I roll my eyes. “You think I should get a tattoo, and then I’ll magically get my work done?”
“I was going to say ask him out, but a tattoo might work, too.”
I snort-laugh. “Yeah, right. What makes you think he’s gay?”
“Because he gave you his card, but not me.”
“He could probably just tell I was in charge of the picnic,” I argue.
“Cat memorial,” she corrects.
I tap the toe of my converse on the tile floor. Sure, the guy’s ridiculously hot, if you like the brooding bad boy type, smoldering eyes and all that crap.
And I can’t deny that I’ve been thinking about him. He’s just so disorienting, with that steady, cool way he stares.
Who stares like that?
He was hanging with those assholes at the loud barbecue, which makes him a jerk by association, but he came over and apologized, which kind of makes him not a jerk.
It’s confusing.
He’s confusing.
“Trust me, that guy isn’t into me.”
“Sure looked at you like he was into you.”
“Well, I’m not going to call some tattooed dude from the park and ask him on a date. That’s ridiculous.”
Ayla purses her mouth to the side. “You know, Milo always falls for guys who aren’t available,” she tells me. “It’s his fatal flaw.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” I grumble, remembering how overly available I was during our relationship.
Clingy might be a better word.
I glue a tassel to the purse. She’s right that I’m not doing myself any favors, sitting around and hoping my ex will notice me again.
And after Mixie’s memorial got interrupted, I am still craving something I can’t put my finger on. Some type of closure or change to move my life forward.
“Fine,” I answer. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Ayla’s eyes pop wider. “Really? You’re going to ask him on a date? My pestering never works on you.”
“Nope,” I answer smugly. “I’m getting a Mixie tattoo.”
* * *
According to Google, Blade Tattoo has been around since the seventies and became famous in the nineties when some guy named Caesar took it over from his dad. I sit on a bench across the street from the shop and read about the development of new school tattoo styles for a while, which this Caesar guy apparently played a role in.
It’s actually totally fascinating, and a million geeky artist questions about technique jump through my brain.
I study the building and tap the card with Stone’s number against my knee. The shop is a long walk from where I work. I could have just called from home, but for some reason, I want to see the place first, and so I trotted on over.
Or maybe I’m just inventing excuses to delay while I try to muster the courage. Tattoos are painful, and I generally try to avoid pain whenever possible.
Just the thought of the sharp needle makes me squirm and curl my toes.
Before I can fixate on tattoo needles for too long, the door to the shop swings open, and Stone steps out. I tense and become perfectly still, my heart jumping in a panic, but he recognizes me.
