I write his name under mine, then move over so other people can scratch their names down on the paper. Charles has the reusable grocery bag hooked on his shoulder, and I catalog how different he looks today from last night. His hair is still a little too long, just past his ears, hanging loosely in his face. The scruff on his jaw is a little more tamed today, like maybe he cleaned it up so it looks more well-groomed beard instead of a-couple-of-days-past-shave due.
“Are you coming tonight?” I ask conversationally as people mill around us. “To the bonfire,” I say, in case he had any other thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. I’ll be bringing my guitar.”
Charles’ face does something very complicated. “Do you take requests?”
“No.” But then I think about it and say, “Maybe.”
“No Nolan Hastings for the crowd?”
River catches my eye and wiggles his eyebrows, making my cheeks warm as I swing my gaze back to Charles. “No, not for tonight. Maybe some Goo Goo Dolls though.”
“Good music.” Someone bumps into Charles and he moves a few inches closer, straightening up to avoid pressing into me. “Sorry.”
He smells like summer rain and being outside after a storm. My stomach does a little tumble at his proximity, at his warm smell, before I lock it down so far, no emotion can get out of the jail cell. I back up away from him, nod once, then flee the storefront. Taking a big gulp of the salt-laden air, I walk as fast as I can toward River’s coffee shop. The closed sign hangs on the door, so I lean against the wall, hoping that no one walks this way after the impromptu lantern festivalmeeting. A few people do, but not my parents, and not Charles, thankfully.
Fifteen minutes later, River strolls toward me, sunglasses perched on his nose, orange-and-yellow cardigan over his shoulders, black curls wild on top of his head.
“Chicken shit,” River says as he unlocks the coffee shop. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong withme?” I ask, seriously affronted. Howdarehe.
“Charles was looking at you with puppy dog eyes and you were an asshole.”
“I just got out of a ten-year relationship.”
River snorts so hard I think his brain might come out his nose. “You and Anthony have been done for years,” River says with so much hate that I can feel the air almost catch fire. “That man was a giant piece of shit and you stayed with him because you hate yourself.”
“Hey,” I say lamely, actually a little hurt.
“Now you’ll push Charles away when he gets close enough because he’s kind and sweet and perfectly lovely and you don’t think you deserve that.”
“River!” I shout because I’ve had enough.
River takes off his sunglasses and stares me down, but I don’t let on that he’s gotten to me. Nope. River might know me better than most people, but he doesn’t get a free pass at making me feel like shit. Or, well, pointing out my shit.
“Are you playing at the bonfire tonight?” River asks, ever the expert at changing the topic.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you there with bells on.”
I leave the coffee shop without saying goodbye. Now I kind of wish I had walked because the walk home might dome some good. But I’ll just have to go home and find something to do until the bonfire later. Maybe stare at the ceiling. Eat a huge bowl of cereal. Something, anything except think about the way Charles had looked at me and the haunting truth of River’s harsh words.
I end up spending the rest of my afternoon at the tattoo shop. After I dyed my hair, I realized I still have an open spot on my forearm, and I have the perfect idea. Thankfully, Scott’s cousin’s girlfriend is a tattoo artist, and she squeezed me in with the custom design.
“Like that placement?” Susie asks, black-purple eyebrow raised in question.
I wander over to the mirror, turning this way and that to confirm the tattoo is in the perfect spot. I nod over at her, then hop back onto the table. I got my first tattoo on my eighteenth birthday. I’d wanted to get one at sixteen, the parental units had even signed the form, but I’d chickened out. Then when I turned eighteen, Pop took me into Charleston for the day and got me my first flash tattoo. A teal butterfly on my left thigh. Is it the best tattoo in existence? No. But it reminds me to keep going on days that I don’t really want to.
Susie buzzes away quietly, and I settle in under the familiar feeling of the tattoo needle. I’d gone a little wild in my early twenties, ending up with a collarbone tattoo, left arm sleeve, thigh tattoos, and my right calf done. It kind of looks like art is working its way down my body horizontally. The sunrise sleeve on my right arm is my favorite though. I’d taken a picture to an artist in Boston when I was desperately homesick, and they’d tattooed a gorgeous Hope Island sunrise on my arm so I can always carry it with me.
“All done,” Susie says about an hour later.
I smile softly over at her, and she smiles back, and I feellike maybe she understands me when I spot the cardinal tattoos on her bicep. The birdcage is a fine line, with a bird escaping, its shadow on the opposite side. I close my eyes tight and take a deep breath, letting all the shit go I’ve spent too many years holding on to. I’m free, and there’s no going back. Not ever again.
