My forearm is still tingling from wrist to elbow, the ghost of his thumb’s path lit up along the skin like a line he drew there, and my brain is playingjust a virgin, periodon a loop like it’s trying to make sure I never sleep again.
“How’s the new job going?”
It’s Sunday dinner. I thought my father would drop the job conversation since I went to church this morning. I wanted to sleep in, but I also didn’t want my father yelling at me again.
“It’s good.” I take a bite of chicken. “I’m getting the hang of it.”
“And what exactly are you getting the hang of?”
“Scheduling. Intake forms. Client management.” All true, though I keep it vague enough that I could be working in a spa or a doctor’s office.
He sets his fork down, lines it up parallel to his knife. “You said front desk.”
“It is a front-desk job.”
“Front deskwhere, Clarissa?” I can tell my father is getting impatient, but I’m not going to back down.
“A small business downtown. The owner needed help organizing the front end.”
“What’s it called?”
I put my fork down loudly. “Dad, it’s a job. I go in, I work, I come home.”
“And you can’t tell me the name.”
“I’m telling you, it’s fine.”
“What kind of business is it?”
“Does it really matter? It’s a service business.” I’m running out of ways to describe a tattoo shop without sayingtattoo shop.
He picks up his water glass and takes a sip. “I spoke with Richard Holt again after service on Sunday. He still has that position open at the firm—front desk, reception, professional hours. He said to let you know the offer stands.”
“I have a job, Dad.”
“You have a job you won’t tell your parents about over dinner.” He straightens his napkin beside his plate, tugging the corner until the fold is crisp. “That concerns me.”
“It shouldn’t. The work is interesting and I’m good at it. Can’t that be enough?”
“No.” He sets his fork on the plate, handle aligned to the edge. “It can’t. You should take the job I mentioned. It will be good for your résumé. Richard Holt has been in this town for twenty years. People respect him, and a reference from his office means something.”
A reference from a tattoo shop means nothing. That’s what he’d say. He’d have a fit over King Ink, which is why I haven’t told him.
“I’m an adult, Dad. I don’t have to tell you about my job.”
His eyes come up, filled with anger. “You are living under my roof. People in this town know your name. They know whose daughter you are. What you do reflects on this family, whether you want it to or not.”
“I know whose daughter I am.”
I don’t saythat’s the problem. I don’t saythat’s why I can’t tell you.
“I’ll call Richard tomorrow morning. Set something up.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Because I don’t want Richard Holt’s job. Because I have a job I love. Because for the first time in my life, I am somewhere thatfits, and I can’t explain that to the man sitting across from me without losing everything at this table.
