His head snapped up. “I didn’t run away.”
“No?”
He bit his lip and shrugged, turned back to the stove. “Maybe just a little. In culinary school, there was Macy. She was sweet, and really funny, and we had a blast. We got a place together, and it was great. But we kind of slid into being friends rather than lovers. I don’t know why. It just kind of happened. And then she met someone else and we broke up so she could be with him. We’re still friends though. She’s awesome.”
I liked that he seemed to have only good things to say about the women he’d had relationships with. And it started to answer a question that had been slowly growing in my mind ever since I’d met him. Was it possible that Christopher seemed so untroubled about romantic relationships simply because he’d had all good experiences? It didn’t seem possible, and yet… There was a kind of youth about him, even in the moments when he was taciturn or serious. Something generous and unharmed that I associated with naïveté, though he was far from naïve.
“Have you ever had your heart broken?” I asked. It sounded dramatic, almost accusatory.
When he looked up, his eyes were sharp, his expression heavy, and he didn’t look away. After an intense beat, he went back to mixing batter and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“Maybe not in the way you mean,” he said finally. “Not romantically. But, yeah. I have.”
Clearly not open to a follow-up, he turned sharply away and swept around the kitchen, fiddling with the stove, scraping some things together, chopping others. And all the while I tried to figure out what he meant. What did Christopher’s non-romantically broken heart look like?
I was still puzzling over it when he plunked two plates down onto the table I hadn’t noticed him clear.
The golden waffles smelled of vanilla and butter and the chicken was fried to a crispy golden brown. As I watched, Christopher poured on thick maple syrup, topped it with what looked like sugar-crusted pecans, spooned on a thick dot of cream, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. Finally, he scattered fresh mint over the plates and nudged mine slightly toward me, picking up his fork and knife.
“Holy mother love bone,” I swore, and my stomach growled loudly. It was the most beautiful breakfast I’d ever seen.
“Praline chicken and waffles,” he said, cutting into his food.
“I…this…holy shit, Christopher. I don’t even want to touch it, it’s so beautiful.”
His smile was so bright it got me right in the stomach. He reached over and cut a messy line right through the middle of my food.
“Problem solved.”
✕ ✕ ✕
It was a great day. We had cool clients and Lindsey’s music choices fit the mood perfectly. I was at exactly the right level of caffeination, and I’d gone to Mr. Shao’s for acupuncture before we opened, so my back and hands felt great. Christopher stopped by around dinnertime to drop off a sandwich for me.
Once he’d realized that I seriously did not cook at all, he’d decided it was his mission in life to ensure that I never missed a meal. I could almost hear his mother’s voice echoing in his head, but when I’d teased him about it he’d gotten this adorably shocked look, like it’d never occurred to him.
“Just tell me your favorites, so I know what to make,” he’d said the other day.
“I like lots of stuff,” I’d said. “Mostly I like to see what you decide to bring.”
It was like he was sending me little love notes in the form of sandwiches. I thrilled at opening the bag and seeing what he’d put together for me. Seeing if I could trace his logic from one day to the next. Was he building on things he knew I’d liked from before? Repeating things? Was there a schedule to what days he had what ingredients? It was like my own little romantic mystery that I got to puzzle over every day. And it didn’t hurt that this particular mystery came between slices of bread and was always delicious.
Today he hadn’t been able to stick around to see my reaction to his sandwich choice—he’d had things to do at home—but he’d left me a note on the napkin that explained, Thought I’d go full-on traditional Jewish deli and see if you liked it.
I couldn’t tell what it was at first, but when the first creamy bite of salt hit my tongue I knew it immediately. Chopped liver. My grandfather had made it when I was a kid, screwing an ancient metal grinder to his dented butcher block countertop. I’d eaten it in sandwiches and smeared on Ritz crackers. Scooped up with slices of cucumber, and on matzah at Passover. And all the time, I had never known what it was. When my father finally told me, I was disgusted. But my disgust only lasted until my grandparents’ Chanukah party when I saw the trays of toast spread with chopped liver and decided I didn’t give a shit if liver seemed gross because it tasted amazing. My grandfather died when I was ten and I hadn’t eaten it since.
I texted Christopher: You’ve outdone yrself. My Jewishness sings to yr liver ;) Yours isn’t *quite* as good as my grandfather’s, but that would be impossible.
He responded:
Then a minute later, he wrote: Remember I told you I lived with a friend in Baltimore for a while? Well, Wallace, my friend, is coming to town in a few days. I’d love him to meet you…any chance could you do dinner on Thursday?
I got a fizzy jolt at the idea that Christopher would want his friend to meet me, and wrote back, It’s on!
So, after such a good day, my stomach sank a little bit when, next to me, Marcus swore then turned to me and said, “Ummm, don’t kill me, okay?”
I immediately looked at his client’s arm, praying that I wasn’t about to see he’d misspelled something, but the tattoo looked beautiful, like his work always did.
“Oh god, it’s been such a good day. Of course something horrible is about to happen.”
“No, no, nothing horrible. Just…reserve judgment.”
“I never reserve judgment!”
“Okay, so, a friend of mine—someone I’ve known for years and is a great tattooist—just moved back to Philly. I didn’t know he was coming but now that he’s here…I think he’d be great here. So will you look at his work?”
“Yeah of course, babe, that’s awesome!”
“Er, great, because he’s here and I forgot to tell you.” Marcus nodded toward the front of the shop.
Just inside the door stood one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. He was shrouded in a black wool coat that looked too heavy for the weather, and had a gray scarf wrapped many times around his neck.
He was very tall and slim, and of mixed race, though I couldn’t tell his ethnic background, with dark skin and bleached-white hair in a messy topknot. His high, rounded cheekbones and the clean line of his jaw made him look aloof, like a model, but his full mouth turned up a bit at the corners, giving him a mischievous air. Dark eyebrows feathered over thickly-lashed gray eyes that were fixed on the corner of the ceiling above my head when I walked up to him.
“Hi, you’re Marcus’s friend? I’m Ginger.”
It took a moment for his eyes to leave the ceiling and focus on me, as if I’d interrupted him thinking about something important and totally absorbing. But then he smiled slightly as I was coming into focus, and nodded.
“Come on in. Sorry, Marcus didn’t quite get around to telling me your name,” I said just as Marcus came over, stripping off his gloves. The man bent to hug Marcus and kissed his cheek. Though he was tall, his shoulders made even broader by the heavy coat and voluminous scarf, he moved like mercury, each gesture as fluid as a dancer’s.
“This is Faron,” Marcus said, and Faron offered his hand.
Even his handshake was graceful. He had such a strong physical presence that I found myself staring at him even after we’d let go.
“Okay,” Marcus said. “I have to finish with this client, but you’re coming back to mine and Selene’s, yeah?”
Faron nodded slowly and inclined his head.
“Selene’s excited to meet you. It’s all good.” Marcus squeezed Faron’s arm
and went back to his client.
“Here, why don’t we go in the back,” I said.
I took Faron into one of the private rooms we used for piercings or tattoos where a client might not want to be undressed in the main shop, pulled the curtain closed, and sat in the chair. Faron stood just inside the curtain.
“You can throw your coat and stuff here.” I pointed to a coat hook and then gestured for Faron to sit wherever.
He set his portfolio carefully on the table, unwound his scarf, and shed his coat. He had to be six three or six four, but he neither slouched to seem shorter nor leveraged his height. He seemed completely comfortable in his skin. He wore skin-tight black jeans that made his long legs look even longer, pointy-toed red leather ankle boots, and a thick charcoal gray sweater that zipped up the sides. He sank gracefully into the chair against the wall and I forced myself to pick up his portfolio and leaf through it rather than staring at him like a total creep.
His talent was clear from the first image. Clean, confident lines, even shading, perfect proportion. As I flipped through a few more, his talent with color became clear. His colors were fully saturated, well-balanced, made even pedestrian tattoos look unique. I paused at one of a bumblebee that was done with only a shader. The texture of its body looked fuzzy; its wings gauzy. It was excellent work.
He had everything in here. Every style—from new school to horror, steampunk to portraits—and every mood, from memorials to cartoon puppy dogs. It was the most diverse portfolio I’d ever seen.
I closed it and looked at Faron. He was gazing up into the corner of the room at nothing.
“Why do you want to tattoo here?”
He looked at me, gaze shifting from dreamy to intense in a split second. When he opened his mouth, I realized he hadn’t spoken yet. His voice was low, and lighter than I expected, like driftwood.
“Marcus says you’re amazing, and I trust his opinion. I like that the shop is queer friendly.” He spoke slowly and clearly, but I got the sense it wasn’t his preferred mode of communication. As if he expressed himself in ink and pure physicality rather than words. “I saw your painting. Online. When I looked up the shop. You’re very talented.”
He glanced down at his boots, then crossed his legs as if to have something to do. It was the first gesture that had seemed anything but completely graceful.
“Thank you.”
“I paint too,” he said. His voice was soft, almost wistful, and I thought he’d say more, but he just looked up toward the ceiling again, like he’d gotten distracted.
“That’s cool. We should talk painting some time.”
He nodded absently, and gave me that hint of a smile again. He was a bit strange, that was for sure, but being in his presence I was filled with peace. It was a gut-level reaction, my electrons vibing with someone else’s, but it rarely failed me. And I knew that if he put me at ease, it was likely he’d have the same effect on customers.
Having Phee in the shop had been a huge help, but though he was very talented, he just wasn’t experienced enough to deal with everything that walked in the door yet. This guy was. Oh, yeah, he definitely was.
“All right,” I said.
Faron quirked an eyebrow and canted his head a bit, as if asking for confirmation.
I nodded, smiling. “You’re hired.”
“Thank you very much.”
He held out a hand, shaking mine firmly, and smiling broadly for the first time.
A slow, warm smile. The kind that wasn’t deployed casually to greet an acquaintance or say thank you. It was a smile that had to be genuinely elicited or not seen all.
⌃ ⌃ ⌃
Okay, Jude, now you’re pissing me off. I think I’ve been pretty patient up until now. I didn’t come out there when Kaspar fucking committed you, because you didn’t want to see anyone. I haven’t called because you asked me not to. I haven’t told you about how Mom cried for weeks after you went into the hospital. I haven’t complained about how she’s been channeling her stress over you into making me more food than I could possibly eat and begging me to come over and do my laundry at the house. I haven’t told you that Kaspar texts me every week to see if maybe you want to see him, finally. I haven’t tried to make you feel guilty that Dad keeps putzing around Melt, trying to fix shit that doesn’t need fixing because, hey, at least that lets him feel like he can fix something. And even though I’ve wanted to fucking scream at you for not writing me back sometimes, I get it. I know sometimes you just can’t.
But, Jude. Brother. You tried to fucking kill yourself and our fucking mother would just like to know if she’ll see you for fucking Christmas and if you don’t want me to drive up to fucking Boston and ask you in person, you will email me with one fucking word—a simple yes or no—so that I can tell Mom and Dad. I’m not playing, bro. Also, maybe call your damn boyfriend, you selfish fucking prick.
Chapter 11
Hiring Faron felt like possibly my greatest achievement to date. Or maybe that was just what the relief of getting an actual night’s sleep felt like. Or having time to both paint and hang out with the guy you liked, because you weren’t tattooing twelve hours every day.
I’d asked Marcus later what Faron’s story was, since he’d said so little, and Marcus had narrowed his eyes a bit, like he wasn’t sure how much I knew, and simply said, “He’s wonderful, you’ll see. Anything else isn’t really my story to tell.” Which was cryptic as fuck for Marcus, who was usually pretty straightforward, but I knew he’d never bring anyone into the shop who wasn’t on the up and up, so I just filed “find out what the hell Faron’s story is” alongside all the other dozens of items on my to-do list for after Malik’s show. I’d get to know him soon enough, anyway.
What I could tell right away was that Faron was wonderful with customers, just as I’d expected. He put them at ease, and he was clearly listening to them intently, even though he didn’t speak much. Watching him work was as mesmerizing as watching him do anything else, because of the way he moved. I’d simply never encountered anything like it before. It was as if every single gesture, down to the shift of a finger or the angle of a knee, was designed for maximal grace and minimal waste.
And it wasn’t just me. I caught customers staring at him, and Morgan and Lindsey seemed as fascinated as I was. “Are you a dancer?” Morgan had asked him when I introduced them. Faron had shaken his head and Morgan’s eyes had narrowed in an expression I recognized. It meant she was determined to get to the bottom of something.
In the few days since, Morgan had tried to find a crack in his grace, but it hadn’t happened. Not even when she’d thrown a roll of paper towels at him and then, while he was catching it, thrown a pen. He’d grabbed both out of the air with large, unerring hands, and placed them on his station, as if throwing things was totally reasonable behavior. Then he’d gone back to setting up his inks as Morgan’s eyes bugged out.
In addition to being a bit of an odd duck, Faron was also, without a doubt, one of the most talented artists I’d ever seen work. His method was unique too. Where almost every tattooist I’d ever seen began with the outline, Faron worked in layers, putting in ink lightly and then working to the dark spots, interspersing the liner with the shader. It gave his work uncommon depth and a flow, and I made a mental note to have him walk me through his whole process.
But it would have to wait until after Malik’s show. Just over three weeks. Very busy weeks, since the holidays were always swamped at the shop. Everything would have to wait until then.
Christopher had begun to hang out in my apartment more often. Sometimes he came to the shop after he closed Melt, kibitzed while we tattooed, and then stayed over. Sometimes he came through the shop and went up to my apartment while I was still working, so that I’d find him asleep in my bed or reading on the couch when I came upstairs. Seeing him there always felt both shocking and right.
I would wake him with a kiss, or by running my fingers through his hair. One night, when I’d felt particu
larly brave and needy, I’d crawled into his lap like a cat and kissed the soft spot under his chin that was becoming one of my favorite places.
It was a little disconcerting, really, how easily I had gotten used to having him in my life.
I’d started to crave the feeling of his warm hands on my shoulders; his soft lips on my skin as he learned every curve of my body and every inch of my ink; the way he looked at me so seriously when I spoke, like he bent every ounce of his attention to listening; his easy humor that took me by surprise because it often came out of nowhere.
Like the other day, when I’d popped into the shop for a midafternoon coffee and noticed a new addition to the chalkboard list of sandwiches. The Ginger: chopped liver with pastrami, Swiss cheese, grilled onions, pickles, potato chips, and spicy mustard on rye.
I pointed at the board and said, “What!?” only to find Christopher grinning at me.
“Thank god you finally noticed,” he said. “It’s been there for a week.”
“Is it…good?” I asked. Because though it contained my favorite things, I couldn’t imagine the combination.
“No idea,” he said, waving me off. “No one will ever order it. It sounds disgusting.”
“It sounds delicious,” I corrected. I couldn’t wait to tell Daniel that I now had my name on a menu board too.
“Well, yeah. It’s The Ginger. I’ll make it for you tonight.”
And that night when he’d come to the shop, he’d brought The Ginger, a towering three-slices-of-bread affair, explaining that, from a construction standpoint, he’d had to anchor the chips with the chopped liver, but that had necessitated a triple decker because the layers slid together too much without added traction. After one attempted bite that turned the whole affair into a victual demonstration of plate tectonics, I dumped the sandwich onto my plate and cut it up into chunks I could spear with my fork. He’d shaken his head in bewildered horror, thrown his hands up, and made a beeline for my apartment, claiming he couldn’t watch.