Luca coughs to hide a laugh.
“Something you’ll never let us forget,” Isla says, laughing.
“There’s something to be said for doing what you love,” I say.
“Tattooing is extremely limiting,” Mom says.
“I guess that’s one way to look at it. It’s art.”
“If you call skulls on people’s skin art,” Mom says under her breath.
Isla’s knee presses lightly into mine under the table.
I love them. I do. I know their criticism is just because they love me. But sometimes it wears on me. I realize I’ve disappointed them by not living up to what they consider my potential, but I wish they could be happy that I’m happy.
But you aren’t even all that happy, the critic in my head chirps.
“You’re so much smarter than this,” Mother adds, softer now.
The words sting more than the judgment.
“I’m not wasting my brain,” I say gently. “I’m using my brain and my hands. And people trust me to create something lasting on their bodies that they’ll be happy with forever. That feels important.”
Dad leans back slightly. He does not approve, but he usually bends, and that’s for one reason only. He thinks I bailed him out once, and his pride will never let him forget that.
“You’re right, honey. You might not be doing what we wished for you, but you’re making an honest living.” That’s his version of a compromise.
Luca lifts his glass. “Her work’s incredible, by the way. Half my office has traveled to New York to see her, or are on her waitlist. And her following on social media is insane. Multiple times we’ve been out eating dinner, and people recognize her. She’s famous.”
He grins at me, and Mom just closes her eyes briefly and sighs. Isla squeezes my hand under the table and changes the subject. The tension dissolves just enough to breathe again.
Later, as plates are cleared, Mom says, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Lola—Patrick called earlier.”
I frown. “Why would he call here?”
She lifts her eyebrows. “He says you’re avoiding his calls.”
“I am. We broke up.”
“Well, you know I’m not too sad about that,” she says, shaking her head.
I hesitate, then say it. “I ran into Tully Whitman.”
The shift is immediate.
Mom’s mouth tightens, and Dad’s eyebrow lifts.
“The hockey player from college?” she asks. “Where?”
“Yes. And actually, it’s been twice now. Once at his family’s resort, and then again, here. Today.”
“He’s here?” Isla asks, sitting up straighter.
I nod.
“Resort?” Dad’s forehead creases.
I knew that would catch his attention.
