It’s late, but New York City is still bustling outside.
I close my eyes, lean back in my tattoo station, and pinch the bridge of my nose to ward off a pending migraine.
It’s been one of those days.
Christmas Day, Otto got a kidney transplant. The surgery lasted all day, and that night, Diego reported, he and his sister came out of the operating room safe and sound.
Which is great for them. But it was time for me to put my feet back on solid ground.
I took the LIRR back to New York City. I took a shower. I fed Milo. I went back to work.
It’s been three days and I haven’t heard a peep from Otto.
We’re short-staffed at both the coffee shop and the tattoo parlor for the holidays. Which is fine by me. I need to keep busy.
The second I stop for a breather, my heart feels like it’s going to split in two.
Heartache has apparently morphed into headache. I’m the last man standing at the tattoo shop, and I allow myself a second before I start to clean up.
The front doorbell chimes, alerting me that someone’s walked in.
I push up to my feet, exiting my stall. “Hey, we’re closing. You’ll have to come back…”
But my later dies in my throat.
Because it’s not just any customer.
Otto stands in the front of the shop. The pink neon sign from the window blares behind him. His dark slacks hang from his slim hips. A white shirt comes down loosely around his tall frame. He smiles, but it’s crooked.
“Sorry,” he says. “The sign said Closed, but I was hoping you’d make an exception.”
He’s alive. On his feet. I want nothing more than to run to him and wrap my arms around him.
But I hold myself back. I hug myself instead.
“Shouldn’t you still be at the hospital?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “They let me out on good behavior.”
“Ha.”
The silence lingers between us. On the radio, they’re still playing Christmas songs.
Those bastards.
“I heard the surgery went well,” I say, filling in the spots.
He nods. “I’m in one piece.”
He limps a little when he walks, though. He’s not completely healed.
He shouldn’t be here. His body hurts. My heart hurts. We’re just going to keep hurting each other.
I try a smile. “Well. Good. You really didn’t have to come all the way here.”
“Actually. I did.” Those blue eyes go serious, suddenly. It’s a new look for him. “I keep thinking about our last conversation, and—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to apologize. You told me from day one…you’re not the kind of guy who makes commitments. I’m the one who let her feelings get away from her. So. I think it’s best we just…go our separate ways.”
His eyes are bright in the dark of the empty studio. “The problem is…I can’t let you go.”
I knit my eyebrows. “Otto…”
“I was an asshole to you. I lied to you. I pushed you away. You loved me hard, and I got scared.”
I press my lips together. “So what’s changed? Because I can’t stop loving you. And you can’t commit. It just sounds like we’re at an impasse.”
“Well. Maybe not.”
I swallow. My emotions are doing a tightrope act, and I have to dig my nails into my arms to keep my vision from blurring. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I want to commit. To you.”
He sounds so earnest when he says it. So genuine. But…
“How am I supposed to believe that?”
“Let me prove it to you.”
With that, he closes the distance between us. Then he helps himself into my station and sits up on my big client’s chair.
“Give me a tattoo,” he says. “Anywhere. Whatever you want. If you want to write Asshole across my forehead, do it. I deserve it. Whatever it is, I want to think about you every time I look at it.” He takes my hand in his. He squeezes. “I want you to be with me for the rest of my life. Whatever that looks like.”
I stare at him. Then an idea hits me.
I step away from him. I get out my tattoo gun, load it up, and then hold out my hand.
“Give me your hand.” He does, resting his hand on mine. I look up at him. “This is going to hurt like a bitch.”
Otto swallows. “I’m ready.”
The machine buzzes as I flick it on.
