Page 4 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

He lets out a low whistle.

“You inking that on someone?”

I flip the pad shut. “Just passing time.”

“Shit.” He crosses his arms, studying me with that expression he gets sometimes, the one I can’t fully read. Part respect, part something more complicated. “You know, if you could just get your act together?—”

“Working on it.”

He looks at me like he’s running the math on that. Whether it’s true this time or whether it’s more of what I’ve given him before—I’m fine, everything’s fine—right up until I go sideways again and leave a gap in the schedule that someone else has to cover.

He doesn’t say it.

Mack is the kind of guy who only says the hard thing once and then waits.

He’s been waiting a while.

The thing I don’t tell him or any of these guys is that something actually has shifted the last couple of years. I don’t know if they’ve noticed and I’m sure not fucking asking.

It’s not just the meds, which took longer to get right than anybody ever warns you about. But also the Tuesday thing.

Every Tuesday at four, I drive to a beige office building in south Austin and sit across from a guy named Dr. Delaney who wears button-up shirts and the occasional cardigan and who, in my experience, has never once reacted to anything I’ve said the way I expected him to.

He asks questions that start easy and end up being about something completely different. He tells me to keep up my regular swims and eat protein and keep a routine. He saysthat makes sensea lot. Which, the first time I heard it, I thought was therapist bullshit and by month three was the most important three words anyone had ever said to me.

Lately the rollercoasters are more like kiddie coasters. Still a ride. Just—smaller ups, and more manageable downs. I can seethe bottom coming now before I’m already there and put on the brakes.

The shop door bell rings.

Mack peels off toward the back.

“All yours,” he says, and the hand he drops on my shoulder on the way past is approximately forty percent encouragement and sixty percentI do not want to deal with whoever this is.

Two girls walk in. They’re in their early twenties, dressed for a night out that hasn’t started yet. One of them is already on her phone. They look around the shop like people who made a dare and are committed now.

“Hi,” I say. “Walk-ins welcome. Looking to book something today, or just browsing?”

“Today,” the taller one says. She pops her gum. “Definitely want a tattoo today.”

I pull out my portfolio and set it on the counter, flipping to the back half—the detailed blackwork florals and delicate linework I do for people who want something small and precise. I’ve learned to read a walk-in inside about thirty seconds.

“How about these?” the other one asks, already drifting toward the wall display of flash tattoos.

I keep my sigh on the inside. “Of course.”

It’s rare I get to put any of my art on folks, and it’s fine if today is more of the same. I can practice my application technique with flash.

They spend a few minutes pointing at things. I stand back and let them look. The one on her phone keeps glancing over at me in a way that I’ve gotten practiced at not directly acknowledging. I’ve made that mistake before. No hooking up with clients.

“Okay, so.” The taller one turns around holding her phone up, showing me a basic butterfly outline she’s pulled up on Pinterest. “Can you do something like this? Right here?”

She pulls up the back of her shirt and points to the small of her back.

I keep my face easy. “Absolutely. Let me draw that out and we’ll pick a size.”

It’s twenty minutes of work, tops. I get her situated and start tracing the stencil, and the other one settles into the waiting chair and starts chatting at me like I’m a bartender or a hairdresser. It’s part of the job. Just one I’m not always as good at. Depends on the day you catch me.

“You’re, like, actually really good at this,” she says.