Dec: I’m painting and want an accent color on the walls.
Me: Green is my favorite color, so that’s what I would pick. An accent color? Sounds very distinguished.
Dec: Green it is then. I have to keep up with the times. Having an accent color makes a room homey and warm. At least according to HGTV. How’s your day?
Me: Good. Uneventful. Yours?
Dec: Just grinding away.
We chat for a few minutes before he has to go, and I sigh to the empty coffee shop once the conversation ends.
It’s been a few months since Dec and I started talking, and to say it’s been fun is an understatement. We ask about each other's days and throw jabs and funny memes at each other, keeping the conversation light. And we joke about what the other person looks like more often than not. There’s an easiness between us that keeps me coming back for more. Meaning every single day. Our relationship is purely platonic but the fact that he’s funny and has a killer body makes me want to see a picture of his face. I have a gut feeling he would blow every image I’ve conjured up of him in my mind out of the water.
The only thing is that we have an unwritten rule: that we don’t speak about our jobs or personal lives. He has no idea where I work or that I have a daughter, and I don’t know anything about his life outside of his likes and dislikes. For all I know, he’s a serial killer or a circus clown. And it’s probably better that I believe that because I’m woman enough to say I have a crush on him at this point. I should probably start swiping right on a few people through the app and get myself back out there in the dating pool, so I don’t fall further for a man whose face I haven’t seen yet.
I slowly start shutting everything down, put the closed sign in the window, and spend the next hour going over the numbers for the day and doing inventory. Eventually, I lock up and head out the back of the shop to jump in my silver sedan so I can pick up Autumn at my parents.
The new occupant of the shop next to ours has early two thousand emo music playing that I can hear through the back door, and I’m tempted to knock and introduce myself.
I talk myself out of it at the last second, too much of a scaredy cat to introduce myself to the owner of a tattoo shop. I may be outgoing, but even I get intimidated by certain people. Instead, I head straight towards my parents’ place in Carlsbad.
I’ll meet the owner eventually. It’s only a matter of time.
Chapter 2
Declan
Painting sucks.
This probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I’m committed now.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and finish off my now lukewarm IPA.
The fucking internet got me into this mess, and I wish it could get me out of it, but it’s too late. The dark green color covers all the wainscoting on the lower third of the walls in my new tattoo shop. I should have done this before I put any furniture in the space, but it was a last-minutedecision. The longer I look at it, though, the more I’m convinced it was the right move.
I still have one more coat to do, but the first one needs to dry before I can move on.
I turn down my music and decide that this is the perfect time to go upstairs to check out my new home.
When I bought this storefront, the two-bedroom apartment above it was part of the deal. A deal I couldn’t pass up. I worked my ass off in Newport Beach, building a clientele and saving money, and it was time that I had a space of my own. I have more than a few clients who live in the area here and boast about the oceanside town. And the more research I did, the more I was convinced this was where I was supposed to end up.
Don’t get me wrong, Newport Beach was fun. But everyone acts like they’re hot shit and owed something without earning it. It’s not as bad as L.A., but it definitely has its quirks.
I decided over the summer that it was time for me to move forward with my career and branch out on my own. I came across this gem when searching for places and was surprised it wasn’t already taken. It’s been on the market for a while, according to the real estate agent, but it’s probably because of how expensive it was and how shitty the economy is right now. Since it came with the apartment and didn’t need any immediate renovations, I made an offer on the spot.
The stairs to the apartment are at the front of the building, in between the coffee shop next door and my tattooparlor. I unlock the door and climb the squeaky wooden steps until I reach my unit, the one on the right. All my belongings arrive tomorrow, and then I’ll officially be moved out of my place in Newport.
If I remember correctly, the realtor said something about my neighbor across the mini landing at the head of the staircase being the owner of the coffee shop, but I have yet to meet him… or was it her?
I open the door to my apartment and look around. I spent the other day dusting and cleaning every square inch of this place since it was unoccupied for so long. It’s going to need updating eventually, but it has a functioning kitchen and bathroom, so I can’t complain. Once the tattoo parlor is up and running and I have some time on my hands, I’ll start on the apartment renovations.
I head to the fridge and grab a water I stashed here the other day while I was cleaning and walk to the window, chugging the whole thing in one go. The sun is setting in yellows and oranges, and the apartment has a perfect view of the ocean just two blocks away.
I don’t know how this place was vacant for so long, but I’m glad I was the one to get it.
I check my phone to see if I have any new messages and am a little disappointed that I don’t. For the past few months, I’ve slowly come to rely on my new friend, Pen, to keep me entertained.
I’m what most people would call a grump. I just call it being introverted. It’s not that I don’t like people per se, but from a young age, I learned that most people don’t really want to get to know you and only want one of three things from you: sex, money, or popularity. When I figured that out, I turned my bullshit meter on and my social meter off. It’s worked for me ever since.
