A male hand waves at my face. Donny.
“What’s up?” I ask over the buzzing of my tattoo machine. I’m leaning over my client in the chair—not the best time to chat.
“Sorry to interrupt. I need to see you in my office when you’re done. It’s important.”
I stiffen. “All right. This is my last appointment.”
In my peripheral, he shoves his hands in his jeans, paces around my station, heaves out an exhale, and then leaves. My lips compress. Donny being out of his office is odd. He owns East Coast Ink & Gallery but prefers to stay upstairs while Harlee, his niece, manages the day-to-day downstairs.
I finish adding the green highlights to the leaves and set down my machine, dabbing at the tiny spots of blood on my client’s wrist.
“It’s beautiful!” Gianna gushes as she leans forward to take in the ring of daises intertwined with the infinity symbol around her wrist. Dressed in a pink Chanel dress, she’s a young twentysomething with a mane of blonde hair she loves to flick over her shoulder with long sharp pink nails. There’s a huge rock on her ring finger. A socialite with money, she’s our typical client on the Upper East Side.
“I can’t wait to show my fiancé!” she says.
I push up a smile even though my head is banging and my throat hurts. A cold hit me a couple of weeks ago and won’t go away. I swallow the cough drop in my mouth. “Hey, you never mentioned how you found me.”
“Hmm, a friend of mine. She actually bought one of your canvases in the front gallery.”
“Ah.” I average three to four sales a year from the gallery.
“She’s an artist and a collector—paintings, sculptures.” Hair flick. “Jewels.”
Ah, lots of money, then. “Cool. Which one did she buy?”
“It’s an abstract of a house.”
Ah, the purple Victorian done in acrylics. My locket hangs from a tree in the front yard.
“It’s, um, interesting,” she says, choosing her words with care.
“You didn’t like it.”
She waves a hand around. “It’s a pretty house, but there was something off about it. It felt dark. I don’t know. It made me wonder who lived there.”
I did. Until I was kicked out.
“Meh. My art isn’t for everyone.”
“Well, I adore you, darling.” She bats her eyes at me. “And my tattoo is marvelous!”
I smile. She came in six months ago and asked for something unique. I worked on some designs for her; then we met at a coffee shop to go over the sketches. Since she had an extended trip to Europe planned, we scheduled today for the tattoo.
She squeals. “Oh my God, I almost forgot! You got married while I was gone and haven’t said a word! It’s been what, two months since the big day? How’s married life? Are you relieved the wedding hoopla is over?”
“Hmm.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Hey, wait a minute. What’s going on? Your engagement ring is gone.” She glances over her shoulder at the workstation across from mine where Edward sketches, his lean frame bent over his desk. I follow her gaze, taking in his mahogany hair as it glints under the lights, the shimmer of his lip ring. As if he feels my eyes, he glances up at me, swallows thickly, and then turns away.
Every time I come to work, I tell myself this is the day it’s not gonna hurt when I see him, but it still cuts.
Especially when I have to see him—with her.
“What the hell is going on?” Gianna hisses as we watch Harlee rush over to Edward as if she has an alarm set for every time I look his way. Harlee slants a smug smile at me as she gives him a hug, her hands lingering on his shoulders like claws.
“They happened,” I mutter, and Gianna gasps.
With an hourglass figure and long platinum hair, Harlee’s a blonde bombshell in a red dress and Christian Louboutin heels. Of course, she’s also younger than me, twenty-two to my thirty. I’m ready for the nursing home next to her.
A recent graduate from business school, she took over as floor manager last year. I noticed her chatting with Edward, flirting, and I assumed it was just her outgoing nature because she was friendly with all the staff. Even me.
She was very friendly in the supply closet. I came in early for my shift and opened the closet, and there she was, on her knees in front of Edward. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack, his jeans at his feet. She hummed like a porn star on his cock as he called out, Harlee, oh baby, Harlee!
Unbeknownst to them, I watched them as my head flicked through memories, the times we went barhopping and they’d disappear, the weekends he said she needed help moving into her apartment, then helping her put furniture together.
I remember wanting to yell and pummel them with my fists. I felt as if my chest would explode, but I forced myself to shut down, to pack it all away to sort out later. After all, this wasn’t the worst betrayal I’d experienced.
When Harlee turned around, I pointed at the semen on her cheek. Missed some, I said, then, Next time, lock the door. I flipped around, and Donny stood behind me, his eyes wide as saucers as he took in the scene. I canceled my appointments, left for the day, pawned my big-ass engagement ring, bought paints and canvases, and then went home and let the tears fall.
Gianna takes my hand and gives me a squeeze. “Oh my God, men are so stupid. When did this go down?”
“Three months before the wedding. I caught them in the supply closet.”
“Are you okay? I mean, are you being good to yourself?”
My head immediately goes to Prince Player. He was good for me. The first few weeks after we met, I walked around in a bemused haze, my body heavy with awareness. For once, it hadn’t pricked to see Edward and Harlee together. At night, I touched myself to the memory of him inside of me, to the feel of his shoulders under my hands. I even found myself searching the faces of men on the street, in restaurants, inside stores.
I wanted to see if a man like him was real.
I had to make myself stop. He didn’t really exist.
He was a stranger who put a bandage on my pain.
Stuffing it down, I focus on her tattoo. “Here you go.” I cover her wrist in petroleum jelly, then wrap it loosely with a clear bandage. “Remove this in twenty-four hours, wash with antimicrobial soap, and pat dry—don’t rub. Apply a layer of antibacterial Vaseline, and don’t cover it. Do this twice a day for two weeks. I’ll give you a handout that explains everything, plus tips for keeping the tattoo from fading.”
I pop my gloves off as I stand and roll my neck. It’s past seven at night, and I’ve been bent over for hours.
She hops off the chair and flutters her hands. “Francesca, darling, no way—we have to discuss. You must get revenge or vindication or something. This can’t be okay. You can’t be okay. That fucker.” Angry hair flick.
“Yeah.”
“I know people who know people who know people if you want him taken out. Or her. Italians don’t mess around when it comes to love.” She mimics shooting a gun, then stabbing.
I laugh, a rusty sound. “I’m good, thanks.”
We both watch as Edward stands from his chair and drapes Harlee’s coat around her shoulders. Then he slips on the vintage caramel-colored leather jacket I found for him in a secondhand store in SoHo. They stroll toward the door, and his arm clutches her shoulders, pulling her in as their heads touch. It’s the same way he used to hold me.
Harlee stops at the door and glances back at me, her voice sweet as syrup. “Clean up when you’re done, Francesca. Have a good evening.” Sly, evil smile. “Bye!”
My hands curl. I could take her. Black her eye. Kick a kidney. Show her who’s really in charge.
By age five—after a stint in a home with six other kids and alcoholic foster parents—I learned how to defend myself. When you’re smaller than your opponent, you have to be fast. You go for the tender bits: the crotch, eyes, and throat. You use your teeth, nails, and knees. You yell in their ear—maybe take a bite of it.
Never let them pin you.
At sixteen, I moved into a group home with fifty other kids. It was a lot like prison; I trusted no one, even the girl I shared a bunk with. My weapon was my ink pen tucked under my pillow. A week after I began living there, an older boy attacked me in the bathroom. He had waited for me, he said, and was going to teach the new girl a lesson about who to give her dues to. Him. He shoved me down on the floor and pinned me with a knife. While we were wrestling, my hands floundered, searching for a weapon. I grasped a piece of broken tile under the sink and jabbed it in his eye, then his neck.
He lived and was sent to juvie.
At the heart of me is a fighter—but I’m also pragmatic to the bone.
I need this job.
“Holy shit, how can you still work here?” Gianna says after they walk out the door.
I wash my hands in the sink, then pat them dry, thinking about my reply. “Honestly, I was here before either of them, and it’s like I’m giving in if I leave. Why should I leave? Does that make sense?”
“Girl. I’d be out of here in a heartbeat—but not before I beat his car with a bat.”
A long sigh comes from me. “I get that, I do, but this is my life, and there’s the gallery for my art. Maybe I’m torturing myself. Maybe I need to see them together over and over so I can move on. I don’t know.” Plus I have bills to pay. My art-school loan comes to mind. And the warehouse studio I sublet with other artists. And my apartment rent. It’s not cheap living in Manhattan, but I’ve been drawn to this city for as long as I can remember. My hands brush the locket under my shirt, a reminder that someone did care for me. Once. Until she left.
Gianna frowns. “I’m so sorry.”
I push up a smile. “Hey, none of that. Don’t feel bad for me. I’m fine. Totally.”
“All right,” she says, then glances up at the wall in front of my station. “Oh. This one wasn’t here last time. What’s it called?”
The piece in question has a layered gray background with a black door in the center, barely cracked. Two abstract yellow figures are in the room—one on her knees, the other standing with his head thrown back. “I haven’t titled it,” I say, tearing my gaze away from the canvas. “How do you want to pay?”
She tugs out her American Express. Her tattoo comes to two grand, which includes my time today, the sketches I worked on (which she gets to keep), and the meeting at the coffee shop. Donny keeps 30 percent, and I get 70, a sweet deal I worked out with him once my business blew up and people poured in to see me. At least Edward only gets 20 percent.
She gives me a 50 percent tip, way too much, then signs the receipt. She hugs me, then surprises me when she kisses me on each cheek. Before she flounces out the door, she tells me to keep my chin up and promises to text me for coffee.
With heavy feet, I head upstairs to Donny’s office. He’s been avoiding my eyes since the closet incident. And the pacing around my station today? Dread curls.
With each step up the stairs, unease rises higher, exactly like the time Mrs. White picked me up from school, took me to get ice cream, and then drove me back to CPS because she was pregnant with twins and didn’t need a little kid around anymore. She wasn’t the first to decide I wasn’t a good fit. Back and forth across the state of New York, I lived in eleven different foster homes before I finally ended up at a group home permanently.
I knock and wait for him to tell me to enter before I open the door. Wearing an old Joshua Tree shirt, he sits behind a big mahogany desk. Around sixty with shoulder-length gray hair, he’s a hippie who opened his first location in Boston, gained a reputation for hiring talented artists, blew up on Insta, and then quickly opened two more shops—this one and another in Philadelphia.
“Whiskey?” He nudges his head at the decanter. He’s already got one poured for himself.
“Do I need one?” Instead of sitting, I lean against the wall. “I can’t remember the last time you called me up here. What’s going on?”
He rubs his face and groans out a long breath. “Francesca, shit, there’s no good way to say this, but I need to let you go.”
My stomach drops. “What? Why?”
“Harlee feels uneasy with you in the shop. The entire situation is uncomfortable for her.”
I shake my head, an exhalation of disbelief coming from my lips. “She’s uncomfortable? Oh my God, that’s ridiculous. She humiliated me; she has Edward. What else does she want?”
“Francesca—”
“Donny. No. Don’t do this. I’ve never said a word to her about what happened. I’ve been on my best behavior. Professional. This isn’t right. It’s unfair.” I try to hold his gaze, but he refuses to look at me, instead staring at a spot behind my shoulder.
“Regardless, the aura in the shop is tense. The vibe is getting to her—and me. Also, there’s the painting above your station. We all know what it is.”
My hands clench. The painting was the only voice I had to express my anger. Not for one minute do I think she really cares about the art; no, she probably loves looking at it. This is her wanting me out of the picture because she wants to make sure Edward and I stay apart. I recall her smile earlier, and my anger ratchets up. She’s noticed the long glances Edward gives me. She’s noticed the way he lingers at my station. Maybe she knows about the texts he sends me, the ones I never reply to.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Donny—you get that, right? Why not Edward? You can’t let me go! I’m booked up for months!”
“Harlee wants him, and she’s the manager. She’s my heir and will run the shops when I retire. I don’t have kids or a wife, Francesca. My sister and Harlee are my family, and I do what’s best for them. Come on; you have to admit this place is toxic for you. You need a new parlor. I’ll write a glowing letter of recommendation for you.”
I deflate like a popped balloon, fear overtaking the anger. “Donny, please . . .” My voice hitches as I read the firmness on his face.
He clears his throat, then pushes out his words hurriedly. “You’re one of the best artists I’ve had, and I’m truly sorry, really. You’re a good human, the clients love you, and I’ll miss you. You helped build the reputation of East Coast Ink, and I’m grateful.” He takes a breath. “However. Today is your last day. Leave me your key to the shop, send an email to your clients, clean out your station, and take your canvases from the front gallery.”
The knife in my heart cuts deeper. They don’t even want my art.
It’s as if I’m being erased.
Tears prick behind my eyes. “I—I’ll need to . . .” My voice trails off, my brain blanking as I think on how to get the majority of my supplies and art back to my apartment.
“No rush on the art.” He tries to smile. “I’ll have an opening at the Philly parlor in March. If you want the spot, it’s yours.”
It’s currently mid-November. “That’s months from now and four hours away. Besides, eventually Harlee will be in charge.”
He grimaces. “Right. Well, I’m here for a while. Think on it if you can’t find anything else.”
Donny’s words play back in my head as I leave and take the stairs. This place isn’t my parlor anymore keeps echoing in my head. It feels surreal, and my chest aches. I’ve worked here for eight years, and to be let go because my fiancé cheated with the manager—it’s almost too much to bear. Normally, I’m a dreamer, an optimist. Even when I struggled through Edward’s betrayal, I kept my head up, but this . . .
I clench the handrail when a dizzy spell hits.
I plop down on one of the steps and bend over to clear the black dots dancing in my eyes. Jesus. Have I eaten anything today? I’m running on coffee and cough drops. I pull out a protein bar from my smock, gagging for a second at the smell before shoving it in my mouth. My stomach clenches at the food before eventually settling down. It hasn’t been right for a few days. I’m fine. Totally. I rub my forehead with icy hands as I focus on what’s next. First, I need to shake this cold, maybe take a few days to sleep off this exhaustion, and then plan for another job.
I find a box in the back and fill it with essentials from my station. I’m walking a couple of blocks to my apartment, and I can’t carry everything. When I close the door to East Coast Ink & Gallery, I force myself to not let pity inch inside.
Girls like me don’t have time to wallow.
We’ve been rejected before, and when it happens, we make plans. We move on. We survive.
I look down at the box and see the framed photo of me and Cece and Brogan at a party in Chelsea years ago.
Donny has his family.
And they are mine.
Be tough. Be strong. Take one step, then two—then you’re up and back on the journey. That’s the motto I live by.
I’ll be fine.
So why is there a deep churning pit of anxiousness in my gut?
