said. I scowled at him. He mimed zipping his lips.

“The first Christmas we came home from college, she asked if I was sure. About liking boys. And I said yes. So she asked if I’d ever slept with a girl before. And I said no. So she said how could I be sure if I’d never done it before? So we did.”

“You got it up for her?”

“Yeah. Not saying it was easy, but I did it.”

“Close your eyes and think of England,” Chris said seriously.

“Exactly. So, when we came home again for spring break, she told me that she was pregnant, and I asked her if it was mine, and she hit me. Gave me a black eye. Then I had the humiliating task of telling my parents that yes, I’m still sure I’m gay, but I managed to knock Lu up anyway and now I’m literally and metaphorically screwed.”

Chris frowned and turned our hands over, taking mine in his. “What did you do?”

“Luisa had the baby in the summer between freshman and sophomore year, then went straight back to classes. Chloe was raised by her maternal grandparents for a few years while we both finished our education. Then the three of us tried to live together for about a year, but that was a complete and utter disaster, so I took a teaching position here.”