It was a testament to how caught up in Christopher I’d been lately that when I opened my email after he left the morning after the Christmas party and saw a message from an Etta Blake, it took a moment for the name to register. Etta Blake was one of the most high-profile female tattoo artists in the country, and possibly one of the best portrait tattoo artists in the business. She’d been on Big Apple Ink for a season, she was a sought-after special guest for tattoo cons, and she owned a shop in Detroit and one in New Orleans. She was major.

She had also been kind of a hero of mine ever since I’d first seen her work.

I felt a flutter of Omigod, starstruck!, and clicked on the email she’d sent eighteen hours ago.

But my heart fell into my stomach as I read.

Hey, Ginger,

This is a little awkward but I feel like it’s important I reach out to you, artist to artist. I want to say first: I looked at the work of yours Eddie posted and it’s really amazing—you’re super talented and that’s one of the reasons I want to make sure everything’s on the up and up between us.

This summer, Eddie hired the artist who’d been apprenticing with me for eight months, and he repeatedly harassed her at work. Commenting on her appearance, making sexual remarks about her, talking about her to coworkers and clients in ways that undermined her as a professional. I’m sure you know the drill. She called me very upset and unsure of what to do because Eddie (as you know) has the power to open a lot of doors. I told her to quit and to report him, get his behavior on record. SO many women in this biz have experience with this, you know? I was sure that if she’d had a prob with him then others must have too. But she was worried about losing face, etc.

So I confronted Eddie about it and told him if he couldn’t act professionally with women then he shouldn’t have them in his shop. He turned it into drama (kinda his shtick, in case that wasn’t clear), twisting it to make it sound like I didn’t think he should hire women because they aren’t as talented or some garbage.

Full disclosure…I had a relationship with Eddie a few years ago. It did NOT end well and he takes any opportunity to get under my skin. One of his favorite things to do is talk about how all women in the biz jump at any chance to start drama and that it makes us hard to work with. Obviously, “drama” is anything from insisting we be able to go work without being sexually harassed, to calling male artists out for sexist language, to asking for time off to have a baby, to leaving one job for a better one, etc.

Anyway, point: Eddie’s basically an entitled shithead misogynist child who pits women against each other. He’s been subbing me (with the whole #nodrama) every time he’s blasted your stuff.

Really sorry to have to write under these circumstances (especially on Christmas!) but I’d rather talk to you directly than have either of us thinking the other’s the enemy. Again, I really like the work of yours I saw. Next time I’m in Philly I’d love to come by the shop.

xoEBxo

“Oh Christ, what the fuck,” I muttered and pulled my phone out, dread dampening the flutters of delight that accompanied Etta Blake saying she admired my work. I had thrown the phone in my bag when Christopher and I were baking yesterday after I almost dropped it in the cake batter trying to Instagram proof that I was making a cake, and I hadn’t looked at it since. My screen came alive with notifications the second I turned it on.

On Instagram, Eddie Sparks had reposted a tattoo I’d done the other day It was a photorealistic portrait of my friend Baz’s long-haired cat, Sniffles. Around the portrait, I’d done an intricate baroque frame so it looked like Sniffles’ paw was resting on it.

I’d been particularly pleased with it because Sniffles was a white cat and it took a lot of clever work with shading and value to make a tattoo of a mostly white thing look realistic in black ink. Taking a cue from Faron, I’d forgone a liner and used shaders to layer Sniffles’ fur, then used the frame to provide contrast.

Eddie Sparks had reposted it and, as he had with the other two, tagged me. He’d written:

Now THATS legit how to do white amirite?! no shade @Blakette ;) but so glad even when theres pussies involved @TattooBitchPhilly keeps it #NODRAMA!!! #tattoolife #badassbitch #inked #thatpussytho

“What the actual fuck?” @Blakette was Etta Blake, but I wouldn’t have had any clue what the “no shade” was actually in reference to if she hadn’t told me.

I clicked over to Eddie’s Twitter. There were a ton of likes on the tweet, and a lot of heart emojis and praise for the tattoo. But sprinkled throughout were responses that made it clear some people knew Etta’s side of the story too.

@EddieSparksFlame SMH

@EddieSparksFlame starting shit as always

@EddieSparksFlame u shd be ashamed of turning artists into pawns

@EddieSparksFlame you are the dramaiest drama that ever dramaed the drama

@EddieSparksFlame damn son I hope those ladies kick yr ass ps you cant tat for shit

I clicked back over to Instagram to look at Etta Blake’s account, but over the last two weeks all she’d posted were a bunch of shots of her work (excellent as always). And one image of her hand, double knuckle tats that I knew spelled out J-A-Z-Z H-A-N-D partially visible, flipping off the camera, her nail neon green with red stripes. Underneath it said:

I eat drama and shit out Christmas ornaments & glitter. To all a good night. —xoxo #Inknotbombs

“Fuck my life.” I closed my computer and got back into bed.

“What are you—Whoa.”

Christopher stuck his head into the shop window, looking around at the mess. I was wrapped in blue and white velvet ribbon that I was tacking up to form the words Tattoo Bitch, buried in busted tattoo machines that I was forming into a metal tree, and surrounded by Bud Light can angels that I’d made a few years before. I couldn’t really move on account of everything being sharp, delicate, or covered in glitter.

“I’m decorating for fucking Chanukah.” I swiped at glitter on my eyelid, narrowly avoiding knocking over an angel.

“Isn’t Chanukah over…?”

“I’m decorating for mine and Daniel’s Chanukah, okay?”

“Okaaaay,” he said, clearly catching that the vibe was less than festive.

It had only been a few hours since he’d left my bed and since I’d found Etta’s email, but it had been long enough for life to catch back up with me again, and I felt jangled. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed acid and I had the lightheaded, floaty feeling I usually only got after crying really hard or staying up all night. “Okay great, so I’ll see you once it’s over.” I sounded brusque and dismissive and pissed off, and I bit my lip so I didn’t say any more words.

“Hey.” He reached an arm into the melee, through a gauntlet of unspooled velvet ribbon and tattoo needles and glitter, and his hand found my hand and squeezed. “I know meeting Jude and everyone last night was a little intense…but don’t freak on me, okay?”

“Ha, I eat intensity for breakfast,” I muttered, and I had this sudden image of myself, hair wild, covered in glitter, sprawled among busted tattoo machines and beer can angels, making a comment that was actually in response to an Instagram post and an email that only I had read.

Suddenly, I felt deeply impatient. As if life needed to hurry up and move forward so that I was either past this whole Christopher period or it turned into something that didn’t feel so contingent, so delicate that I sensed I could change its course with a single ill-timed word or well-placed caress.

I sighed. It wasn’t his fucking fault my life was in chaos at the moment.

“No, I liked meeting Jude, and everybody. They’re not the problem.”

He knelt down enough to squeeze my neck and I filled him in briefly on the situation with Eddie Sparks and Etta Blake.

“It’s a freaking social media drama, of all the ridiculous things, so it’ll blow over. Just threw me. Anyway, the thing is that I need to finish this window and then I’ve gotta do some painting before Daniel gets here tonight.”

“Yeah. Okay. I get it,” he said. He was being a good sport, but I could tell he was disappointed. I could practically see the thought bubble over his head: Damn, I thought we bonded over meeting my family, and now you’re blowing me off for glitter and your BFF.

I couldn’t quite meet his eyes when he kissed my hand, which was the only part of me his mouth could reach. He walked away with glitter on his lips.

Daniel had only been in town for twenty-four hours but it already felt like he’d never left. When he got in last night we’d blown through the basic necessities: his job was good, the shop was doing well, I liked Rex, he liked Christopher, gosh don’t we have such good taste in dates for once in our miserable lives; Chinese food, Christmas music, ice cream; Daniel’s annual Chanukah tattoo.

But now we were getting into it. It was the rule of hanging out when you didn’t see someone as often as we’d used to: first you ran through the good and fun until you reacclimated, and then you could get into the shit.

We were sitting on the couch with the bottle of bourbon Christopher had brought over the day of Daniel’s dad’s funeral and a fresh round of takeout from Golden Empress between us. I couldn’t believe it had only been a few weeks since he’d been here.

A text came through from Christopher: I’m spending tonight at my parents, fyi.

Mkay, I wrote. Everything ok?

The dots that meant Christopher was writing pulsed long enough that I expected a long message. Christopher’s overly detailed text messages charmed me. But when it came through, all it said was, Jude’s not doing great. I’m gonna check on him.

Aw, no, I hope he’s ok <3, I wrote. I could almost feel his anxiety in the brevity of the message.

“Christopher?”

“Yeah. I met his brother. Jude. He’s been in a hospital for a while and he just went back to living with Christopher’s parents. I think he tried to kill himself. Christopher didn’t say that explicitly, just kind of implied it, but Jude basically said it.”

Daniel and I looked at each other and I cleared my throat.

“Kay, I’m putting on Nightmare Before Christmas again,” I said, opening my laptop, and Daniel groaned.

“Okay, but we can’t watch the Sally scenes. That professor is too much of a creep and he looks like my eighth grade math teacher.” Daniel shuddered.

“Just the beginning and then I’ll fast forward to Oogie Boogie. His voice is my sexual orientation.”

“Did you ever notice,” Daniel mused, holding up his chopsticks as Jack Skellington opened the portal to Christmas Town, “that a huge percentage of Chinese restaurants are called either Golden Empress or Golden Express, and those are only one letter different, and maybe it’s because they’re just changing hands all the time so all the new owners have to do is swap an m for an x and it’s a whole new name?”

“Omigosh, it’s so true—what’s up, black market neon letter m and x ring running the shitty Americanized Chinese restaurants in Philly.”

“Do you think they all started out as Golden Empresses and then the Expresses just made them sound faster?”

“Must’ve been, because what the hell does Golden Express mean? Like, we will quickly give you food fried to a vaguely golden color?”

Daniel nodded seriously, contemplating a piece of chicken that did look deliciously golden. “I know that what I’m eating is disgusting, but it’s so good. I’ll probably die later tonight though. I’ve lost my tolerance because everything Rex cooks is healthy.”

A softness played in the corners of his mouth whenever he mentioned Rex.

I pulled the container of pork fried rice to me. “I always want there to be pineapple in this but there never is.”

“Do you have any canned?”

I shot him a look that said of course I didn’t have canned pineapple; I didn’t even have bread. “You love him, huh?”

Daniel bit his lip and traced patterns into the nap of the velvet couch. He nodded, so small it was barely perceptible. “Yeah. I…I told him I loved him. It was the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

He looked up at me suddenly and his green eyes were brimming with this vulnerable kind of happiness I’d never seen in them before.

“I’d only ever said that to you before. I mean—my mom, when I was little, I guess, but.” He shook his head. “When you first said it to me…even though I knew you meant it in a friend-y sort of way…I don’t know, it made me feel…connected. Like, responsible to you or something. Like if you cared about me that much then I had to live up to it. But in a nice way. It made me feel accountable.”

He poured us each another drink.

“With Rex, though, when he said it, I felt…vertiginous. Like some earth-deep shift had swallowed me and I didn’t know what things looked like on the other side. I—I know that sounds super melodramatic, but…I kind of, like, threw myself over the side, trusting that he’d catch me. Oh, Christ, I sound like such a fucking dip, don’t I?”

I shook my head and squeezed his arm. “Christopher wants to help Jude. Wants to make it better. I just… He’s hot and funny and kind and interesting. He likes people. He could have anyone. So with everything he’s been through with Jude, why the fuck would he want to deal with someone who isn’t even sure she wants to have a relationship?” I mentally corrected myself. Someone who wants to have a relationship but isn’t sure she’s willing or able to act the way she’d need to in order to have one. “How long before he decides it’d just be easier with someone…”

“Someone easier?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m no expert,” he said, “but I don’t think it really works that way.”

I shrugged miserably. “I don’t know how this shit works.”

We both sighed and swapped containers of food, each of us slumped against an arm of the couch.

“Thing is, I think I might really be falling for him,” I muttered with my mouth full, like the Szechuan beef with green beans could absorb half the blame.

“Fuck,” Daniel said.

I couldn’t have agreed more.

The next night, Daniel had gone to see his brother Colin, with the admonition that when he got back we were going out for a drink. We got to Tattooed Mom, and before I even spotted Turner, Liam let out an excited cry and launched himself at a surprised Daniel. After a round of hugs and hellos we settled in our favorite booth, which was recessed into the wall, had a cushioned bench, and was always littered with Tattooed Mom’s ever-present cheap plastic rings, temporary tattoos, and squashy rubber balls with spikes that glowed in the dark.

We stripped our coats off and paused when we realized that we were both wearing black jeans with the knees blown out, black combat boots, and hoodies—Daniel’s black, mine red. I snorted and he smiled.

“Okay, we have to get the tots, yes?” I said.

“I’m game. I ate at Colin’s but I think the excess stomach acid produced by being around my family consumed the food before I got any of it. So I could eat again.”

I gave Daniel a look of solidarity. “I kinda feel like we should just go for it and get all the tots? Oh wait, there’s a monthly special though. Hey, Turner?” I yelled.

She came over to our booth, hand resting on her belly. The last time I’d asked when she was going to stop working and expressed concern that she might possibly keel over from sheer weight imbalance, or possibly give birth on the floor of the bar, she’d shot a glare so withering that I’d warned Daniel not to say anything about her extreme pregnancy at all.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the special tot?”

“Yeah, no, don’t get them.”

“Kay, thanks. So, we’ll do the cheesy tots, poutine tots, and barbeque tots. Then, you want falafel?”

“Sure.”

“Kay and falafel.”

“Usual drinks?”

Daniel and I both nodded. Daniel started playing with some kind of plastic creature that was possibly supposed to be Christmas-associated, and I grabbed the red and green crayons and flipped over the word search to doodle.

Daniel filled me in on things with his brother, and I told him about the weirdness of Eddie Sparks and his trying to mess with Etta Blake via me.

“I’m no expert on the vagaries of social media stuff,” I told him. “But it does have huge reach, and since the tattooing community is everywhere, it makes sense to do something on social media since it’s not location-specific. Basically, I want to make the point that a big part of sexism in the industry—and most industries—is this idea that they rightfully belong to men, so there’s only a limited amount of space that women have access to. And that leads to this sense that we have to compete with each other in order to get the few spots that are set aside for us. But of course, it isn’t actually that way—that’s just the way they want it to feel.”

“Yeah,” Daniel said, “it’s the same in academia. Like, you can only have so many people studying anything that isn’t, you know, Very Serious Classic Literature—read: dead straight white dudes from Europe. So, that always has to be seventy-five percent of things, and then the rest of us are left to fight for the other twenty-five percent of the pie. When, duh, there is no pie…wait, do they have pie here? No, sorry. Why do I always think they have dessert?”

“Cuz they totally should. Hey, Turner,” I said as she brought our drinks. “Why don’t y’all have dessert here?”

“We used to. They brought in some baked something-or-other from someplace nearby. Didn’t sell, maybe? I don’t know.”

“Ooh, could you make us dessert-y drinks later, then?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “I can make you a drink that tastes like cake. Just remind me.”

“I gotta get a pickletini first, though,” said Daniel. “After this.” He gestured at his whiskey.

“Just holler at me,” Turner said, going back to the bar as the waiter arrived and tried to balance our three baskets of tater tots and multiple condiments on the small table that was already full of drinks and trinkets.

We downed our drinks as we dug into the tots, and I was overcome by the deep peace that was having Daniel back in our familiar hangout, eating familiar food, surrounded by the familiarly tatty cushions.

Turner brought us a pickletini to share, since she knew neither of us could quite finish one, along with our next round. As Daniel made a sour face, followed immediately by a satisfied face at the first sip of pickletini, our falafel came.

“So, I obviously don’t know,” he said, cutting a look at me, “but isn’t this a moment when normal people would, like, invite their boyfriends to come hang out?”

“Oh, shit. I think that is what normal people would do. It’s totally what I would tell you to do. Hmmm. Should I?”

Daniel shrugged, then nodded, and I texted Christopher an invitation to meet us. I didn’t hear my phone chime in the noise of the bar, but Christopher appeared at our booth about a half hour later.

The second I saw him I wasn’t sure why I’d wanted so desperately to keep these two worlds separate, because he was so gorgeous and I was nuts about him, and of course I wanted to hang out with him, and to let Daniel see how cool he was.

“Hi!” I said, and stood up to throw my arms around his neck. Daniel caught the table when my hip knocked it, so our drinks didn’t spill. Christopher was cold from outside, his hair was slightly damp, and he smelled as good as always. “You came!” I grinned at him and pulled him into the booth. “You remember Daniel.”

“Hey, man,” Daniel said and they shook hands. Christopher gave him a warm smile and Daniel looked down, clearly pleased. I knew he’d been self-conscious that he and Christopher had met at a moment when he was so emotional about his dad.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he said. “I kinda feel like I’ve been asked to join the Masons or something.”

Daniel nodded. “Yes, the induction ceremony is painful but over quickly.”

Christopher’s deep laugh echoed in the booth. “What are you drinking?”

Daniel and I exchanged a look, then I pushed the second pickletini Turner had dropped off over to Christopher. He took a big sip, and practically sprayed it all over the booth.

“Oh my dear lord,” he choked out. Then he paused, cocked his head, and said, “Actually, that’s kinda good,” and took another sip.

“Right?!” Daniel and I said together.

Christopher nodded with pursed lips. “Picked things,” he said. “Good for your gut bacteria.” He patted his stomach and my eyes lingered on the flat plane under his blue wool sweater. It had moth holes in it and I could see the gray waffle-knit undershirt beneath it. Christopher caught me staring and winked at me, his eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the booth.

“Your what now?” Daniel said skeptically, but Turner came over and interrupted any forthcoming explanation.

“Hi,” she said, giving me an expectant look.

I rolled my eyes. “Turner, this is Christopher. Christopher, this is Turner, who knows exactly who you are and just wants to get a good look at you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, and happy to be looked at in this context,” Christopher said, shaking Turner’s hand.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I think I’ll have one of these pickled things,” he said. Turner grinned, and I felt a jolt of pure, giddy happiness shoot through me.

“One pickletini, coming up. How about you guys?” she said to Daniel and me. “Is it dessert drink time?”

“Mm, I think I need a grilled cheese first,” I said.

Daniel smiled at me. “You’re drunk.”

“Whatever, I’m an adult and this is America and I want a fucking grilled cheese, do you have a problem with that?”

Daniel smiled even bigger, and I could see the words without him having to say it. I’ve missed you.

“One grilled cheese, you got it.”

“Kay, but can you have them do the thing I like?”

“Yes,” said Turner, indulgently.

“Thank you!”

“What’s the thing you like?” Christopher asked.

“They squeeze ketchup and hot sauce in between the cheeses so it gets all melty. Cuz, you know, you wanna dip your grilled cheese in ketchup and hot sauce, but you don’t want it to be all cold and the sandwich is all drippy hot and delicious, ya know?”

Daniel nodded like this was a given, and I could see Christopher’s sandwich-making brain taking in this information noncommittally.

When my grilled cheese came, toasted to melty perfection, with a swirl of hot sauce and ketchup running through the cheese that oozed when I bit into it, Christopher’s eyes got big.

“Can I try?”

I handed him the sandwich and as he chewed he looked like a delighted kid.

“You’re a genius,” he murmured.

“It’s true,” I said. He pushed his sleeves up and I blamed his firmly muscled forearms for distracting me from him taking another bite of my sandwich. “Oh my god, biggest bite ever! Give it back and get your own.”

“Come on, share,” Christopher wheedled, squeezing my knee under the table.

“Turner!” I yelled. She stuck her head in. “Do you see what he’s doing?”

“He’s…wow, he’s eating your sandwich. You’ve got chutzpah, dude, I’ll give you that.”

“Obviously I need another one,” I said and Turner nodded.

“Obviously.”

“And make sure this one is even better than the last one,” I muttered spitefully.

“Naturally.”

I narrowed my eyes at Christopher. “Tell me exactly what culinary masterpiece that sandwich is being sacrificed to.”

“Okay, so this might be madness, but I’m thinking ketchup and mustard soft pretzels. You know how there are chocolate croissants, or cherry danish? This would be that concept, only with pretzels.”

“I love soft pretzels,” said Daniel.

“Me too,” I said.

Christopher was thoughtful. “I don’t know if it would work, because I’d have to make sure they didn’t split open when I boiled them, but I know it can be done with cheese, so…”

“Wait, you boil pretzels?” Daniel asked. “I knew there was stuff you were supposed to boil…” he muttered to himself.

“Yeah, you boil them in a bath of food-grade lye. Or you can do a baking soda wash. Then you bake them. But the boiling is what gets a good crust on them. Like bagels.”

“You boil bagels too!?” he asked. He pulled out his phone and started texting furiously.

A waiter I didn’t recognize slid my sandwich in front of me and, looking at the ticket, said in a monotone, “I’m supposed to tell you, from John, that this is the best grilled cheese sandwich ever to be prepared on the premises, and everyone else should be jealous of it but only you can eat it.” She shrugged and walked away.

“Wow, they really like you here, huh?” Christopher said. His smile was warm, and his hand found my thigh again under the table. I put my leg up on his knee and leaned back in the booth, and he slid his hand inside the ripped knee of my jeans.

“They love me,” I said gleefully, and I watched Christopher’s smile go soft and personal, like maybe he could understand why.