“Ugh,” I groan. I roll over onto my stomach, pulling the pillow over my head. Hoping to get just a few more minutes of sleep. I feel like death. I’m pretty sure I look like it, too.

I glance at the wall trying to figure out what time it is when something catches my eye. My upper arm is wrapped in cellophane. I vaguely remember going to a tattoo shop, and a blonde chick that had me sitting in a chair getting ready to push ink into my skin.

The pounding in my head is excruciating. One day I’ll remember not to drink that much when I’m out with the guys. Today is obviously not that day. Reaching toward my nightstand, I fumble around the surface trying to find the bottle of Tylenol I used to keep there when I was in high school.

Then it hits me. I’m probably not going to find it. I’m sure Mom has moved all the little things around even though my room looks the same as it did last year. I am surprised, however, to find a shiny business card for a tattoo shop. Sitting up I examine the card.

Charleigh is written across the card in a swirly, cursive font. That’s her name. Pieces are finally starting to fall into place. I remember Dylan suggesting tattoos, and Marshall wanting to talk us out of it. In the end we ended up at Life in Ink.

I’m pretty sure I was trying to flirt with Charleigh last night, but she wasn’t a fan. The total look of disgust on her face when I told her to surprise me with the tattoo is etched in my memory. I don’t know why she got so pissed. I gave her freedom to do whatever she wanted.

I look at my arm, eyeing the bandage warily. I’m not sure I want to see what she surprised me with, but there’s no use putting it off. I did give her permission.

Unwrapping the cellophane, I envision the amazing tattoo I’ll have. I took a peek at what she was sketching on the other side of that counter. She’s amazing. I can’t wait to see what she decided to give me.

The wrapping comes off easily and I blink a few times, not sure if what I’m seeing is actually there. No, she can’t have put that on me. This has to be some sort of joke. I lick my finger and rub it over the ink now marring my skin.

Placing my feet on the floor, I stand up and walk to the bathroom that’s connected to my room. I turn so that my arm is in the reflection in the mirror. I practically climb on the sink just to get a closer look. I’m never going to wear a sleeveless shirt again.

The tattoo isn’t big, but it’s enough that I didn’t need to get quite so close to the mirror. Staring back at me is Patrick from SpongeBob, eating a fucking pretzel. What is the point of the damn pretzel?

Stomping back to my nightstand, I grab the business card. The force curling the edges slightly. Where the hell is my phone? This girl is about to hear an earful.

I finally find it between my bed and nightstand when I hear a knock on the door. Grabbing the shirt I wore last night, I throw it over my head just in time for my bedroom door to open and my mother to walk in.

Most people would think the fact that she just walks into my room is weird, and it is, but she’s been controlling for as long as I can remember. We don’t have locks on our doors. Well, except for their room. They are the only ones allowed to have privacy.

In Mom’s eyes, she should have access to everything I’m doing so that she can make sure I’m not getting into trouble. And, to make sure I’m not doing anything that will make her and Dad look like incompetent parents.

It was one of the reasons I liked hanging out at Tonya’s house. Her parents are laid back and have a level of trust in her that I’ve never received from anyone.

“Why in the world are you just now getting out of bed, Jake,” my mother practically shrieks.

“I was hanging out with the guys last night. We stayed out later than I thought.” I have the good sense to look as innocent as possible without showing any hints of my hangover. That’s something I’ve perfected over the years.

“Well,” she huffs. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. Does she think I'm twelve? “I won’t, Mom.”

I think she’s done speaking so I turn to my bed to make it. Now that she knows I’m awake, there’s no use trying to go back to sleep.

“We need you at dinner this evening.” Her voice breaks the silence. “We are going to discuss how you’re going to handle this whole Tonya debacle since you’ll be home the entire summer.”

The way she says handle makes it sound like I have no say in the matter. That whatever they’ve decided is what I’m going to do. I clench my fists and nod my head. I’ll hear them out, but they are insane if they think they are going to dictate this area of my life. Especially when I’m not sure how I’m actually going to handle it all.

* * *

Marshall is sitting in a gaming chair. His room is an absolute mess, but at least it looks lived in. Our house is always immaculate. It looks staged for a photo shoot most of the time. Not as bad as Cami’s house, the few times Tonya and I hung out there. But…close.

Randall and Dylan will be here soon, so if I want to talk to Marshall without feeling embarrassed, I better do it now.

“Hey man,” I question. I mean for it to come out as a statement, but that isn’t what happens.

Pressing pause on the football game he’s playing, he turns the chair toward me. “I have a feeling you need to get something off your chest.”

“You’d be right,” I laugh.

“Shoot.”

I rake my fingers through my hair. “My parents want me home for dinner to talk.”

“That’s normal, Dude. They are always in your business.” He leans the chair back almost falling backward.

I nod because he’s right. They are firm believers in always wanting to know what I’m doing. “They want to talk about Tonya and Layla. And, how to handle the situation.” I wince internally. I hate the way Mom phrased it this morning.

Marshall’s eyebrows rise. “What do they mean handle it? There’s not really anything they can do.”

He gives me a point stare, silently telling me there is something I can do, and that I need to talk to her. I want to explain. I want to tell him that I can’t. If he saw how happy she was with Reaf over Spring Break, he’d never want to pop that bubble of happiness surrounding her. I didn’t exactly make things easy for her when she was pregnant. If I’m being honest, I was a total douchebag. The fact that she gave me time to come to terms with having a daughter still baffles me.

Before I can say anything else, I hear hollering coming from the hallway. A few seconds later Randall and Dylan are barging through the doorway.

“What’s up assholes?” Randall yells, slapping his hands on the wall.

There are days when I wonder why I’m friends with him. He’s annoying on the best of days and fucking ridiculous on the worst.

“Not much,” I lean against the headboard on Marshall’s bed. I don’t have the patience to deal with these fools today, but I’m also eager to see their new tattoos without the wraps. The question is who is going to bring it up first. I don’t have to wait long for the answer.

“I want to see everyone’s tats,” Dylan says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Everyone else pulls their shirts off while I lift up my sleeve. The second they see mine, laughter fills the room.

“Why the hell did you get it on your arm?” Randall asks. “You realize it’s going to be hard to cover that up during football season, right?”

I shrug. I don’t know why I didn’t have the artist put it in a different place, but I guess this was a part of her surprise. Ugh, I guess I’ll be wearing t-shirts instead of tank tops under my uniform.

“Is that Patrick?” Dylan chuckles. “What is the point of him eating a pretzel?”

“Yeah, Man,” Randall interjects. “Pretzels are the miracle whip of chips. Nobody likes them.”

Marshall is still sitting in his gaming chair, though he’s paused the game, shaking his head. I happen to know for a fact that he loves pretzels. His mom keeps the pantry stocked at all times when he’s home.

I glance at my friends, trying to see if the tattoos they got match their personalities. Randall has some sort of tribal sun on his chest with thick lines. It’s a stark contrast to his skin. He’s not super pale, but he’s not exactly tan either.

Dylan has a Celtic symbol on his back that looks almost exactly like the symbol that Breaking Benjamin uses on their merchandise. It’s pretty awesome and makes perfect sense. He’s liked that band for as long as I can remember.

Marshall also has a tattoo on his chest. It’s a compass. The design is simple, with a little bit of shading and the arrow pointing North. I wondered what he was going to get since he wasn’t too keen on the idea of us getting tattoos, but this tattoo fits him perfectly. He’s the steady one in our group. I don’t think he realizes how much he equalizes all of us. Or, how much trouble he’s probably kept us out of.

“I’m thinking I probably should have told my artist what I wanted,” I sigh. “I was trying to flirt with her, but she’s a feisty one.”

“At least you didn’t get stuck with the girl who had perpetual resting bitch face,” Randall fires back.

Marshall blushes. That was the artist he had. I wonder what the reddening of his cheeks means, and before I have a chance to ask Dylan speaks up.

“Let’s go out to the lake and hang out for a while.”

Groaning, I get off the bed in search of my shoes. “I wish I could, but my parents are expecting me home for dinner.”

“Can’t you do it some other time?” Dylan asks.

A quick look at Marshall shaking his head means I need to get home and deal with whatever my parents are going to throw at me. “Afraid not.”

I wave as I back out the door, “See y’all later. Let me know what the plan is for tomorrow.”

I jog down the driveway and get in my car. I’m not ready for this dinner at all. I’m not even sure what I’m going to tell them if they question what I’m going to do about Layla.