I assumed, if he returned, that he’d come flying back in in a dust cloud of chaos—loud and demanding—and ready for another round offuck you.But now I realize that’s just my own prejudices. I’m projecting mine and his brother’s behaviors onto him.
He might challenge me and call me out, but he’s never been an asshole.
By the time my first client is due to arrive, the shop looks better than it has in weeks. Carey is at the desk, scrolling through the remainder of Eden’s appointments he needs to reschedule, and when I move nearer, he picks up the phone and starts dialing. I think about saying something, maybe just a simple'thanks,' but the shop door opens and my mouth stays shut.
The rest of the day is a blur of the mundane.
People come and go.
I put a butterfly on a girl’s ankle.
I explain after care for the one-hundred-thousandth time.
Carey takes a call about a deposit, his voice calm and bright.
Every time I walk past the counter I feel the mismatched eyes of my sketch staring at me from inside the drawer.
At lunch he disappears.
We don’t talk the entire day. Not once.
If I need something, he’s there with it before I could ask anyway. It’s nice, but also, it’s miserable.
I like his banter. I miss the push and pull.
Two hours into a five hour session, I look up to see Carey standing at the end of the tattoo table by my client’s feet, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Tapping my phone screen with my elbow, I see it’s five-past-five p.m.
“You can go,” I say, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of sand.
'Cheers,'or 'See ya tomorrow,'might have been a nice way for him to leave things, but I shouldn’t complain. He showed up, did his job, and left without incident. As a boss, I shouldn’t expect anything more.
At the back door, he slides out of his slippers and back into his Vans, and seeing them remain after he leaves fills me with a really fucking weird kind of happiness.
The click of the lock on the shop's front door has got to be one of the most satisfying sounds in existence. Especially when you know you don’t have to work again for the next five days.
Ah the joys of being a business owner.
Set your own hours.
Open when you like.
Though I might recommendnotgoing into partnership with your best friend. Specifically one with a penchant for avoiding his problems and an inability to handle his emotions.
With a sigh, I let out what feels like years worth of tension and turn to the reception desk where Carey is standing. His eyes are avoiding me but he's wearing an expression that screams of a hundred different questions he wants to ask.
We didn’t talk again today. Not about yesterday, or last Saturday night. Not about anything.
He was waiting in the lot when I arrived this morning, leaning against the roller door, scrolling through his phone. He didn’tlook up, just started humming as I let us both in. But I could smell the ocean on him when he moved to stand behind me.
He did his work like a damn angel in disguise, always knowing exactly what I needed without ever asking. It’s everything I could have dreamed of from an assistant… Except for the silence.
The artificial warmth, the indie rock then nineties punk playlists, the client that was so nervous he didn’t shut up meant the shop was full all day. But apart from his humming, Carey didn’t make a contribution to it. Not a stupid joke, or one of his questions where he already knows the answer before asking it. And that's so, so much worse.
With my eyes on him, I walk towards the desk, and when I’m half-way there, he finally looks at me. Taking one more step, I pause, and give him a chance to speak first without music and nonsense conversation cluttering the space around us.
Ten seconds goes by without a word before I grunt, “Thanks for coming back. You can go now,” and march to the break room.
