“Have to say, you don’t really seem the butterfly type,” he says.
I spin away, my temples pulsing. I hate the fucking thing. I’ve hated it for years. I was drunk when I had it done—hell, they should never have let me get tattooed, but it was a piece of shit hole in the wall and they didn’t give a crap that I’d stumbled in off the street reeking of liquor and clearly angry and upset.
“Fuck off,” I say.
“Hey.” Rafe’s tone is sharp. “What’s the problem?”
Shit. It’s not even him I’m pissed at. It’s Daniel, who called the other day and made it clear he knew about the tattoo. It’s Ginger, Daniel’s big-mouthed friend. I went to her to try and have it covered up and she clearly told him all about it. Shouldn’t there be some kind of client confidentiality or something? I only went to her because she was the only female tattoo artist I knew of and I sure as hell wasn’t going to show some dude that I had a butterfly tattoo. Fuck her. And I’d gone because I didn’t really want Rafe to see it. It had never come up before.
I’d been under a car at work the other day when I heard Sam get on the phone and say, “Daniel?” He chatted for a minute about Liza and I tuned him out. Daniel only ever called the shop if he was about to break some news, like that he was leaving. Maybe he was calling to say his fancy job didn’t work out and he’s moving back. Or maybe he wanted to borrow money from Pop. Pop got on the phone and, after a few minutes asked Daniel what he needed, then passed the phone to me.
I raised my eyebrows at Pop, but he shrugged and tossed me the cordless, an old, paint-spattered plastic thing that was heavy enough to do damage if I didn’t catch it.
“Brian?” Daniel asked, and I was immediately irritated. Clearly he wanted to ask Brian something and Pop handed the phone to me instead. I spun around to ask Pop, but he’d gone inside.
“No, it’s me. What’s going on?”
“Hey, Colin,” he said, sounding anxious. “How’s it going?”
I hated that. Daniel always sounded nervous around me, and I didn’t do anything. It was like he was holding his breath, just waiting for me to fuck up. Prick.
“Uh, fine,” I’d said, hoping he’d cut to the chase, but he cleared his throat. “What did you need?” I’d asked, eye on the clock. It was after five and I wanted to get out of there in the next hour.
“Damn, Colin, I don’t need anything. I just wanted to say hey. Christ.”
What the fuck did that mean? Daniel never called me to say hello. “Well,” I said, hesitantly, “hey, then.” I paused but he didn’t say anything. “I’m gonna get back to work,” I said, my mind already back on the cars.
“Oh, yeah,” Daniel said, his voice gone poisonous. I’d never heard him sound like that before. “Got to go get some hearts and flowers tattooed to match your manly butterfly?”
My heart had felt like it was being squeezed in my chest. What the fuck? How in the hell had he…? I realized Ginger must have told him.
There was nothing to say. I was right back there. That night years ago. So drunk I didn’t even remember leaving the party. Barely remembered staggering into the tattoo parlor, consumed by thoughts of what things might be like if my mom were still alive and some vague notion that the pain of the needle of was, at least, a pain I could choose.
My heart was beating fast—too fast—and my mouth was dry, but I had to silence Daniel’s smug superiority.
“Fuck you, you little bitch,” I spat out, and I smashed the phone into the wall.
Rafe reaches out to me, but I pull away from him and get out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist.
“Nothing. I just don’t like it,” I say.
“Okay,” Rafe says, clearly not buying it. “Did you like it when you got it?”
“I don’t remember, man. I was wasted.” Rafe’s frown deepens and I sigh. “It was for my mom, kind of. It was after high school and I was just having a bad time and—” I shake my head, not wanting to talk about that. “Honestly, I don’t remember asking for the butterfly. I must have, but….” I shrug.
The next morning when I saw it in the mirror, bleary and hungover, I was so confused by what I saw that it took a moment for the lines to coalesce into something recognizable. A fucking butterfly. Something delicate and vulnerable and… gay. It was like I’d been branded with an emblem of everything I wanted to hide. And now Daniel knows about it.