I sat back in my chair, feeling as if I were having breakfast with a stranger. Or worse, my father.
Ten more minutes of silence squeezed by before our food arrived. I picked at my omelet, my appetite disappeared. Jonah stared at his plate of food and finally forked one wedge of potato. I watched from under my eyelashes as he chewed it slowly, as if it were a lump of gray clay. He swallowed hard and washed it down with sip of water. Then he pushed his entire plate away.
“Guess I’m not that hungry.”
After what I would forever call the Worst Breakfast Ever, we headed to Vegas Ink. I wanted a new tattoo and had set up time to visit Theo’s studio and see his work.
Jonah said almost nothing on the drive over. But just when the silence was beginning to be oppressive, he suddenly found his smile, took my hand and pressed it to his lips.
Vegas Ink was located at a mini-mall just off the Strip. Its walls were fire engine red and covered in framed examples of the tattoo artists’ work there. The chairs were overstuffed faux leather, also in red, and three artists were bent over their clients, Theo among them. The buzz of the needles was almost drowned out by heavy metal blasting over the sound system. A receptionist with a shaved head told us she’d let Theo know we were here. We took a seat in the waiting area, which was really nothing more than an upholstered bench near the front door, facing a wall of photographs. Past clients revealed fresh tattoos, their skin still raised red.
Jonah sank heavily onto the bench and picked up an issue of Inked magazine.
“Any idea what you’re going to get?” he asked. It was the first time he’d voluntarily spoken all morning.
“None,” I said. “But I’m eager to see your brother’s work.”
“He’s talented as hell,” Jonah said. “My father gives him too much shit for it. You’ll see when you check out his portfolio.”
I nodded and waited until Theo rounded the short corner, calling, “Hey, guys.”
The mere fact he sounded upbeat and animated filled me with relief and I all but jumped to my feet. “Hey. Thanks for making the time for me.”
Theo jerked his chin at Jonah. “You coming?”
“You guys go ahead,” Jonah said. “I need to give Eme a call. See what’s happening with the sale pieces.”
“You’re not going to help me pick something?” I asked, incredulous. I forced my smile to go wider. “Or where on my body it should go?”
Behind me, Theo coughed.
“Surprise me,” Jonah said. He pulled out his cell phone, conversation over.
My cheeks burning, I followed Theo to his chair, passing the other artists. One was a huge, burly guy with a bald, tattooed head, who was putting a feminine spray of violet flowers on a woman’s arm. The other artist was a young woman in black clothes and heavy makeup. She had large pale green eyes, almost cartoonish in her petite face. She looked like a gothic fairy. She gave me a nod as she drew the blood dripping from a fang of a hissing cobra on the back of young man’s calf.
I plunked myself in Theo’s chair and swiped a tissue from the box he used to wipe the blood away. I dabbed my eyes but I had no tears. My emotions were too tangled for my body to know what to do, so I sat, anxious and jumpy. In front of me, Theo leaned against the small, mirrored armoire upon which sat his ink gun, needles, and ink.
“Did you guys have a fight?” he asked in a low voice.
“No,” I said. “Or yes. I mean, maybe I’ve done something to piss him off, but I don’t know. He’s been acting so strange lately. Since the gallery opening.”
Theo’s stony expression hardened but his eyes went the other direction, filling with concern and something that looked close to fear. I realized I was going to scare the crap out of Theo for no good reason, and waved my hand quickly.
“You know what? He did say this morning he feels distracted. Without having to be at the hot shop all day, he’s not sure what to do with himself. I think he’s just decompressing.”
Theo nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”
“Can I see your work now?”
Theo handed me a thick, three-ringed binder, filled with photos and samples of his art. Jonah was right: Theo’s talent was incredible. I’d seen my fair share of tattoos. Each one of my tattoos came from someone different, each was all beautiful and perfect to me.
Theo blew them all away. His book had everything: basic black outline renderings, lettering in any font or script you could want. Biker tats—roses, skulls and snakes. Lifelike portraits, abstract and complex shapes, dreamscapes, fantastical beasts, pop culture icons. Page after page of visions. Had I been in a better frame of mind, I could’ve spent hours poring over his work, certain I couldn’t possibly narrow an idea or a concept down.
“You’re amazing, Teddy,” I said. “This is the best I’ve ever seen. I want something no one else has, but you make it hard to narrow it down.”
I want Jonah to smile again.