Page 120 of Sing For Me

She nods, looking miserable. “Yeah. I told him you were busy but…”

I close my eyes. God damn it.

“Do you want me to tell him you’re with a client?” she asks.

I let out a low sigh. I’m not going to force my employees to deal with my shit. “No. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Okay. Sorry, Will.”

I shake my head at her. “No need to apologize. Sorry I’m acting like a dick.”

That gets a grin out of her. “What else is new?”

I take a minute to try and calm my anger before following her out to the front of the shop. Sure enough, Lennon is standing at reception, studying a framed photo of a full dragon sleeve, his hands in his pockets, looking as casual as can be.

“What’s up?”

He looks up at the sound of my voice, a gentle smile on his face. “Good to see you too, Will.”

I don’t have the energy to deal with his shit. “Didn’t Lulu tell you I was booked up today?”

“Figured you could make some time for family.”

It’s everything I can do not to roll my eyes like a petulant teenager. Then he drops the kicker. “Especially today.”

I glare at him. “Low blow, dude.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll take whatever advantage I can get.”

I almost want to laugh at that, but I manage to keep it in. “You know where my station is, old man.”

I go to the supply closet and grab a fresh box of gloves and a set of needles then follow him to my station. He has my portfolio out, flipping through the photos, but looks up when I come in, his eyes immediately moving to search my face.

“I hate how you do that, you know,” I say conversationally, and his eyebrows go up in question. “That whole blatantly studying me thing you do. Like you’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking.”

“Wouldn’t have to try and figure it out if you talked to me more.”

I grunt, going to the table to lay out my supplies. “Think I talked plenty last time we saw each other.”

“That you did.”

We lapse into silence after that and I know he won’t bring it up again. That’s not what he’s here for.

“What’s the word today?”

He pulls up his sleeve and the inked list comes into view. A single word for each year that his daughter Lyric has lived without cancer, tattooed on the anniversary of her remission date. Out of all the brothers, Lennon has the least amount of ink, but he’s adamant about getting these anniversary tattoos.

“I thinkgracethis year,” he murmurs softly and I nod once, feeling a tightness in my throat.

I get started on the piece, adding the word right underneath the one from last year—joy—while he lets the silence settle between us. That’s the nice thing about my Uncle Lennon—he makes quiet very comfortable. There’s no one better to hang out with if you’re need of a little peace. Or, at least, that’s how I used to feel.

“Interesting thing happened yesterday,” he finally says.

“What’s that?”

“I got a check from your shop.”

I grunt, knowing where he’s going with this.