Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

“Words and manners, Justin,” she reminds me, like I’m still five.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry.”

“Now tell me, what are you going to do?”

My mind reels. “Go to her? Talk to her? Tell her how I feel?”

“That’s a start.” Her cheery tone has me imagining her smiling into the phone.

Before we hang up, Olivia makes me promise to visit her this summer. I went to Maine once when I was twelve and felt out of place, but Olivia had only a boyfriend then, not an entire family I’d be invading, But I tell her I’ll visit before hanging up, then getting off my bed and snagging the keys from the dresser.

As I’m walking down the stairs, my parents come in the front doors. They’re dressed to the nines. My mother recently turned fifty, but she has been dressing like a politician’s wife for years. Perhaps that’s her true calling. My father wears expensive tailored suits, but with his graying blond hair down to his jaw, he will never look like a politician.

“Justin!” she says, staring at the keys in my hand. Her forehead scrunches. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, got tired of waiting.” I plop onto the marble bench across from the doors and reach for my shoes.

My mother sets her tiny purse on the entryway table. “Well, we’re here now.” She frowns at me. “You made it sound like an emergency on the phone.”

Yes, an emergency you rushed home to , I think sarcastically. I glance at the large modern clock at the end of the entrance. It’s nine thirty.

Behind her, my father takes off his shoes and opens the entryway closet. Like her, he doesn’t so much as offer a hello.

I shrug. “Just needed to get away and clear my head. It’s clear now so I’m going,” I say, sounding even to my own ears like a pissed-off teenager.

“Mix me a drink, darling?” she asks over her shoulder. Turning back to me, she shakes her head. “When are you going to grow out of the melodrama? You’re almost twenty-one.”

My father steps past me and mutters, “Perhaps his emergency had to do with three Cs and one B.” He’s referring to my winter semester grades, which he has access to online.

Irritation shoots down my spine. My hands clench the edge of the bench. They haven’t seen me since Christmas. Though I never come home, I show up unannounced and this is the bullshit they spout? Wrapped in their own little superficial world, they are so clueless, so selfish.

I’m about to blow. My fingers dig into the marble. Anger swells in my chest until I slowly release my grip, and with it I let go of the need for their attention. My body and mind instantly lighten.

As usual, I hate admitting it but Romeo is right. I need to grow up. I got dealt a shitty hand when it came to parents. But it’s time for me to step up to the plate of life. First of all, there are people out there like Gabe, whose cards are far shittier. Second, there comes a time when you have to let go, man up, and let your actions speak for you instead of letting the past or your parents or any other bullshit define you. A man needs to define himself.

My parents are my parents, not the worst, sure as shit not the best, but there’s no fixing them. But there’s a girl who I’m madly in love with. I need to talk to her, be with her, and prove myself to her. Wasting anger or time or emotion on something I can’t change suddenly makes no fucking sense.

Ice clinks in the kitchen as my father mixes drinks. I slip on my boots, then face my mother as she crosses her arms. “Guess I got homesick for a minute, but I really have to study tomorrow.” I bend and kiss her cheek. “See you in July.” And with a newfound feeling of freedom, I close the heavy front doors on her startled face.

It’s almost midnight by the time I get home. Like Todd last weekend, I got burned with a walk-in just before cutoff time at nine. The guy’s eagle took me until almost eleven o’clock to ink. Normally, I don’t mind late walk-ins, especially since Ben stays at my parents’ house on Saturday nights. But this week has been crazy. After dealing with Trevor’s antics all week, I’m drained.

Alone finally, I’m debating if it’s too late to call Justin. All day I’ve been thinking of how to explain the realization of my feelings through the painting I made last night.

Yet no sooner are my boots off and my butt on the couch when a knock sounds at the door. Having an awful suspicion about who’s on the other side, I stay on the couch, but the knocking grows loud enough to irritate my neighbors. A look through the peephole confirms my suspicions.

Trevor flies in as soon as I release the dead bolt.

“I’ve been driving past your place all night,” he says almost too fast for me to understand the words. “You’re lucky you’re not out with that douche bag.” As he leans on my dining room table like he owns it, I notice his wrinkled clothes. His bruises have healed and without them to distract me, I notice the dark circles under his eyes.

“You should have tried the shop,” I reply. “I had a late walk-in.” Pushing the door closed with my foot, I ignore his gesture for me to sit in a chair. I’m not sitting. The sooner he’s gone the better. “Why are you here?”

“First off,” he says, yanking an envelope from his back pocket and waving it in the air, “I got this in the mail today.”

I cross my arms. This riddle talk has been coming out of him all week. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“It’s a court date. For my arraignment. You were supposed to tell douche boy not to press charges.”

“We haven’t been talking much lately, but I doubt that has anything to do with Justin. The police came. People were arrested. The state or city or whatever is pressing charges.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Well, that’s good news.”

“What?” I’m confused why he would be happy that charges are being pressed.

Pushing out his chest, he steps toward me and places his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve decided I want to work out things between us. I want you, Ben, and the shop back.”

Part of me feels like he has socked me in the gut. Another part is pissed. We’re divorced. That he believes I would take him back is beyond egotistical. A third part of me is completely confused. Trevor has been halfheartedly pursuing me in his own twisted way since he got back. I assumed his main purpose was to get me in bed. Trevor has always used booty calls to boost his ego. But the old connection we used to have is dead. It’s almost like he’s been going through the motions. Now this? And including the shop in his statement? Who includes business during a conversation about getting together with their ex-wife? Suddenly, I recall his child support payments. They’ve always been erratic. I never count on them, just put half in Ben’s college fund and the other half in an emergency fund, but it’s been months since his last payment.

My hands ball into fists on my hips. “What’s going on?”

His expression turns sly as he grabs my upper arms. “I want us to be together, babe.”

Ugh. The “babe” has come out. I tear away from his grasp. I’ve always feared a part of me would want Trevor. He was my first love. My first heartbreak. And second. He’s the father of my son. He was my husband. But since last night’s revelation while painting, I can say without a doubt I do not want to be with Trevor ever again. I’m finally totally over him. However, even if I wanted him, there’s obviously something going on here I’m unaware of.

“What about your tattoo business in California? And your girlfriend there?”

He reaches for me again, but I sidestep him.

“I broke up with Lexi before coming here, and California isn’t for me.” He clasps a hand across his wrinkled shirt over his heart. “You and Ben are for me.”