“I meant your reaction. You looked like a fencepost with a tie tied around it. I was embarrassed for you.”
Scott frowned and extended his hand for a cider.
“I don’t think so.”
Tabby drank from both bottles at once, draining half before wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Sorry man, the TAB’s running thin. It’s every girl for herself.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go to the front and watch the presentation.”
They wove through the crowd as the artists and corresponding models assembled on the stage. They watched as the emcee interviewed the first artist—a short man with a goatee. The man talked about the feathering technique he’d used and Scott noticed all the models were attractive young women and all of the artists aside from Sam were men. “Are there many female tattooists?”
Tabby eyed him over. “Why?”
“I’m just curious. Sam’s the only woman up there.”
“That’s because tattoo comps are like music festivals or talk shows—put too many chicks on and guys think it’s a girl thing.”
“Seems illogical.”
“Yeah well, you’re not a dick. There are more female artists than there used to be but, nowhere near half, or even a quarter.”
Scott digested this information. “Why do you think that is?”
Tabby threw him another assessing look.
“You can say whatever you like, I’m secure in my masculinity.”
She grinned. “Glad to hear it. I think there’s a lot of factors, but if you want my take, you need to be pretty fucking cocky—arrogant really—to feel comfortable inking your artwork into other people’s skin for money. Arrogance isn’t something people like in girls. It’s way easier to sit down and cheer for the dudes while they tattoo and that’s the way most of them want it.”
Scott remembered Edgar DaSilva with his long hair and vegan leather jacket, arguing with a neighbor for saying he didn’t want to fly in a plane with a female pilot. “Your dad didn’t see it that way.”
Tabby’s face softened. “No. He was woke before woke was even a word. We were lucky.”
She glanced up at the stage where Samantha and Kelly were talking quietly to one another. “You don’t know how weird it is, being at a comp without him. Being at home without him. I have no idea how Sam handled it by herself for so long.”
His one beer and the Adam tattoo must have had him feeling sentimental because Scott wrapped an arm around Tabby’s shoulders. “He’ll be home before you know it.”
“I don’t know about that, but thanks, Prince William.” Tabby leaned into his side and Scott smiled. What would life have been like if Tabitha DaSilva was his little sister? Chaotic no doubt, but fun.
Tabby glanced slyly up at him. “Hey man, you’re still in love with Sam, aren’t you?”
It was one of those moments where, if he’d been drinking anything, he would have spat it all over himself. It wasn’t just the question, or the casualness of the ask—it was that she’d articulated the thing he’d been asking himself since they arrived at Ink the Night. Since he’d seen Samantha tackling that man in the street.
“No,” he said, because Tabby looked so bloody smug. “I’m not. And I was never in love with her. I had a crush on her when I was essentially a child.”
“Eighteen isn’t a child though, is it? If you didn’t love her, why’d you leave? Why’d you just pack up all your shit and bail without saying goodbye?”
He looked at her, unsure if she knew and was attempting to draw him out or if she’d never been told. “Ask your sister.”
Tabby opened her mouth to respond but never got the chance. Onstage, the emcee had reached Sam. “Ms DaSilva! Lovely to see you here tonight! How long has it been since you last competed?”
“Three years.”
There was a nervousness about her hands and smile that made Scott’s heart hammer against his chest—all he wanted was for her to win.
The emcee patted Sam’s arm. “Okay, talk us through your work.”
“It was inspired by Joachim Patinir’s earlier painting—”