I pull my hand back, afraid to answer. But Nathan does that for me. “We should ask my brother for a discount and both of us get her name inked somewhere.”
He doesn’t know.
For a few seconds, I’m flooded with such a mix of relief and disappointment that I can’t tell what feeling takes precedence. When the emotional waters subside, it’s about equal. Starting the car, I nod.
“That would be nice. But wouldn’t future girlfriends mind you having someone else’s name stamped on your arm or whatever?”
“Liv will always be etched on me,” he says. “The ink would just make it visible.”
That’s unexpectedly sweet. And permanent. I don’t know what the future held for us before the accident, but things have taken a sharp left now. Now it can’t happen, even if I’m the same person inside.
It hurts to reply, “We’ll talk about it later.”
The way I’m feeling, I’d agree to nearly anything. Dinner at my old house has pared me down to the bone. It’s weird, though, because what I want most is to drop Nathan off so I can take a break from the grief and guilt associated with him. Not that long ago, the only solace I could imagine would be in his arms. Yet when I pull up in front of his house, I don’t stop him from hopping out. When I drive away, I don’t look back in the rearview mirror, either.
Now I’m faced with a different choice, only it’s not a hard decision. Without much reflection I head for India Ink, which is in the small strip mall out toward the highway. At this hour, only the sandwich shop and the tattoo place are open. The dry cleaner and the discount shoe store both closed at six, and it’s almost eight. After locking the car, I head into the shop, where Clay is manning the counter.
He glances up when the bell jingles, and his expression brightens when he spots me. “I’m glad you came by.”
“You’re a receptionist now?” I tease.
“I wish. It’s a slow night, so she cut out early. I’m just watching the front for half an hour while Blue finishes up on a client in back.”
The inside is different than I expected. I guess I had a middle-class bias because I was anticipating dark, punk, and possibly seedy. India Ink is bright and modern instead, very clean, with red vinyl chairs in the waiting area and pristine black-and-white tile like a purposefully retro diner. Light fixtures overhead are conical chrome, and the back wall is adorned with designs I presume must be available for tattoos.
“This is cool,” I say, leaning my elbows on the counter.
He meets me halfway for a kiss, though I wasn’t angling for that. At his touch, the emotional turmoil left from wading in the wreckage of Liv’s life recedes like floodwater. Without meaning to, I curl my hands into the fabric of his uniform shirt and keep him from retreating. Clay deepens the kiss, making a little growl in his throat over the enforced distance between our bodies, and my stomach muscles tighten. I’m breathing fast when I step back.
I’d love to go around the counter and use him to forget everything but that wouldn’t be fair to either of us, even if he says Blue would be cool about it. He loves working here, so I can’t be the reason he gets into trouble. I let go of his shirt and he covers my hands with his.
“How was it?”
“About what I expected.”
At that he rounds the counter and pulls me in. When his arms lock around my back, I feel like I’ve become bulletproof. With careful hands he sifts through my hair, soothing strokes that make me want to close my eyes. I never would’ve imagined he could be this sweet or this gentle. The words older girls apply most often to Clay are “dirty” and “wicked.”
I could stay like this for another hour, but movement and voices coming from down the hall prompt me to withdraw. Clay raises a brow, then he notices, too. I’m sitting in one of the red chairs by the time a slender, blue-haired woman comes out, trailed by an older lady wearing what I’d call a church lady ensemble—pink pantsuit, floral blouse, beige purse, and matching shoes. She even has the hairstyle, set in rollers once a week and protected the rest of the time.
Oh my God, this is Mrs. Marlow, the Presbyterian pastor’s wife. I smile, pretending I don’t recognize her as she pays for her tattoo. Once she’s gone, the blue-haired girl smiles at me.
“You must be Clay’s girlfriend. He mentioned you might stop by. I’m Blue.”
“Did the hair or the name come first?” Curiosity overcomes my good manners.
“Hair first. I dyed it when I was fourteen and it suits me, so the nickname stuck.” Her features are delicate and pretty, and I guess she’s between twenty-five and thirty.
“I’ll take it from here, if you want to head out,” Clay says.
“Thanks. I have people waiting at my apartment. Nice meeting you,” she adds.
As she leaves, Blue flips the sign to CLOSED and Clay locks the door behind her. I stand up and try to look like I know what I’m doing. “How can I help?”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Just wait for me, I won’t be long.”
“If I pitch in, you can leave faster. You should clean the equipment for sure, but I can do floors and counter. That doesn’t require high expertise.”
Clay thinks about it way longer than necessary, in my opinion. Finally he says, “Okay, wipe down everything out here. Counter, chairs, move the magazines and clean the tables, too. If you finish that before I’m done in back, you can do the floors.” By his tone, he thinks that hell will freeze before this happens.
Morgan would not have wanted to do this, but she’s gone, and the work settles me down as much as Clay’s warmth. I hum as I clean, wishing I’d helped my mom more when I had the chance. All the little things about the life I lost seem magical now. Since I’m experienced at this, it takes me all of ten minutes to complete my task.
I call, “Where’s the broom and mop? I’m ready for the floor.”
Clay emerges from the back looking skeptical, but once he checks everything he gives me an approving smile. “You’re surprising me all over the place. Let me get the bucket.”
Sweeping is easy. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to move the furniture, so I just sweep under it and dump the dust and scraps of paper into the bin behind the counter. Mopping will be a little more challenging, as I’ve never used an actual janitorial bucket with the wringer attached, but I figure it out pretty fast. I’m finished before Clay is done sterilizing the equipment in back.
But I’m now trapped in the hallway; I can’t walk on the wet floor without messing it up. So without being asked, I clean the bathroom and then mop my way down to the back room, where Clay is finishing up. He glances up in surprise when I pause in the doorway.
“Washroom and corridor are done. Did you do the floor in here yet?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Normally it takes me at least an hour to close.”
“Told you it would be faster if I helped.”
“Explain to me why you know how to do any of this.” But his tone is all sweetness. It’s not like he doubts that I’m Morgan; he just wants to get to know me better.
“I’ve helped my mom before,” I say.
“You must’ve been really young. I can’t believe you still remember.”
“You don’t forget the important stuff.”
“That’s true. I was just a kid when my dad showed me how to change the oil on a car but ten years later, and I can still do it.”
“Exactly.”
He’s quiet as we wrap up in the back, then clean the supplies we used and store them in the janitor’s cupboard. Clay sets the alarm and then we slip out the back so as not to mess anything up. The parking lot is pretty empty, however.
As I’m wondering, he says, “I bummed a ride here, hoping you’d stop by.”
“I’m glad I did. Come on, I’m parked this way.” I take his hand and he laces our fingers together, a little intimacy that shouldn’t feel so profound. But I’m moved that he put his fate in my hands like this.
“You don’t mind driving me home?”
“I just mopped floors for you,” I point out.
Clay grins. “That’s true. I’m starting to think you’re really into me.”
“Shut up and get in the car.” But I’m smiling as I say it.