Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

Todd waits while I set the lock and timer. We walk together to the parking lot. As usual, he asks me about Holly, who I just spent two hours tattooing because she couldn’t wait another Saturday to reschedule. He always asks me about Holly after she comes in. He knows she’s very taken, but he still asks. I’m not sure if it’s the boobs or the tattoos. Most likely both. I rarely take time out to chat with him about anything, much less my roommate. When it comes to the shop, I’m all work and no play.

“You know, Todd, she’s never even home,” I say. “She’s always at Jake’s. They pretty much live together.” I don’t mention that she refuses to officially move in with him until there’s a rock on her finger. Of course, Holly would not shut up about Justin for the entire time I was inking her new palm tree—she wants Jake to propose somewhere tropical. I can’t imagine what she would have been like if I’d told her I was going out with Justin after work tonight.

Todd pulls his beanie low over his forehead and shrugs. “She’s out of my league anyway.”

Smacking his arm, I say, “Holly’s not like that. She probably would have gone out with you.” I knock his shoulder with mine. “If you would have asked her last year.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but the crunch of gravel interrupts as Justin’s Beemer comes into view. Todd frowns at the car. “Al, as a guy, I like him, but you’d better watch yourself.”

Though I have my own reservations about Justin—some have to do with his one-night-stand merry-go-round—I’m refusing to overthink it. I don’t want to become a jealous shrew ever again. I used to give girls around Trevor dirty looks. If he touched the door handle, I asked him where he was going. I called his phone constantly. None of it helped our relationship—actually, probably hurt it. And I became a crueler person with every look, question, and call. Even though this is only a date, I’m not going down that road ever again.

“Slow down,” I say. “He’s not proposing or anything. We’re just going out on a date, having fun.”

Todd twists the gauge in his ear. “Fun, huh? You’re not that kind of girl.” He nods toward the Beemer. “But he’s that kind of guy.”

I let out a huff. “I can date a guy and have fun.”

Todd’s chin lowers as he gives me an even look. “Since when?”

“Since now.” He frowns at me. “Relax. I’m a big girl.”

“Who hasn’t really dated since she got a divorce.”

Justin gets out of the car. As usual, even dressed in jeans and a dark blue windbreaker, he’s hot enough that I want to push my hands into his messily styled hair and attack.

Todd leans closer to me. “Just beware of going from zero to sixty in like three seconds,” he says before walking off and giving Justin a wave.

My teeth grind. If I can be strong with Trevor, surely I can keep Justin at arm’s length. Forcing the tightness from my face, I move toward Justin.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “You look great.”

Because of the chill still hanging in the March air, I’m wearing jeans, my usual boots, a hoodie, and a pink beanie. Hardly great. “Um, thanks.”

“What was that about?” He nods to where Todd is getting into his car.

“Nothing, just work stuff.” I slide into the seat. Hoping to end his curiosity, I add, “And I’ve had enough of work.”

“Then no more shop talk tonight,” he says, closing the door.

After he backs out of the lot and onto the street, I ask, “So where are we going?”

His sideways glance is smooth. “It’s still a surprise.”

I roll my eyes and he shifts the car into drive. He only goes about eight blocks, passing the center of downtown and parking on a side street near the river in front of a loud bar. I give him a questioning look. Drinking with a bunch of beer-swilling college kids is hardly a unique idea for a date. He had me all nervous for nothing. And what was with the warm clothes request?

Once we’re out of the car, he grasps my hand and we head toward the bar. “Hope this is a first for you.”

Confused, I let him lead me across the sidewalk. A sarcastic remark about this date being a rerun since we’d met in a bar last week almost escapes my lips. But a moment later, he surprises me. Instead of going into the bar, we enter a door on the side of the building and climb a long flight of stairs. At the thought of going to his apartment, I’m getting nervous again.

“You live up here?”

“No. I live in the dorms.”

He clearly isn’t in the mood to explain.

We round a landing studded with several apartment doors and climb another staircase. At the top, he unlocks then opens one of three doors, and more stairs come into view. Since this staircase is extremely narrow, he waits for me to go ahead of him. With him at my back and the unknown dark at my front, I move cautiously.

When my feet connect with a flat surface, I turn to him. “Um…”

A light flicks on.

We’re standing in a small room filled with stacked chairs.

He smirks at my baffled expression. “Almost there.”

I follow him past the towering stacks of chairs to a ladder screwed into the wall. As he climbs the ladder then pushes the hatch above it open, I realize that for whatever insane reason we are going on the roof.

Near the top of the ladder, he holds out a hand for me, and I’m raised into a deep blue starry night. “Oh,” I say in awe. Watching me and not letting go of my hand, he tugs me closer to the edge.

“Oh,” I say, stunned again as a cool breeze hits us.

The river, its surface dark and oily, is below us. To the right, the docks are lined with bobbing boats, more riverfront bars, and old warehouses turned into condominiums. Their brightly lit windows reflect off the water, casting long shimmering columns of sparkling yellow light. To the left, the town’s biggest bridge spans the black water, and the headlights of cars moving across it gleam in the night. Above everything is the clear night sky riddled with bright stars.

Justin’s thumb rubs the top of my hand. “The surprise. Your own Starry Night ,” he says, referring to van Gogh.

“ Starry Night Over the Rhone ,” I say, recognizing the similarities.

“Yes,” he agrees, his thumb still rubbing my skin. “I saw it at the Musée d’Orsay.”

Feeling overwhelmed, I study the stars above us as the wind off the water ruffles my hair. My gaze goes back to the view of the river and bridge. “It’s beautiful. Who would have thought a view like this existed in our city? I’m not sure which would be better. This or seeing the actual painting.” I imagine the strings he had to pull for this. “Thank you.”

His eyes are soft and liquid in the shadows of the rooftop. “You’re welcome. But having had both experiences, I’d say this is far better.”

My heart picks up speed as he stares at me. Feeling overwhelmed again, I turn back to the view. “Because?”

“You’re here.”

Geesh. Being with me is better than being in France? Desperate to lighten the mood, I say, “Where’s the cheesy romance music?”

He inches closer to me. “Tonight’s about art, about you.”

Afraid of what he might reply next and that leg humping will ensue, I stay silent.

We stand, taking in the lovely view for several minutes until he says lightly, “There’s another surprise over here.” He motions behind us.

On the curling tar of the roof lies a spread-out sleeping bag. He pulls me down and we sit with our backs against the rough chimney. The ledge is less than five feet from us, leaving nothing to separate us from the incredible view.