I don’t seem to feel anything at all, so I just stand there with the room spinning, waiting. The door clicks open, and I don’t know if I’ve stood there for thirty seconds or five minutes. With one eye, I look into the chipped, worn mirror.
Behind me is Atticus.
“This place works. I’m going to leave a Yelp review,” I tell him.
He starts taking his flannel off, sleeve by sleeve, before yanking his t-shirt off over his head, by the neck. I watch his inked arm flex as he does.
“Dude, you look good with your shirt off.”
Atticus rolls his eyes. “Put my shirt on.”
I pinch my own Wrench Kings t-shirt and fan it. “I got a shirt.”
He nods down at it. “Covered in puke.”
My nose wrinkles. “I thought that smell was the bathroom.”
His face remains expressionless from what I can tell in my blistering state. “The smell isyou.”
I take off my shirt and toss it directly into the open garbage can inside the bathroom. Atticus outstretches his arm, his t-shirt balled in his fist. I shake my head. “I wantthatone.”
He rolls his eyes and pulls the black and gray flannel from the air dryer where he laid it. I feed one arm in, then another, and button it up.
“Wash your mouth out,” he orders as he puts his shirt back on. He washes his hands while I wash my mouth out, and a moment later, he’s pulled the door open for me. “Walk.”
I stop in the doorway and face him. “I want a tattoo.”
He tips his head sideways. “Of what?”
I tap my chin, but because I’m still fairly spinny, I end up tapping my jaw while Atticus’s eyes follow my drunk digit, his expression unimpressed. Thoroughly.
“Marlon Brando.”
All of his irritation crashes to the floor in a silent, empathetic shatter. Even Atticus can’t hide the look of pity, not right away. Ihatethat fucking look. I hate that for the last seven days, I’ve been getting that look from the people in my life. And when I shut them out, I still manage to get aformof the message, either in the “hang in theres” left on my voicemail or the barrage of “you’ll get through its” I get in sympathy cards.
I don’t want to hear any of that shit.
The pity only flashes for a brief moment before his grouchy stoicism returns. “Alright.”
He keeps his hand on the back of my neck for the entire walk down the hall and out of the bar. I don’t tell him I need it and appreciate it even though I really do.
Atticus makes me hold a garbage bag in front of my face the entire drive to the tattoo shop. He also makes me drink a bottle of water.
When he puts his truck in park, I open my eyes and peer over at him. Desperate to make light of the situation solely to shift the focus from my bullshit, I blink at him, rubbing my temples. “Go home at 2 with an 8, wake up at 8 with a 2.”
He says nothing for a moment, analyzing me across the dark cab of his truck. I sip the last of the water he gave me and drop the bottle into my empty puke bag.
“It’s still 2, and I was never an 8,” he deadpans, turning to face the small shop we’re parked in front of. I look, too, and am met with glowing neon lights lining a curtained window.
Only Ink.
I nod, knowing he’s taken me to a tattoo shop. Nodding makes me dizzy so I simply stare at the shop through the windshield, willing my head to slow down.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Atticus says, noticing how minimal function is a struggle. Drunk or not, I’m antsy to shift the focus.
“Is this where you got yours?”
“Some,” he answers.