He smiled. “Okay. Let’s get started. Well, I’m going to need to see some ID first.”
If I were Tara, I’d say something coy about looking like I was over 18, but I just fumbled in my purse for my wallet and extracted my driver’s license. “Here you go.” I also decided against saying something how it was the worst picture ever, even though I was pretty sure that it was.
He looked at it, then looked at me, then looked back down at the picture. It took me a second to catch on, but then I laughed. “It really is me,” I said.
He winked as he handed it back to me. “I’m Graham, by the way; I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself. You ready to do this?”
I put my ID back in my wallet and took a deep breath. If I stopped to think about it for too long, I was probably going to chicken out. “I’m ready.”
It ended up hurting less than I expected, mostly, except in a few places where it actually hurt more. I bit the inside of my cheek and winced a little, but the pain never got so bad that I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it.
“You’re doing great,” he said. He had purple latex gloves on, but I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my bare skin.
“It feels ... different than I was expecting.” I was glad there wasn’t really any blood. “It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
“It’s funny—I’ve had guys in here, these big, total jock-type dudes, and they’ve been in tears before I’m even halfway done. You know, they look like the sort of guys that could crush bricks with their skulls or something, but they are literally begging me to hurry up and get it over with.” He smiled a little and shook his head. “And then someone like you who can handle it like it’s not even a thing.”
“It kind of isn’t,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty small compared to some of the stuff you’ve done, I bet.”
“You’re right—it’s not the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on, but it doesn’t really make a difference to me. I want every piece to come out looking awesome.”
“I know what you mean. There were some kids in art school that were only interested in working on the really big projects, the ones that they thought might have a chance getting into the show at the end of the year. So they wouldn’t give enough time to the smaller assignments we had, and in the end, it usually wound up backfiring because their bigger projects wound up lacking depth. Or that’s what one of the professors said, anyway.”
“Well, he’s right. So you’re in art school?”
“Yeah. I’m actually going to be in an exhibition at the end of this summer.”
“No shit? That’s great.”
“It is, except I’m kind of struggling with what the sculpture’s going to be, and then how I’m actually going to pull it off. I want it to be really good.”
“Of course you do, especially if it’s going to be on public display. I could give you a hand, if you want.”
“Really? That would be great.”
I think we were both surprised; I was surprised he had offered to help, and he was surprised that I had accepted the offer. But I could tell he was a talented artist. And there was some part of me that just wanted to hang out with him. “Do you want to meet me at the Bennet Center for the Arts? That’s where I’m going to be working out of.”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. He wiped gently at my arm. “What do you think?”
I looked down, not expecting the tattoo to be finished so quickly, but it was. And it looked so perfect there on my arm that my breath caught in my throat. It was even more beautiful on skin than it had been on paper. I looked at him, unable to keep the grin from spreading on my face.
“I love it,” I said.
Chapter Seven
Graham
I was surprised that girl, Chloe, had come back. Pleasantly surprised, I admit, though I reminded myself about my resolution to not hook up with anyone this summer. And honestly, I hadn’t expected to see her again, except then she mentioned her sculpture project and I offered to help, which had totally come out of left field. I could have stood her up or come up with some excuse not to go, but in the end, I decided to meet up with her, because I had nothing better to do and because there was something about her that I found intriguing.
I went down to the Bennet Center for the Arts, where she said she’d be working. Ah, art school. I might’ve toyed with the idea of attending art school myself at one point, though I shelved it quickly after realizing how expensive schools like that were. I probably could have qualified for some sort of financial aid, but it would be a huge headache, because I knew I’d need my mother and Wade’s information as well. I also knew I didn’t need to pay 30,000 dollars a year to learn about art.
I’d never been to the Bennet Center before, though I’d certainly driven by it plenty of times. It was actually a lot bigger than I realized; from the road, you could see a modest-looking, renovated, Cape-style home that I thought made up the whole place; in reality, though, there was a connecting archway off the back of the house that attached it to a long, barn-like structure where the studios and performing spaces were located.
There were several people hanging out on the porch, artist types with wild hair and Birkenstocks, paint-stained smocks. They watched me approach but didn’t say anything, and then af
ter I’d passed by, they went back to their conversation. I went inside and found myself in a high-ceilinged lobby with artwork adorning the walls. There were leather armchairs set up in groups of four, and on the far wall was a table with muffins, donuts, and several coffee carafes. I went over and poured myself a cup, and when I turned back around, Chloe was walking through the door.
“Hey,” she said.