Page 14 of Unmanageable

“Yes, we chose with absolute, surgical precision,” I say proudly.

Dean leans over from the couch, tapping my arm. “Scottie, what did we actually choose? I remember looking at a page of drawings, and then I remember you telling me that a true best friend wouldn’t let me leave without matching body art, and then everything goes black.”

“Dean, my sweet Dean,” I say, grabbing his face with both hands. His glittery pink cowboy hat sits precariously between us, sliding off his head. “We picked masterpieces. I don’t exactly remember the geometric configuration of mine, but it felt right in my soul. It felt like destiny.”

Dean squints at me. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Neither is your face right now, but we’re all doing our best.”

He smiles. “If I wake up tomorrow with something offensive, I’m suing you for legal malpractice.”

“You can’t sue your best friend,” I argue, slurring slightly as I pat his cheek. “That’s, like, against the friendship code.”

“Put me in the chair, big man!” Jenna roars, slamming her hand on the counter.

While Jenna is dragged into the back, Ivy, Dean, and I collapse onto the low vinyl couch.

Dean looks remarkably zen, considering his button-down shirt is missing three buttons and he has a mysterious smudge of glitter on his forehead.

“I feel like a teenager,” Ivy murmurs, leaning her head on my shoulder. Her tiara is crooked, sitting over one eye. “My dad would pass out if he saw me in here. He thinks I’m at a meditation retreat.”

“Technically,” I say, “this is a form of meditation. We are becoming one with the spirit of the tattoo gun.”

From the back room, the sharp, angry buzz of the tattoo gun starts up, followed instantly by Jenna letting out a loud yelp.

“Shit, that’s got some bite!” Jenna shouts over the noise. “Hey, guys? Did I ever tell you I spent three years married to a hockey player?”

The lobby goes dead silent. Even the tattoo gun seems to get quieter, as if the artist is leaning in to listen.

I bolt upright. Ivy’s head slides off my shoulder entirely, her jaw dropping. Dean opens his eyes and stares blankly at the hallway.

“What?” Ivy screeches. “Jenna! What did you just say?”

“I said I was married!” Jenna’s voice carries perfectly over the buzzing needle. “For three years! Can you believe that? To that miserable bitch!”

“You were married?!” I yell, standing up so fast the room does a terrifying, nauseating spin. “Jenna, I’ve known you for, like, years! How is this the first time I am hearing about this? Are you a Russian sleeper agent?”

“Because he was a mistake, Scottie!” Jenna yells back. “Ow! Gentle, man, that’s my bone! Anyway, it was a dark time. We don’t talk about the dark times.”

Dean shakes his head, looking deeply invested. “The dark times? If he took anything from her, I’ll find a way to reopen the case out of spite. I’m a litigator, baby, I hold grudges for a living.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” I say, dumping my head onto Dean’s shoulder. He throws an arm around me, holding me steady as the room continues to wobble.

By the time we all emerge back into the lobby, every single one of us has a patch of clear plastic wrapping somewhere on our skin.

“Grease!” Jenna screams as we stumble out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. “We need pizza! We need the blood of the pepperoni! My body is literally crying out for processed cheese.”

“Pizza,” Ivy agrees, her bossy side returning in full force. “Dean, get an Uber. And make sure it’s a big one. I don’t want to be cramped.”

Dean fumbles with his phone, holding it upside down. “I’m trying, but the icons are moving like little crabs. They’re scurrying away from my thumb.”

“Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

“They know what I’m trying to do. They’re resisting.”