“At least the ocean would want me there,” I say to the empty room. But it sounds so dumb out loud.
I click over to Facebook and it’s a wasteland of family posts and spam. Instagram is better. The algorithm thinks all I care about is tattoos, surf vids, and thirst traps, which—at surface level—isn’t wrong. I scroll past a reel of someone getting a snake wrapped around their arm in hyper-speed, then an ad for a wetsuit, then a girl in a bikini lying on black sand.
The light from my phone is harsh, and I rub my eyes with my free hand before turning the screen down.
I could text Tek. It likely wouldn’t help, but I should probably do it anyway.
I think about what I’d say: 'Sorry I’m a pain in the ass.' 'Can I come back?' 'I miss your grumpy face and the way you growl at me.' None of them are good.
I click to his profile, @TekInk, and look at the first pinned photo. It’s from two years ago, a close-up of an almost finished chest piece, all color and geometry in his signature style. Even if it wasn’t his profile I’d know that the hand in the photo, holding the tattoo gun, is Tek’s. I know because I’ve spent too much time these past few days staring at the way his thumb bends, and those damn veins.
Fuck, I wanna lick them—
Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?
I slap my hand to my forehead.
I flip to my own profile. My last post was from a week ago at my farewell party in Bali. My co-workers and I, along with some locals, are all piled into a group shot at a local bar in Kuta, our faces red from the heat and the beer. But when staff come and go through a revolving door, you’re never really friends. It’s always out of sight out of mind until we all slowly unfollow each other.
I switch to Safari and open a new browser. In the FlixBus website I load my details; Seattle to San Diego. If Tek pays me for the last two days I won’t have to dip into my Bali money.
I hover my thumb over the ‘purchase’ button, then let it go.
The phone drops onto my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open, my mind completely clear for a long time.
I roll over and try to go back to sleep, but I’m too on edge in spite of the numbness in my head. So I end up back on my phone, cycling through the same apps. On Instagram, I scroll through stories from the Bali crew. There’s a clip of Kiki and Paolo doing shots on the staff patio. I swipe through and hit on a story from Oliver, a new surf instructor from Australia that arrived a month ago. He’s shirtless in a DJ booth covered in neon paint and sweat.
I wonder if he’s hooked up with anyone else?
He swore up and down that I was the first guy he’s ever kissed. But it only took five more minutes before my dick was in his mouth.
The next story is Lylah’s, from Barcelona. Her long purple hair is whipping around her as she dances on the beach. I hooked up with her, too, in the bathroom of the staff bar. She tasted like spearmint gum and salt; her thighs chafed from running on the beach with the kids’ club all day. The first time I blew a guy was in the same bathroom. He was a bartender from New Zealand, Maori, and way taller than me with a tan line in a low stripe across his hips. The memory’s fuzzy, but I remember he was huge, and so gentle.
I go back to scrolling.
I don’t want to move.
I want something to fill up the empty.
Soon enough I’m back on Tek’s profile like it’s second nature, because it is. I’ve been stalking it like a loser since I was fifteen.
I scroll down past the pinned posts but there’s nothing new. He’s not that active anymore since the shop took off, and I get why.
I pause on a photo of him with Eden, both of them in black t-shirts. Tek is half-smiling, his high cheek bones impossibly perfect. There are close-ups of the tattoos on his calves, and a few shots of him at the gym, shirtless, muscles thick but not bulky.
I double-tap a gym pic without meaning to.
Freak out.
Double-tap again to remove the like.
Then I stare at it.
My thumb goes slack and the screen goes black.
My hand falls to my chest.
