Page 102 of I Saw You First

I groan. “Not you, too. Andre brought it up today.”

“And? What did he say?”

“The board approved a new position. Community relations.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you going to apply?”

“Sam, I’m this close to getting my own store. Why would I apply for a job at the nonprofit?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re miserable at the store and you aren’t a complete asshole when you’re volunteering with the nonprofit? Maybe because it might make you happy?” When I don’t respond, Sam says in a low, quiet voice, “Like I said, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up just like him.”

It’s too late, I think. My heart’s a blackened, impenetrable shell of what it once was. Four years with Candy, and when it ended, I didn’t feel as broken as I do now after only one night with Abbey. One perfect night that blurred into the next day after all those months we wasted not being together.

“Think about it, Jaws. And maybe, if you figure out if you’re really meant to stay at Hometown Electronics, you’ll be able to figure things out with Abbey, too.”

I drain the rest of my beer. Part of me wants to tell him that it’s not that easy but there’s another part of me, a tiny glimmer of hope, that wonders if it is.

On the drive home, because I like to torture myself, I slide the Abbey Road CD into my car stereo. I drive around for the time it takes to listen to it three times, and then, when I’m almost home, turn toward downtown Minneapolis, to the tattoo place where I’ve gotten all my work done.

My regular guy, Jack, happens to be working tonight. He’s a short, stocky white guy, his limbs and bald head covered with art. He’s wearing a Metallica Master of Puppets T-shirt, and I almost laugh at how fitting that is.

“Wil, my man,” he says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Can you fit me in?”

“Yeah, man, I’ve got somebody in the chair right now, but I’ll be done in, like, fifteen. Cool?”

I sit in the small waiting area and stare out at the busy downtown Minneapolis street. From here, I can see only the n of the marquee sign for The Golden. The place where it all began. Abbey’s all I can think about. The lipstick on her cup and that wide smile. Her claw clips and those wild buns. The CDs she sets aside to buy later as she sorts cycle. That dress on New Year’s Eve. The feel of her soft skin under my lips.

It makes my chest ache.

Jack and his customer step out from the back room and the woman pays. She’s got dark hair like Abbey’s, and my heart stutters. But when she turns, she looks nothing like her: cat-eye glasses, deep red lipstick, piercings in her eyebrow, her septum, her lip. She smiles at me as she walks out the door. She’s beautiful, but she’s not Abbey.

Once Jack’s cleaned up his workstation, he brings me back to the room where I’ve sat for all my tattoos. “What are we doing?” he asks. “I gotta say, I’m surprised to see you just show up like this. You usually give me a few days’ notice, at least.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

“Hit me.”

I run my hand along the inside of my left forearm. “Here.” I describe what I want, and he nods.

“Cool. Very on brand,” he says. He disappears into the little room where the magic really happens. He nails the design on the first go.

An hour in, I ask, “Did you always know this is what you wanted to do for a living?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Nah. I never even took an art class until I went to college.”

“What did you go to school for?”

“Pre-law. I thought I’d be a labor attorney like my dad. But something clicked in that art class, I changed my major, and here we are.”

“Was your dad pissed?”

“Not at all. He was proud of me. Turns out he didn’t much like labor law. You see all these photographs behind me?”