“That makes one of us,” Theo said.
Jonah brushed off the fork, and rested his elbows on the table, regarding his brother with affection. “Theo cupped his hands over thin air and told me he’d caught a butterfly. I asked to see it, but he was afraid it would fly off.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Last week,” Jonah said.
“Try twenty years ago, asshole,” Theo muttered.
“Language, please,” Henry said.
Jonah’s voice grew low, the teasing ebbing out of it. “Finally he said I could hold it. He put his hands in mine, all the while describing the butterfly’s wings—bright blue, rimmed in black. How it opened and closed them, as if it were breathing. He even told me how its legs looked like black hairs against my skin. Remember, Theo? “
I glanced at the tough, built, tattooed man sitting across from me, glaring daggers at his brother. Yet I could easily see the sweet little boy he’d been, describing this nonexistent but precious butterfly.
“But I wasn’t careful enough,” Jonah said. “I opened my hands too much and Theo said the butterfly flew away. He cried and cried.”
“Are you fucking done?” Theo said.
“Language,” Henry murmured.
All the teasing was gone from Jonah’s face now. “I never apologized for letting it go,” he said. “I tried to give him another one—a monarch in orange and black, but it was the blue butterfly he wanted. And it was gone forever. I’m sorry about that, bro.”
Theo sat back in his chair. “Are you serious?”
Jonah shrugged. “Just clearing the air.”
The brothers stared silently. A silence full of love despite Theo’s hard tone. Full of that one memory and thousands like it.
“So,” Beverly clapped her hands together. “Who has good news?” She turned to me. “I believe everyone has good news from the previous week, even if only a little.”
“Jonah has amazing news.” I put my hand over his and gave it a squeeze. “Right?”
His mother leaned in. “What’s that, dear?”
Jonah toyed with his fork, his gaze flickering to Theo and then down to his plate. “So, Eme Takamura—the gallery curator? She says Dale Chihuly is going to try to attend the opening for my installation.”
Beverly’s hand flew to her throat. “Really? Honey, that’s wonderful news.”
“Remarkable,” Henry said. “Well done, son.”
Jonah sat back in his chair. “Well, hold on, he hasn’t said he’s going to be there. Only that he’d try.”
“Still, the fact he’d even consider it,” Henry said. “It means he’s taken note of your work.”
“I guess,” Jonah said.
“It’s fucking awesome,” Theo said. “He’d better show up. Be an idiot not to.”
For once his language went un-admonished. Another loaded look passed between the brothers and I found myself smiling, as if I’d become a translator of their unspoken exchanges.
“Theo has good news,” Jonah said. “One of his clients is going to be photographed for Inked magazine. He’ll be credited on one of the designs.”
The barest smile flickered over Theo’s lips.
“That’s wonderful,” Beverly said.
“Body pollution, is what it is,” Henry said.
Jonah set his empty bottle down hard. “Jesus, Dad.”
I leaned back in my chair, fighting the urge to cover the tattoos on my bare arms.
“What?” Henry said. “No one is a bigger fan of my sons’ talents. Theo is an exceptional artist, but it boggles my mind to think of spending one’s life drawing on other people.”
“Because it’s art,” Theo said. “It’s permanent art people carry with them. And when I get my own place, I’ll be a legit business owner.”
“You’ll be taking a risk,” Henry replied.
“Can we not do this right now?” Jonah said.
As the Fletcher men glowered at each other, I thought Henry was nowhere near as intimidating as my father, but his disapproval of Theo left the same bad taste in my mouth.
“Not every guy who can draw can be a tattoo artist,” I said in the silence. “It’s a special skill, being able to take a person’s vision and turn it into a reality. And you’re absolutely right it’s a risk. The artist has to ink it perfect the first time, because there’s no second time. Jonah can recycle the glass and start over. Theo gets one shot. No do-overs.”
I felt all eyes on me but I only looked at Theo, who stared back in that way he had, like he couldn’t believe I was real.
“Obviously I’m biased,” I said, running a hand along my arm. “But I don’t see it as body pollution. It’s expression. Every one of my tattoos means something. And getting the tattoo is as much a part of it as having one. Because of the trust and collaboration with the artist.” The silence deepened. I shrugged and took a sip from my fake beer. “Just my two cents.”
Henry shifted in his seat. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
Everyone seemed to exhale at once. Jonah’s hand found mine under the table and he gave it a squeeze.
Beverly stood up, gathering plates. “Who wants dessert?”