14.
Chloe
At breakfast that morning, my father drank his coffee and cleared his throat several times before asking me what sort of person I hoped to come across as.
“Huh?” I said. My brain still felt clouded with sleep and it seemed way too early to have this sort of conversation. Plus, it had turned incredibly humid overnight and everything had a heavy, sticky feel to it. The sort of weather you just wanted to sleep right through.
He put his coffee mug down. “There is something to be said for not caring what people think about you. Or caring too much, rather. But I’d like you to tell me how it is you hope to come across to people. Do you want people to take you seriously? Do you want to be a respectable person?” He looked pointedly at my tattoo. “The choices you make now are going to have ramifications later in life. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Dad.”
“And you might decide that you don’t want to be this artist, free-spirit person. You might realize that you’d actually like to have a career, and I would hate to see you do anything to jeopardize that.”
“I’m not trying to jeopardize anything,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear that. Though I’d have to say, your actions are suggesting otherwise.”
He gave me a stern look. In the past, such a look would have made me start to quake in my boots a little, but now it just made me angry. “You and Mom are acting like I’ve done something awful!” I said, my voice rising with each word. Part of me felt as shocked as my father looked; I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d talked back to my parents. But now that I had started, I didn’t want to stop. “I got one tattoo. A tiny tattoo. That I can easily hide. So if I were to go get that job in finance that you so clearly want me to have, all I’d need to do is wear long sleeves. Problem solved. Except I’m not getting a job in finance.”
My father took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He looked at me much in the same way I imagined he looked at the underlings who worked in his office when they’d done something they shouldn’t have.
“What’s going on with you, Chloe?” he said. “Your mother and I both can’t help but feel as though you’re treating us with an attitude that’s ... not like you.”
“I’m not trying to give you an attitude.”
“We’d beg to differ. You may not be trying, but that’s certainly how you’re coming across.”
His disapproval of this so-called attitude I was giving was apparent. That old, childhood fear that I was doing something wrong started to overtake the anger I felt.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I’m really not trying to give either of you any attitude. And of course I want to make a good impression on people.” I looked down at my forearm, at the delicately drawn flower. If I saw someone with a tattoo like that, my first reaction would probably be to tell them I liked it, not run away screaming.
“Obviously, you can’t take the tattoo back,” he said. “You’ve got it and it’s here to stay. But I’d suggest you think long and hard before you get anything else. It’s going to be there forever. You don’t know how you’re going to feel about something ten years from now, fifteen years from now—you get what I’m saying. Just because you like something today doesn’t mean you’re going to feel that way always.”
“That is true.” I hoped that by agreeing with this last sentiment of his, the conversation would be over.
And thankfully, it was. My father finished his coffee and then left to go meet up with his friends for their daily round of golf, followed by lunch and drinks at the clubhouse. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips at me as he walked out, to which I could just offer a wan smile. Once I heard his car start and pull away, I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at my phone to see if I had any new notifications. A few emails I’d check later. A new message from Tara. No new messages from Graham.
Which I thought was kind of weird, because I’d texted him twice, on Tuesday evening, and now it was Thursday morning. Not that I wanted to be one of those insecure people that freaked out if someone didn’t respond to a text within the first five minutes, but ... it seemed a little odd. Should I text him again? I didn’t want to be annoying.
But I was starting to annoy myself because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I picked up my phone and scrolled back through our messages. I started to type a new one out to him, but then stopped. I’d sent two messages now with no reply—was it completely pathetic to send a third?
I thought about calling Tara and asking her what she’d do, but I already knew exactly what she’d say: she’d either text him again, or, better yet, go down to the tattoo shop and talk to him in person. So, I decided that’s exactly what I would do.
*****
The problem with impulsiveness is not thinking through to the next step. I knew if I started to think about going down to see Graham, and what I would say, I would probably end up chickening out, so I didn’t allow myself to consider any of that, not even for a second. As I drove down to the shop, I blasted my angriest playlist (mostly pop-punk songs by bands that one of my friends freshman year of art school got me into) and sang as loudly as I could. When I didn’t know the lyrics, I just kept going with nonsense words.
I managed to find a parking spot right out in front of the shop, and I parallel parked perfectly, which I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of. Maybe Graham had happened to glance out the big plate glass window when I was doing so and saw me do it, though he seemed like the sort of person who probably didn’t give a second thought about parallel parking.
I walked right into the shop. A woman was behind the counter.
“Oh,” I said. She looked up from the book she was reading and smiled at me.
“Hey,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I was looking for ... is
Graham here?”
“He just stepped out to get coffee—oh, here he is.” I turned right as I heard
the door open, and there was Graham, pushing the door open with his shoulder,
two cups of coffee in hand.
“Chloe,” he said. “Hey.” He walked past me and handed one of the cups to the woman and then set his down on the counter.
“Hey,” I said. He turned
to face me but he didn’t say anything. This was when I realized that perhaps
coming down here without a clue as to what I was going to say maybe wasn’t the
best idea. “I’ve been texting you,” I said after a few seconds of uncomfortable
silence had passed. “And I hadn’t heard anything back.”
“You know, I forgot I have a couple quick errands I need to run,” the woman
said. She slid out from behind the counter. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
And then it was just Graham and me, standing there. He still didn’t say anything.
“I was just wondering why you hadn’t gotten back to me,” I said. “I didn’t want to keep texting you, though, so I thought I’d just stop by.”
His brow furrowed, and he stood there as though very deep in thought, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should tell me something. Was he debating whether or not to tell me that it was totally insecure of me to be freaking out just because he hadn’t texted back? I didn’t want to come across like that; I really didn’t.
“Look,” I said, when he still didn’t say anything. “If it’s that you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine—you can just tell me. That would be better than you just not returning my texts and hoping I’d get the message. Because I can be a little dense sometimes. Obviously.”
The expression on his face softened. He walked closer to me and put a hand on my upper forearm, gave it a squeeze, which seemed far more a friendly gesture than a romantic one. “You’re not dense. And of course I want to hang out,” he said. “I’ve just been pretty busy. I was meaning to get back to you. I’m not one of those people that has their phone attached to him all the time. So I don’t always see when texts get sent right away, and then sometimes something will come through and I’ll read it but not get back right away and then just ... forget.”
“It’s okay,” I said, feeling bad now that he felt like he had to explain himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it. I shouldn’t have just run down here like this.”
“Sure, you should have,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad to see you. I’d love to bail on work today and come hang out, but we’re booked through the early evening and I can’t leave it all up to Helena.”
He’d let go of me, but was still standing awfully close. The air seemed charged around us, but maybe I was just imagining that? We were close enough to kiss.
I was never good at figuring out whether or not a kiss was going to happen. My first “boyfriend,” in fact, I’d never actually kissed because neither of us had been able to work up the courage to initiate it. For me, it was because I kept thinking about what was going to happen after the kiss, like, what would I say? Or was I just supposed to look lovingly into his eyes? I also couldn’t stop thinking about how it was kind of strange to see someone’s face that close, and I worried about how mine would look. All these worries culminated in that first boyfriend and I never actually kissing, so I didn’t even count him as my first boyfriend.
I was suddenly inundated with these same concerns as I stood there looking at Graham. He didn’t make a move further toward me, so I hesitated. He seemed like the exact opposite of the sort of person who would be plagued with the insecurities I was currently feeling, so if he wasn’t kissing me, it must be because he didn’t want to. He liked me as a friend, but nothing more. If I tried to kiss him, it would just end up totally awkward. Worse: he would pull away.
So we both just stood there, closer than you’d think two people who were merely friends would stand, but neither of us making any move for a kiss. Maybe he didn’t want to because we were at his work and a customer could come in at any time? Or his co-worker could come back?
“Well, okay,” I finally said, when I couldn’t bear the awkwardness anymore. Was he bothered at all by that? Did he sense it or was I just completely imagining everything? I felt beyond confused, and at this point, it just seemed better if I got out of there. “I guess I better get going. Sorry again for just coming down here like that.”
“No need to apologize; I was happy to see you.” He gave me a smile but made no move to do anything else. “Take care, Chloe. I’ll see you around.”
I was glad that I had gone down there to talk to him about it, yet there was still a part of me that felt he had something he’d wanted to say but had decided to keep to himself.