Page 93

RUBY

By the middle of the month, I’m booking appointments far enough out that Nell has started making noises about staying open on Mondays.

I tell her not to get greedy.

She tells me she likes being able to pay her rent, and it’s hard to argue with that.

The strange part is how quickly the change happened. A few of the people who came to me during my first months at Black Fern have already come back for second pieces, and two clients drove up from the Bay Area specifically because they wanted me to do the work. Word has started spreading beyond the shop too. People bring in screenshots of tattoos I posted weeks ago and ask if I can do something with the same feeling without copying it.

I like the fact that they’re coming in because they want my work, not because I happen to be the artist with an opening.

By Friday afternoon, I finish a floral shoulder piece on a woman who drove over from Redding and spend another twenty minutes taking photos after we’re done because the tattoo came out even better than I expected. When I walk her toward the front, another client waiting near the desk looks up.

“You’re Ruby, right?”

I glance at Nell, who’s pretending very hard not to smile.

“Yeah.”

“My friend got the moth and wildflowers you did last month. I’ve been stalking your page ever since.”

I laugh. “Hopefully in a normal way.”

“Mostly.”

She pulls out her phone and starts showing me reference photos.

By the time I leave the shop, I’ve added another consultation to the schedule.

I should be tired.

Instead, I’m buzzing a little.

I stop at Sloane’s bookstore on the way home because she texted earlier that she had a stack of used art books she thought I might want to look through. The bell over the door rings when I walk in, and she glances up from behind the counter.

“There she is.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Sloane smiles. “It isn’t. Somebody asked me about you today. She saw one of your tattoos on a customer and wanted to know who did it, so I gave her Black Fern’s number.”

I stare at her for a second. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. She loved the work.”

A small rush of satisfaction catches me off guard. “Okay. That’s actually pretty nice to hear.”

“Figured you might think so.” She points toward a box near the register. “Your books are in there.”

I start flipping through them while she helps a customer, and for a while I lose myself in photographs of old botanical illustrations, printmaking, and a book on coastal landscapes that’s probably coming home with me whether I need it or not.

That’s become normal too.

San Francisco still feels familiar when I go back, but Redwood Point is starting to feel like home in a way I didn’t expect this quickly. I know the streets, the people, the places I stop after work, and the small routines that make up my days. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like the town I moved to and started feeling like mine.

By the time I get home, Zander’s truck is already in the driveway.

I know before I even get inside that he’s probably been home for at least an hour because I can hear guitar through the wall, low enough that it barely carries.