Page 2 of Business Casual
I’m comfortable in my solitude. I like the quiet. I like eating dinner by myself and picking what to watch on TV. I like starfishing inthe middle of my bed and setting my thermostat to the perfect temperature. I like rolling myself like an overstuffed burrito in all my blankets. I like having my space to myself, and I like not having to compromise. I don’t need to share my every day with someone to suddenly feel fulfilled.
My favorite person to be with is myself, and my relationship of choice is brief, consensual, and satisfying. If I have an itch that needs to be scratched, I can always find a casual hookup easily enough.
Though that hasn’t happened in quite a while.
Maybe that’s what’s got me twisted up. I’ve been so focused on the studio, I haven’t had a casual hookup in ages. Maybe the lack of physical release is starting to turn me into a goblin. A gremlin. One of those stone creatures my mom keeps buying me for my garden. Maybe a hookup will soothe some of my anxieties. Maybe it’ll help me turn my brain off for a bit.
Harper arches an eyebrow, blissfully unaware of where my thoughts have tumbled to. “You can’t marry a tattoo shop, you know.”
“Because that’s what all women should aspire to, right? Marriage?”
She pokes me hard in the ribs. “No. You know I don’t think that.” It’s true. Harper is just as committed to her design business as I am to the tattoo studio I’m trying to lift off the ground. But she’s always had a soft, romantic heart. And I’ve watched douchebags take advantage of it for years.
I’d rather not lose myself in a relationship, thank you very much.
Harper frowns at me around another forkful of cake. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”
“Who says I’m lonely?”
Her frown deepens. “You’ve been sitting over here by yourself slurping wine.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m lonely,” I grumble. I prefer the quiet, and my feet hurt from dancing. “I’m not lonely. I don’t have time to be lonely.”
I’ve been running in a sprint for the last six months. If I’m not thinking about the logistics of the new studio, I’m working on some sort of permit or tax form or expense report. And if I’m not working on one of my endless forms, I’m tweaking marketing items and ordering chairs and eyeing my budget with thinly veiled panic. When I crawl into my bed at night, I don’t think or feel a single thing beyond bone-deep exhaustion and a lingering sense of imposter syndrome.
But even with all the new, substantial weight on my shoulders, I love owning my own business. I love being one of the only female-owned and female-operated tattoo shops on the East Coast. And I love that I’m getting ready to open up a new location in the place I grew up. My first studio that’s fully mine, not just a space I rent with other artists in a co-op. It’s a risk opening in a town as small as Inglewild. Foot traffic won’t be as strong as it is down on the coast, but I’ve always wanted a place here. In the town where I grew up. Where all my favorite people are.
I just have to hope that the reputation I’ve built for myself is strong enough to bring clients over.
But that’s a worry for another day.
Harper boops me gently on the nose with her fork. “You just went spiraling again, didn’t you?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Possibly.”
She clicks her tongue. “You need to relax. Cut loose.” She eyeballs my overfull wine glass and the bottle I’ve claimed as my own from behind the makeshift bar. “If you keep going like this, you’re going to burn out.”
“Who is burning out?”
My older brother Beckett claims the other chair next to me, tie missing and sleeves rolled. I’m shocked he stayed in a full suit for as long as he did. He’d spent the duration of the ceremony tugging at his collar as he stood next to Luka.
He’s at ease now though. A bottle of beer held loosely in his hand, his forearm braced over his knee. His dark blond hair looks strangewithout a backward baseball cap, his blue-green eyes uncharacteristically bright tonight. I grin at him and he grins back. Beckett and I, we’ve always been a mirror reflection of one another. More comfortable on the edges of things. Shoes off. Tie missing.
I poke one of the vibrant tattoos painted along his forearm. My first and very favorite client. His arms are completely covered in my work from wrist to shoulder. When I landed my first apprenticeship, I had trouble establishing a client base. But Beckett let me tattoo him when no one else would. He walked right into the studio I begged for space at and plopped down in the chair. Stuck his arm in my direction and gave me a blank, expectant look.
Beckett has always believed in me. Even when I haven’t necessarily deserved it.
I tilt his forearm so I can get a look at his latest. A simple collection of meteors drawn in thin black lines.
“It’s healing well,” I tell him.
“Of course it is.” He tilts his arm and peers at it. “You did it.”
My smile slips into something that wobbles at the edges. Sometimes it’s difficult to live up to the rose-colored glasses my brother wears for me. He thinks I can do no wrong, and I’m afraid the day I finally do something to disappoint him, it’ll break both of our hearts.
I drain the rest of my wine glass without comment. Harper and Beckett exchange a significant glance above my head that they don’t think I can see.
I ignore them both.
