SPONTANEITY ISN’T ALL it’s cracked up to be. I’m learning this lesson now. And it’s a painful one. “How much longer?” I ask.
“It would be over a lot faster if you’d calm down,” the tattoo artist replies. I glance at my wrist and see that I’m bleeding again. Apparently, this happens when you’re nervous. This whole process was only supposed to take a couple of minutes, but because I’m nervous, the tattooist has to keep stopping and blotting up blood so the ink doesn’t smear.
Jesse squeezes my hand even tighter, which was something I did not think was possible. He’s already gripping it so firmly, you’d think the needle was being driven into his wrist, not mine.
“Tell me a story,” I say. Maybe if Jesse talks to me, I’ll calm down and we can speed things up.
“This one time,” he says, “I let a girl convince me to take her to get a tattoo, and it was the worst decision I’d ever made.”
I smack his arm. “Come on. A real story.”
“I can’t think of a real story right now. I’m too preoccupied thinking about how much I want this to be over for you.” It’s sweet how concerned he is. I try to focus on that rather than on the incessant needle, which feels like a hundred bees stinging me at once.
“Why are you doing this?” he clarifies. “I mean, I get that you’re doing it because it’s on the list. But why is it on the list?”
“All of my bucket-list items are supposed to challenge me in some way.”
“What’s the point of this challenge?” he asks. “To see how much pain you can endure?”
“To do something I’m afraid of.”
I must start bleeding again because the woman gives me a look as if to say “calm down.” Jesse returns her look with a glare that says “back off.”
I can’t help but smile. I’m so glad I told Jesse about the list. And I’m so glad he’s here. This is not something I would have relished doing alone.
“What was the challenge behind the painting you did earlier?” he asks.
“I was trying to discover my passion. Do you have a passion?”
“I’m passionate about wanting this to be over soon.”
“You and me both,” I say as I shoot a glance at the tattoo gun. Why am I looking at the tattoo gun?
Jesse reaches out and turns my chin. “Eyes right here,” he says, pointing to his own.
I do what he says because I know he’s looking out for my best interest. Jesse’s eyes also aren’t a bad place to have to stare. I had thought they were brown, but now I can see flecks of blue too. More noticeable than the color of his eyes, though, is the way they make me feel: seen. This is equal amounts nice and unnerving, but I concentrate on how nice it is given that I can’t afford to feel any more unnerved than I already do.
“Seriously, though,” I say, circling back to our earlier conversation. “Do you have a passion?”
“I like to think I’m a passionate guy,” he says.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I mean are you passionate about something specific, like a skill or a hobby?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Is this something the self-help books have convinced you that you need to find?”
I sigh and explain that everyone seems to have a passion except for me.
He narrows his eyes even more. “Who cares what everyone else has? That seems like a bad reason to want something.”
“You know, for someone who doesn’t read self-help books, you know a lot of self-help speak.”
He shrugs. “I just think everyone’s journey is different. Read a few novels and you’ll see that. There’s no point in comparing stories.”
“Well, on your journey, have you developed any particular passions?” I don’t let up. I’m not sure if it’s because of my curiosity or because this conversation is providing a nice distraction.
Jesse grips my hand even tighter.
“Right now,” he says, “I’m passionate about keeping the inn. And I’m passionate about getting you to the other side of this. And if finding a passion is important to you, then I’m passionate about helping with that in any way that I can.”
I’m about to thank him when the tattoo artist tells me she’s finished.
I check out my design before she bandages it.
Jesse inspects it too, and now he’s the one who’s wincing.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he replies.
“That’s not your nothing face.” It’s crazy I already know his nothing face, but that moment by the fire earlier showed it to me. “You were definitely thinking something.”
He bites his bottom lip as if still debating whether or not he’s going to tell me what’s on his mind.
“Say it,” I demand and he sighs.
“I know it’s a little late to mention this. But you’ve only been here three days. Are you sure you want that tattooed on your wrist for the rest of your life?”
I give his arm another smack. “You’re right. It is a little late to say that.”
“You told me to tell you what I was thinking!”
Fair enough. I can’t be mad. As the tattoo artist starts applying my bandage, covering up the letters VT that are now permanently etched on my wrist, I explain that it’s just a symbol.
“This trip to Vermont is about being true to myself and reminding myself that it’s never too late to start over. I think those are two good things for me to remember forever.”
Jesse smiles. He looks relieved, and also convinced, that I picked an okay tattoo after all. “Yeah,” he says a beat later, confirming that I also read both of those looks right. “I think so too.”
—
“If you need help checking off an item tomorrow, can it be an easier one?” Jesse asks when we get back to our cottages.
When Jesse parked his car, we ran into a few guests getting back from dinner and visited with them for a bit, so it’s late now and I’m tired, but not too tired to laugh.
“Tomorrow I was planning on starting thirty days straight of yoga,” I say. “It’s an easier activity and one I don’t need help with. Seems you’re off the hook on both counts.”
He wipes a hand dramatically across his forehead, and I laugh again.
“Today was fun,” Jesse says, leaning against the maple tree outside our cottages. “I haven’t had fun in a while.”
“Me either,” I reply. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I think of my time with Sky and feel bad because that was fun too. It was just a different kind of fun. When I was with Sky, my heart and head were going a million miles a minute because feelings were involved. Tonight was no-pressure fun. With a friend. You really can’t compare the two.
“What’s on tap tomorrow?” I ask.
“Meet at the chicken coop, serve breakfast, check in guests, happy hour, then cocktails at the fire?”
“Sounds like we’ve got our routine down,” I point out.
“Yeah, I guess we do.” Jesse concurs. “Goodnight, Harper.”
“Goodnight,” I say as I walk up my porch steps and let myself in. It was a good night, I decide as I pull off my shoes. And a good day. Did I mention that I like it here? The only thing that would have made it better is a letter from Sky. I plop down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling.
How many more days do I have to wait until I can get my hands on another?