Page 110 of Business Casual
“I try to convince myself I’m not with all the ridiculous shit I do, but I’m lonely all the time. I go to work, and I keep myself busy with things I don’t care about, and I come back to a fancy apartment with everything I could ever want, and I feel…nothing. Empty. I’mempty when I’m there, and my brain tries to fill the space with thoughts that go around and around, and I…I’m always halfway here before I realize it.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m too busy picturing him in a gorgeous New York City apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of a glittering skyline. In a chair that probably costs more than anything I’ve ever owned, his suit jacket folded over the back of it and a half-empty glass of something at his elbow.
I think of him there, all alone, and I ink another line.
“I’m a disappointment to most people. My father in particular. He wants me to be something I’m not. I’ve tried my whole life to get there, but I don’t think I’ll ever reach the bar he’s set for me. I’m not sure he wants me to.” He drags his free hand through his hair until it sticks up in the back, the same way it does first thing in the morning. “I think I’m tired of trying.”
I finish with the black and set the machine to the side, wiping a cold cloth over his skin. He releases another breath. “So, that’s the answer. That’s why I’m always here. Because I don’t feel so empty when I’m spending time in Inglewild. I know it’s not where I’m supposed to be, but I like to pretend it could be.”
I refill my pen with the blue. “What do you mean it’s not where you’re supposed to be?”
“My whole life is in New York,” he says gently. “This is temporary. I’ve…inserted myself. I don’t fit here. Not really.”
“You still think that? Even now?” I shade another petal. “Don’t you have a standing lunch with Caleb and Alex’s grandmother once a month?”
“I do, but—”
“And weren’t you just sharing bean dip recipes on the street like a week ago?”
“I was, but—”
“Shut up for a second.”
I finish with the last of the shading and flick the machine off,setting it behind me to clean later. I drag another cloth over the design and then glance up at Charlie, holding on to his wrist with both of my hands. He’s staring at me with a smile in the lines by his eyes but nowhere else, a softness in his expression that he reserves for the dead of night when I’ve stolen his shirt to sleep in and I can’t stop yawning in his face. When our legs are tangled beneath the blankets and his arm is heavy over my hip.
Stolen moments when he doesn’t think I’m looking.
“No one feels bad for you, Charlie. No one is…entertaining you to make you feel better about yourself.”
He cheeks pink, the slightest bit. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him blush. We stare at each other. His face is a mask. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Despite the ease with which he supports others, I don’t think Charlie has ever had someone do the same for him. I think he’s been holding on to these secrets for a long time.
I never thought I’d want to be that person for anyone. But it’s easy enough to twist my fingers through his and squeeze. He squeezes back.
I want to ask him if he feels like he fits with me. If he’s comfortable in the spaces we occupy together. But I swallow the words back down.
I already know the answer to that question. Charlie has always made it very clear.
I peel off my gloves and toss them in the wastebasket, then grab some Aquaphor and start to slather it over his tattoo. He still hasn’t looked at it. “Do you want to see what it is?” I ask gently.
“I’m working myself up to it.”
“Do you want me to do a countdown? I can start at ten if you’d like.”
“Maybe start at one hundred.”
A laugh bursts out of me. His smile finally drops from his eyes to the rest of his face. It feels like a victory.
“You’re really that nervous?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It feels like a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I tell him simply. “I told you, tattoos are permanent.” Not to mention I’ve been drawing exactly this for weeks on every piece of scrap paper I could get my hands on. Whenever my brain turned off and my hand started doodling, I’d find this tattoo scribbled along the edges. I finally realized what my brain has been trying to tell me. It’s a gift for Charlie, sure, but it’s a confession too. I swallow. “You can look when you’re ready.”
He breathes in deep through his nose and watches me, eyes trailing across my face like he’s still waiting for me to tell him this is all one big joke. But it’s not a joke, and I don’t tattoo things I don’t mean for the people I care about most. Charlie, despite my best intentions and probably his as well, is the person I care about most. And I’m not nearly as scared of that as I used to be.
Growth, maybe. Or maybe I’m learning to listen to myself a little bit better. I don’t know.
Apprehension pricks between my shoulders as I wait for him to look. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous for someone to see a final design. Not even Beckett, the very first time.
