Before I bike home a couple hours later, I pause and pull out my phone. I know I’ll be back in no time, but I’m eager to hear Alexander’s take, and I want him to have some time to think it over.
Hey, I text him,what about if I become a tattoo artist?
CHAPTERTHREE
ALEXANDER
I openmy eyes before six. The sun is out, but everything is still grey. I usually just grab my book and read while I wake, but beach clean is today, so I roll out of bed immediately.
Beach clean is pretty much like it sounds. Three or four small groups meet up early in the mornings, each group walking a beach that runs along Chicago to clean up trash. It’s nothing glamorous, just a thing that started organically with a few people and grew through the magic of notes pinned to library boards.
Not glamorous, but still important. The lake is beautiful, and I love that we all share it together. I’m a cornball, I know, but after five years, I’m still dedicated to the project.
Plus, sometimes there’s donuts and coffees. Although that’s pretty much only if I bring them.
I’ll shower and everything later, so I just kick on some clothes, brush my teeth, and then grab a few of the recycled trash bags. I’m heading across the living room to rap on Rafael’s door, since he plans on coming, but the front door opens first, and he walks in. He’s wearing the Fiona Apple shirt that he’s gotten obsessed with, and his worn denim backpack is tossed over his shoulder.
“Oh, right,” I laugh, then rub the back of my head. “You had a hookup last night.”
It’s not unusual for Rafael to hook up with someone, and while it would be disingenuous to claim that I’m not a little stressed by that at times, for the most part, I’ve actually come to peace with the whole thing. He almost never wants to bring anyone back to our place, which helps. And after initially torturing myself over the whole thing, I realized that he’s never going to run away with any of those guys.
In a weird way, so long as Rafael is still getting on the apps every now and then, I can be confident he’s not leaving my side.
“You have fun?” I ask.
Rafael shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll see him again. I thought he might be a repeat, but then when I was leaving this morning, he yelled at his cat.”
I make an X with my arms. “Out of here with that behavior,” I agree.
He runs his hand through his hair. Instead of combed back like usual, his straight black hair falls messily to either side. He must have had some fun if he’s getting back so late. He texted that I shouldn’t wait up, but it’s past sunrise.
He looks tousled and cute, the tan of his cheeks glowing, his eyes sleepy.
It hurts sometimes, that he can look so cute.
“Are you ready?” I ask, distracted. “I want to stop and get us pastries on the way.”
“I’m supposed to make breakfast for you,” Rafael points out as he slips his shoes off and hurries into his room. “I need to grab a few things.”
“You’ll make breakfast when we get back.” I tug the bottom of my denim jacket, which annoyingly is almost long enough but not. “Grab a sweater,” I add.
Rafael appears, his hoodie zipped up and a different pair of sneakers on. He’s ditched his backpack, but his hands are full of gray stones. “Do we have a paper bag?”
I tilt my head to the side and stare at my friend, who looks down at the stones with care. “I think so,” I tell him. “What are those?”
“Lake stones. I took them to use as models for some drawings, but I promised the lake that I’d have them back by the end of the month.”
“Right,” I agree. “Don’t want them to dry out,” I add, then laugh at my own dorky joke while Rafael gives the stones a look of slight alarm. “I’ll find a bag,” I add. “The key to your bike lock and your phone are probably in your backpack.”
“Thanks,” Rafael says quietly, then dumps the stones onto the little table we keep by the door.
We’re early enough that the streets are still quiet, which makes the short bike ride to the beach quick and easy. Rafael cruises beside me, neither of us saying much. But then we stop and eat a couple of blueberry scones from a coffee shop, and once we’re back on the road, we can’t stop talking.
“What about how I’m late for everything?” he says out of nowhere. “Won’t the tattoo shop just fire me anyway?”
He’s been soliciting opinions on Matty’s idea that he should be a tattoo artist since he got home last night. I can see it, actually, at least in terms of the work satisfying Rafael. He’s always been fascinated by people’s tattoos. Although he’s right that he’s not the best with structure, and I can only imagine how messy his work place could become.
I think carefully while my friend cruises beside me in the bike lane. “The fact that the coffee shop lets you be late every afternoon is a plus. But hey, won’t you hear from the gallery about selling some of your illustrations soon?”
