Page 108 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Does it hurt? Do you feel the needles? Oh my God, is that actual blood?” Max is transfixed, pushed to his knees on the stool beside me, slack jawed as my tattoo artist does her work.

“It hurts, but I’m tough.” Except this is the first tattoo I’ve gotten sober (second if you count the simpler one Cearra already did this morning—a surprise for Sadie), and I don’t remember the process hurting this much during those drunken WITSEC nights. “The blood’s no big deal,” I tell Max.

Finally getting Max-designed ink is a big deal—the Cessna 195 on the inside of my left biceps. From an actually talented tattoo artist.

When Kyle was over for our first playdate, and he told me his wife was a tattoo artist about to open a local shop, Max and I scrolled through her impressive online shots, goggling at the realism in her colorful work. I booked her the next day.

“How do you do the shading?” Max’s eager gaze latches onto Cearra. “Do you use the same needles or switch to the ones with more lines stacked together? And does the color fade over time or stay the same? Like with the sun and stuff? Mom tells me if I leave my shirt on the clothesline in the sun it’ll fade. And how come the purple outline doesn’t smear off?”

“Those are a lot of questions, Max. But since you’re the artist of this cool piece, I’ll answer every one.”

I’m thankful for the reprieve. Keeping up with Max’s inquisitive mind is tough when I’m trying to breathe through the dig of those vibrating needles. The kid’s art obsession has actually saved me more times than I can count when Sadie’s been away.

If I need a couple of hours to make dinner and do the laundry, I get him going on an art project. If I need an hour to talk to Lennon and discuss Littlewing’s expansion, I get Max going on an art project. If I need to shut myself in the bathroom so I can talk dirty to Sadie on her lunch break, I get him going on an art project.

Give this kid’s mind a creative outlet, and he’s instantly obsessed.

Cearra somehow maintains her focus on her work while answering his question barrage. I can’t help but smile at him. My resting pleased-as-shit-father face these days. I mean, it’s not all roses, as Sadie warned. His art obsession has led to skipped homework and a punishment I had to reluctantly dole out. And the cooking is intense. Like, three meals a day, every day intense. Seriously. Every. Day. Not sure how my mind skimmed over that duty, but here we are. Max also mopes around at times, missing his mom when she’s away, possibly blaming me for her new job. Granted, I am partly to blame for her living in Arizona for short stretches, but I don’t regret one second of that choice.

When I speak to Sadie, she talks like Max asks art questions, going a mile a minute, praising the gorgeous gallery space, telling me about the caliber of artists she’s working with, gushing about their mentorship program, how it will incorporate a yearly exhibit she’s heading.

She loves what she’s doing, and I couldn’t be prouder.

We’re on a countdown now. She’s been gone two weeks, with one more to go. The calendar in our kitchen has a big fuzzy heart sticker on it, chosen by Max, indicating the day she’s back. So far, two weeks is the longest we’ve been apart, and I was right about the I-miss-you sex. Fucking intense.

The tattoo machine buzzes. Max watches, entranced.

The front door jingles, signaling a newcomer. E saunters into Cearra’s small one-person shop and stands over us, arms folded across his chest. “Max. I thought we agreed on the poop emoji tattoo.”

Max giggles. “No, we didn’t.”

I stare blandly at my brother. “I debated getting your portrait but decided I didn’t want Sadie to run screaming when she saw it.”

E blinks at me, then leans down toward Cearra’s ear, feigning a whisper. “If I slip you a fifty, will you turn that plane into a worm?”

She rolls her eyes. “Get lost, E. Unless you want your face inked.”

“It’s incredible work,” he says more seriously. “Can’t believe my brother’s finally gonna have decent art on his body. And although I know you love having me here heckling you, I’m actually here for him.” He points at Max. “Delilah has a chocolate banana cookie experiment that needs tasting. What do you say we help her out for a few, then you can come back here?”

Max is up and moving before E finishes. “Is it one of the big plate-size cookies?”

“Face-size. Think you can handle it?”

Now he’s running and dragging E, pushing out the door.

“He’s a great kid.” Cearra wipes a section of ink, glancing between Max’s art and the outline on my arm. “Super talented and smart. Kyle and I will be lucky if Nyah turns out half as sweet.”

“Nyah’s a doll. Max loves playing with her.”

“Your Dad Dates are adorable.”

And informative. Thanks to Kyle and our Dad Date afternoons, I now know how to remove an ink stain from a shirt: a combination of hairspray, soaking time, elbow grease, plus a few prayers that Max’s favorite shirt won’t be ruined, because he gets seriously upset when his favorite clothes are ruined. Lennon and I also hired Kyle to design our website for our newly branded business. We’ve changed the company name from Littlewing Outdoor Camp to Littlewing Adventures. Its adult-geared sister company is Bigwing Adventures. Aside from revamped websites, my first order of business was ordering new, nonyellow, nonsuctioned T-shirts.

“We’ll do a family night soon,” I tell Cearra. “With all of us. Maybe when Sadie’s back next week.”

She hums her agreement and resumes her work. The machine buzzes as rock music plays. Pain flares in my arm, but not unbearably. I close my eyes, breathe through the discomfort that dulls slightly as she works.

The bell on the front door jingles again. I open my eyes and almost jump out of the chair.