Careful Hearts: A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story

state line, he decides to tell me he’s got to drop off his child support check before midnight or he’s going to get busted for leaving town without checking in with his parole officer on account of several outstanding warrants or whatnot.”

  “Ouch,” I say, blowing out a lung full of air. “Where to get started on that one? How about this: did you even know he was married before?”

  “Married? Heck no, I was barely eighteen at the time. Marriage was the farthest thing from my mind. And before you ask, no I didn’t know he had a kid, either! Or a parole officer or outstanding warrants!”

  “So, what… his ex-wife lives here, in Snowflake? That must get awkward around the holidays.”

  She snorts and kicks my shin playfully. “No, she lives in Hilton Head. We just happened to be getting gas in Snowflake when I grabbed my duffel bag and walked away from the car. That’s the last time I ever saw him. I came straight here and blew half my running away money on this stupid tattoo.”

  She points gingerly to the broken heart tattoo. Suddenly, yeah, it looks twice as cool.

  I nod, waiting for the punch line. When it doesn’t come right away I prod her with, “And… that saved your life how exactly?”

  She snorts and confesses, “Turns out the tattoo artist was shorthanded. I showed him my portfolio and he hired me, on the spot. At first it was just part-time, drawing up designs when customers came in wanting custom ink. Then he trained on me on the needles, the colors, bigger, better techniques. When he was talking about closing up shop a few years ago, I asked him if he wouldn’t think about selling it to me first. He did and, here I am. Life saved, bad boyfriend long gone, all is forgiven, end of story.”

  Suddenly, as if on cue, the pizza oven dings and I leap up to scoop dinner out on the giant wooden paddle that always hangs, freshly flour dusted, from a special rack next to the giant silver oven.

  I plate it on a giant round tray, dented from thousands of previous uses, and slice it with a gleaming round blade that makes short work of the thin, whole wheat crust.

  The tray just fits where the two counters meet in the corner of the storefront.

  Tori eagerly takes a slice, puts it on a plate and then… hands it to me.

  It’s kind of nice, when someone you’ve just met turns out to be even the least bit generous.

  “Ladies first,” I say.

  She licks a thumb and takes it back with a shrug.

  We eat quietly, barely noticing the cheesy love songs playing on the AM/FM radio by the cash register.

  “Not bad, new guy,” she gushes after her first slice, reaching gingerly for her second. “Spinach? Mushroom? And is that feta I taste in the four-cheese blend? I don’t remember ever having this before.”

  “That’s because it’s not on the menu,” I inform her. “We used to make this at my old pizza parlor all the time.”

  “So… what? You just go around the country working in pizza parlors and hitting on the chicks who work next door or something?”

  I snort and wait until my mouth is no longer full. “Technically, yes, but… I was actually on my way home when I had to stop here.”

  “Home?”

  “Orlando.”

  “Oh yeah? What happened? Your engine blow or something?”

  “No, but my driving home budget did. I wound up in town this morning with ten bucks in my wallet. I knew I could either get enough gas to get me nowhere fast, or buy breakfast and take some time to actually figure out what to do.”

  “So, lemme guess… breakfast won out?”

  “Actually, I skipped breakfast and bought a paper instead. Dolly’s ‘Help Wanted’ ad was the first one I saw in the Classifieds section. I knew I had some experience, so… here I am.”

  She nods soberly, halfway through her third slice and finally slowing down. “Not likely.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, mouth full of provolone, Portobello and roasted eggplant.

  She puts down her slice, shoves the plate away and says, “That doesn’t sound like the end of your story at all, Reggie. I mean, nothing personal, but… you don’t strike me as the traveling pizza parlor guy with only ten bucks in his wallet type.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, traveling pizza parlor guy types normally have longer hair, and scruffy beards that smell like beef jerky, and tattoos and don’t wear pleated khakis and deck shoes to work.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, leaning back on my stool and looking down at the floor. “But what do college dropouts wear?”

  “I don’t know,” she says firmly. “I never got close enough to an actual college to drop out of one. Why don’t you tell me?”

  There’s a tone to her voice, kind of like Dotty had.

  Something like, “I should be so lucky to drop out of college, so what are you complaining about?”

  And, no doubt, she’s right.

  “Well, I didn’t drop out so much as withdraw.”

  “Is there a difference?” she asks, one eyebrow arched curiously.

  “I used to think so, but it turns out either way you’re screwed. I thought by withdrawing I could at least get my Dad’s tuition money back for the semester, you know? Go home less of a loser. Only, not so much. Not only did I lose all his money, but they kicked me out of my dorm room as well, so I had nowhere to go.”

  “When did you find all this out?”

  “Last week, when I came back to my room and they’d already changed the locks. My ex-roomie opened the door, sheepishly, and somebody was already sleeping in my bed!”

  “Dang, those college guys move fast.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been slowly inching my way home ever since, trying to figure out what I was going to tell my folks. Then I got a flat tire in Raleigh, and the other three tires were bald so I had to replace them, and by the time I got down here, well, you already know the $10 story.”

  “So… what are you going to do now?”

  “Earn enough money to drive back home. One day, I guess. And pay my Dad back for last semester’s tuition. And save up enough to pay for my next semester on my own.”

  “Couldn’t you just… call your folks? Just for a little ‘get home’ cash, I mean?”

  “Been there, tried that, both said ‘no.’ ”

  “Really?” she asks, biting her lower lip. “Just because you dropped out of school.”

  I look away and admit, “Well, it wasn’t exactly my first time…”

  She chuckles and taps my knee to get my attention. “Listen, Snowflake’s a great little town. A little on the quiet side, but… maybe it won’t be so bad once you get used to it.”

  Her hand is still on my knee, warmth radiating out from her single finger.

  She removes it, almost self-consciously, but our eyes stay locked on one another’s.

  Hers are brown, almost chocolate brown.

  Then she leans back and sighs, almost contentedly.

  I do the same.

  Suddenly, in the silence, we notice a jazzy, blues kind of lady singing about “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

  For once, the music is actually… nice.

  She smiles and sways a little, in time to the soft, jazzy beat.

  Outside the big plate glass window behind her the streets of Snowflake are empty, despite blinking heart and cupid lights on every storefront up and down Main Street.

  I look up at the clock over the door and see it’s nearly 9 p.m.

  “Only three hours to go,” I sigh and she snorts again, reaching inside the little zipper pocket of her pants for some money.

  “Get out of here,” I say, pushing her crumpled bills back at her. “It’s Valentine’s and you’re showing me the ropes, so… it’s on the house.”

  “Oh, Dotty won’t like you giving the tattoo parlor chick free pizza on your first night.”

  “What are you,” I crack, “some kind of spy or something?”

  “Hardly,” she snickers. “I’m just saying, is all…”

  “Well, anyway,
Dotty said I could have all the free pizza I wanted, in lieu of, you know, an actual paycheck. She didn’t say you couldn’t eat it with me.”

  She pouts and jiggles her left shoe anxiously.

  “I still feel bad,” she says. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

  I pretend to grab at my collar and take off my shirt as I gush, “Wow, I thought you’d never ask!”

  She snorts but, thankfully, stops me before I’m out of my sweaty T-shirt.

  (Can you say, “Ripe”?)

  “No, seriously. I think a tattoo is in honor of your first Valentine’s Day in Snowflake!”

  “No way,” I chuckle, waving my hands as if to get away. “That would make my folks real happy. Showing up broke, no college education, smelling like pepperoni and sporting a new tattoo. No thanks!”

  “What? You’re saying you’d be ashamed to take me home to your folks?”

  “You? No way. That’s because your tattoos look good on you. Me? I’m not exactly the ‘tattoo type,’ if you know what I mean.”

  “Okay, so… we’ll give you a tattoo for the non-tattoo type. Something tame that won’t keep you from getting a ‘real’ job one of these days, okay?”

  “I dunno, sounds slightly less horrific, but… what about the store?”

  “Oh please,” she pooh-poohs, physically dragging me off of my stool. “You’ll be able to see the store at all times.”

  “Yeah,” I grumble, following her out the door and into the tattoo parlor, where the same jazzy love songs tinkle from the getting better and better radio station. “Unless I pass out from the shock and pain, that is.”

  “Please, it won’t hurt a bit, and I promise you’ll love it when it’s done.”

  I sit forward in her black leather work chair, allowing her to yank up my left sleeve and dab a clean, cold antiseptic swab where my bicep meets my shoulder.

  I lean over to see what she’s doing but even without her gently shoving my chin back down, I can’t get a look at the design she’s carefully tracking with a thin, felt pen.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I sigh, settling in and glancing, every few seconds, at the open pizza parlor door.

  I feel disconnected, but not unhappy.

  Since getting kicked out of my dorm last week, and sleeping in my car ever since, taking the long, lonely trip on fumes, I haven’t had much to look forward to.

  Suddenly, I have a good job, plenty of food in my belly, a roof over my head and a hottie tattoo artist manhandling my naked arm!

  Happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

  At least whatever it is she’s doing, it will be high enough on my arm to be covered by an average work sleeve.

  You know, unless it’s some long, twisting dragon that goes down to my fingernails!

  “You ready for this?” she asks, breath warm and faintly, but not unpleasantly, garlic-y on my ear as she leans in with her upper body.

  “I’m just saying, whatever you’re about to do, I trust you, okay?”

  “Aw,” she snickers, and I feel the first heated pinch of the tattoo needle pierce my upper arm. “Isn’t that sweet!”

  She talks quietly the whole while the little needle does its dance just shy of my shoulder, whirring and stinging and pricking and vibrating close to my ear.

  She talks of holidays past, of her family back home, and how long it’s been since she’s seen them, and all the while I grit against the pain.

  She gets me talking, too, but most of it is incoherent rambling until, at last, the stinging… suddenly… stops.

  I hear the crinkling of a bandage opening and feel some type of soothing balm on the sizzling heat that was once my arm.

  She taps my shoulder lightly and whispers in my ear, “All done, big guy!”

  I sit up and feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Can I see it yet?”

  I look down and see only gauze and oozing flesh.

  “Give it a second to cool off, hot shot,” she snickers, leaning back in her chair. “See that wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

  “Not for you, I suppose!”

  “Come on you big baby,” she says, helping me out of the chair and over to the mirror.

  I pull up my sleeve while she gently eases off some goo-smeared gauze. There, underneath, rests a small but perfectly rendered… snowflake.

  “What the…” I ask, turning toward her.

  As if waiting for me to look her way, she has inched down one sleeve of her tank top to reveal the same exact tattoo on the back of her shoulder.

  I reach out to touch it, her skin soft and supple beneath my finger.

  She doesn’t flinch, or even react, so I trace it, lightly, until I’ve outlined it two whole times.

  “Will mine look that good?” I ask as she slips the sleeve back over her own tiny snowflake.

  “Better. Once the swelling goes down, that is…”

  I smile, somehow glad I was conned into getting a tattoo.

  On this night, in this town, by this girl.

  We stand awkwardly, now that the deed is done and there’s really no more reason for us to hang out together anymore.

  Outside her parlor the night is dark and, suddenly, I hear footsteps.

  A couple, woozy on their feet, are stumbling toward the pizza parlor smooching all over each other and slurring, “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, sugar bear” and, “No, Happy Valentine’s Day to you, shnookums...”

  I manage to beat them inside the shop and watch, behind them, as Tori goes back to sweeping the floor.

  Business picks up for a little while after that.

  Not much, but enough to keep me flinching every time the heat from the open pizza oven bathes my tender tattoo in shimmering waves.

  One hour passes, then two, until at last midnight is close enough for me to follow Dotty’s list of closing duties.

  After locking up for the night, I turn off the oven, mop the floor, clean the soda nozzles (again), wipe down the counter spaces and, finally, wrap all the fresh veggies and meats and cheeses and stow them in the walk-in cooler.

  I’m counting the register drawer for a third time, just in case, when Tori closes her door.

  Light by light, the little tattoo parlor grows dim, then dark. At last, Tori is nowhere to be seen.

  I keep waiting for her to pop back into my line of vision, wave, and slink back over.

  She never does.

  Quietly, alone, I finish my duties with a heavy heart, suddenly feeling far from cheery.

  All day long I’ve been running on fumes, going from high to high with the job to the room upstairs to the dinner with the hot tattoo chick from next door to an actual tattoo to the last minute Valentine’s Night pizza crowd and, now, as midnight looms and my first full day in Snowflake comes to a close, I’m back to being all alone.

  But… I don’t have to be, do I?

  I mean, her store may be closed but Tori’s still my neighbor, right?

  And this is the most romantic night of the year, am I right?

  With the oven still plenty hot enough for my last-minute plans, I take out a wedge of fresh dough, sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon, a little apple pie filling and some pineapple from the fixing’s tray, and let it sear on the top rack as its sweet and sour smells fill the tiny kitchen space.

  10-minutes and it should be good to go.

  I root around through the walk-in cooler, hoping against hope my workmate Lumpy enjoys himself a shift drink now and again when there, in the corner, behind a stack of sweaty lettuce boxes I find a forgotten six pack of seasonal brew. Well, a five-pack anyway. Lumpy must have had one while closing up over the holidays, gotten busy and forgotten. Lucky me!

  I head out to the tips jar, grab a few crumpled bills, write a quick “IOU” and slide it out of its hiding place just as the dessert pizza starts to smell vaguely romantical!

  I use the employee restroom to freshen up, soaping and lathering myself behind locked doors and rooting around
the supply closet until I find a giveaway Snowflake Soda ‘N Slice shirt in about my size.

  It feels crisp and too snug, but at least it’s not sweaty.

  Much.

  I take the stairs two at a time, running a free hand through my hair as I lay the beer at my feet and knock on the door – the only door – directly across the narrow hallway from mine.

  I hear footsteps, heavy ones, and a male voice behind the door.

  My heart sinks as a big guy, the long greasy hair and leather biker vest type, opens the door just enough to poke his head out and grunts, “Yeah?”

  “Oh, s-s-sorry,” I babble yuppily, “just… being neighborly. H-H-Happy Valentine’s Day, then!”

  “Great,” says the voice before shutting the door. From the other side I hear him chuckle, “Valentine’s my...”

  And that’s that.

  So much for my big romantic holiday moment.

  Of course Tori has a boyfriend.

  Why wouldn’t a girl that hot have somebody shacking up with her?

  And of course she has a big, bad, ugly boyfriend with hair greasy enough to coat my pizza oven with.

  And of course I looked like a fool, cheery smile, pizza in hand, knocking on the door on the biggest couple’s night of all couple’s night.

  “H-H-Happy Valentine’s Day,” I stutter, mimicking myself as I whisper in self-disgust.

  I turn around, open my door and inch inside, just hoping to become as invisible as quickly impossible.

  There is a small wooden table, two chairs that don’t match, and – duh – no fridge.

  Oh well, I think ruefully.

  More beer for me.

  I sit down at the table and open the first beer.

  There is a light tapping at the door as I take my first sip.

  I take a chance that the knock is too gentle for the biker boyfriend dude and say, “Come in?”

  It still manages to come out sounding… uncertain.

  “I’m so sorry about that!” Tori gushes, looking adorable in little snowmen pajama bottoms and a white snowflake tank top.

  When the door shuts behind her I look up, surprised, and ask, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?” she squawks. “Dude, that’s my old boss! The one who sold me the tattoo parlor? He showed up totally skunked and needing a place to crash. He’s in town visiting his family, only they got tired of his drunk butt and this must have been the first place he thought of. Anyway, he passed out, like, two seconds after shutting you down. Wait… what… what’s that heavenly, delicious smell?”

  I flip open the size small