Page 55 of The Boyfriend Experience

She pokes her finger into my chest and says, “Exactly!”

“Ah, man,” I say.

“Just listen, OK? Hanna likes the guys I date. She’s proven it to me over and over again. And even though she hasn’t actually stolen a boyfriend from me since college, she does date them after I’m done. It’s like… it’s like she goes out of her way to find my ex-boyfriends and then she brings them places she knows I’ll be. So I know, I just know… if you had tattoos she’d really think we were together. I mean, I don’t know what she thinks we’re doing together now, but she must feel pretty confident that I’m not serious about you. So we need to make her think we’re serious.”

“And tattoos will do that?” I say, giving her the stink eye.

“Yes!”

“I don’t know,” I say. “And it’s got nothing to do with pain, either. It’s just… Bric always warned me about the body art, ya know?”

“Bric?” she asks, confused.

“Elias Bricman. He owns… well, a lot of shit. Used to own a… a private club over by the capitol building. That’s how Jordan and I know each other. Bric is the common denominator. He found me when I was sixteen, shook the thug right out of me, and set me up with a scholarship to a private school. I never looked back, ya know? And he was glad I’d never gotten a tattoo like a bunch of the other kids he was sponsoring. Said it would be easier in the real world if I didn’t mark myself up like that. Announce who I was to the world before they got to know me and shit like that. So… I dunno. It’s a big deal to me.”

She nods. Frowning. “I get it. No problem. It was just an idea. I’m sure the jacket will be fine.” And then she smiles. Weakly. And turns back to the skeet ball game.

And I hate that. I hate that I’ve disappointed her. I hate the frown, and the worry lines creasing her forehead, and that look in her eyes. That look that says things can always get worse. Because I used to feel like that too. And people who live by that creed know. No matter how good things get, life will always be there to kick you when you’re down.

So I say, “Now hold on a minute. I didn’t say no. I just said it’s a big deal. I mean, I’ve never even thought about getting a tattoo, so I don’t even know what I’d want. I don’t know who I’d get to do it, but I’d want it to be someone special. Someone who knows their shit. Not just any fucking Joe Shmo at some dirty tattoo shop.”

“It’s totally fine, Law. Just forget I mentioned it.”

“I mean, what would I get?” And now I have to take a seat on the edge of the skeet ball machine and think it through. “I don’t even have a clue. How did you decide on those words on your back?”

She looks over at me and smiles. “Do you want the short version? Or the long one?”

“Long,” I say. Automatically. Because I don’t want the short version of anything at all when it comes to Oaklee Ryan.

“OK, but let’s get hot dogs because I’m starving. I’ll tell you over hot dogs.”

Ten minutes later we’re sitting at a booth drinking Bucked Up on tap and staring down at our exotic hot dog choices. Larry’s known for his hot dogs. Apparently. Since this is what Oaklee tells me as we wait in line to order. He’s got wild boar dogs. Buffalo dogs—which we turn our noses up at, since, you know, Hanna Harlow’s company has ruined that particular animal species for both of us now. He’s got one he swears is rattlesnake. But we finally decide on the jackalope dog, which is stupid. Because there’s no such thing as a jackalope.

“It’s antelope,” Oaklee says, noticing my reluctance to eat it. “I promise you. It’s just pronghorn antelope. Which is really just a special kind of small deer with antelope-like antlers. They’re actually a member of the giraffe family. You’ve seen them right? They’re all over the countryside east of Denver.”

I shake my head no, because even though I know they sing about the place where the buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play in that old-time song, I’ve never thought about it before.

“Just eat it, you wuss. Take one bite and I’ll tell you my tattoo story.”

So I do. Because I want that story. I take a huge bite because when I go in, I go all in.

“Not bad,” I say, still chewing.

Oaklee takes her bite and chews, nodding her head like this is the most delicious hotdog ever, then wipes her mouth with a napkin and begins her story.

“OK, so when I was in sixth grade I had to do a report on a famous woman I admired. So I chose Ingrid Bergman because my dad loved classic black-and-white movies, so by the time I was twelve I’d seen Casablanca a million times and I thought it was just… very romantic. I mean, Rick gave up Ilsa because he knew she was better off without him.”

Oaklee sighs. Smiles at me. “I loved that ending, even though it was sad and everyone wanted Rick to go to America with Ilsa instead of Laszlo. I think he did the right thing by leaving her behind. He knew she’d be unhappy and he loved her so much, he couldn’t ruin her life like that. So I chose Ingrid Bergman for my report and that’s when I found her quote. ‘Be yourself. The world worships the original.’ And for my eighteenth birthday my dad took me to get my tattoo. Right before I left for college. Because he knew what I wanted and he thought that would keep me grounded when I came up against the wider world and people wanted to try to force me into being something I’m not.”

I grin. Truly loving that story. “So why didn’t you get the whole thing?” I ask. “Why didn’t you add in the ‘be yourself’ part?”

She shrugs. “I think it goes unsaid. I mean, you can’t be original if you’re not being yourself, right?”

“You’re a smart woman, you know that, Oaklee?”

She grins. “I have my moments.”

Yeah, she sure does. “So listen, I’ve never been against tattoos. I sorta love them. I love yours, that’s for sure. It was a very nice surprise to flip you over last night and see that waiting for me.”