It’s true. I haven’t slept more than ten hours total this week. Since getting home from Nashville, I’ve averaged about two per night. Which by Friday, is really starting to kick my ass. Getting no sleep and going all day and halfway through the night is a young man’s game. And I’m not that man anymore. And I sure as fuck don’t want to play any games.
I’m on my third cup of coffee before ten this morning when Hawk swings by my booth.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Don’t forget about Derek’s housewarming party tonight.”
“Oh god, that’s tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
“How’s Will?” I ask.
“Sad,” he says.
I nod. Apparently Will and Derek had some sort of fallout and now they’re not together or even speaking. Which is wild, considering how long they’ve known each other.
“Is she coming?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “Derek invited her, but he doesn’t know if she’ll actually come.”
“That’s fair, I guess,” I say. “I understand if she can’t.”
“Yeah, same,” he says.
Hawk’s face is somber, bordering deep sadness. This must be even worse for him. Will is his best friend and Derek is his brother. I’m sure he feels very caught in the middle. I don’t think anyone expects him to choose sides or anything, but that doesn’t stop the mind from guilting you about it all the same.
“I’ll come by, but I can’t stay late,” I say. “I’m exhausted.”
“Still not sleeping?” he asks.
When I got back, the first thing I did was talk to Hawk and Hanson about what happened. They didn’t offer opinions, only listened. Which in the moment, I appreciated. But now, I sort of wish they’d given me their opinions.
“Not really,” I say. “Hey, so like, what do you think?”
“About what?” he asks. Hawk sits in the chair in my booth, kicking his left foot over his right knee.
“About what happened with me and Helena,” I say.
“Doesn’t really matter what I think,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what Hanson thinks either. Or Will. Or Drew. Or anyone but you for that matter.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m just curious.”
“I think,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I think Hanson and I think the same thing.” At that, he stands. “And we think you probably made a mistake.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods vigorously. “Really.”
“Why do you think I made a mistake?” I ask.
“Why do you think you didn’t?” he asks.
“You’re doing that cryptic thing,” I tell him.
“I know.” He laughs. “But come on, answer the question.”
“Because of all the reasons I already told you,” I say.
“Those are excuses,” he says. “All that shit you said, that’s just fog. Distractions. Obstacles. Half of that stuff hasn’t even played out. You’re just assuming.”
“Maybe I should get a woman’s opinion,” I say, avoiding his remarks.
“Get all the opinions you want,” he says, his hands up in a defensive position. “Borrow Drew if you want. But it won’t matter. Unless it’s Helena’s opinion, it’s shit.”
“I hate you,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’ll see you tonight after you lock up. We can all go to Derek’s together.”
Hawk walks away, uninterested in lending anymore opinions on the topic. That’s what he always does when he’s done talking about something. No natural ending to the conversation, just turns around and peaces out.
Is he right? Did I make a mistake?
Even if I came to the conclusion that he’s right, what could I do about it now? Grovel at her feet? That hardly seems like it would be beneficial. Either way, it’s too late. Not literally because it’s only been a week. I mean in general, the path is closed. I’d say not returning any of her texts was probably the nail in the coffin but I don’t know for sure. What I know is she probably deserved a softer breaking than that. None of this is her fault. I’ll admit I was a little too harsh, but it was still the right thing.
If I’m being honest, I knew I wouldn’t survive answering her texts. If I had allowed myself to talk to her at all, I really would’ve been groveling. That much I know for sure.
“Hey, Drew,” I call up toward the front desk.
“Yeah, what’s up?” she asks.
“Do I have any other appointments today?” I ask.
She clicks a few buttons on the computer, looking at our master booking calendar.
“Nope,” she says. “Why?”
“Can you hold off on giving me any walk-ins?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “No problem.”
I pull out some ink and my tattoo gun, prepping my space like I would if I had a client. If you’ve ever thought to yourself that getting tattooed is therapeutic. Then, think of tattooing yourself as electroshock therapy. It’s very different than when someone else tattoos me, at least in my opinion.
If I need anything, it’s a therapy moment. I’ll just sit here, stabbing myself over and over again, while I process everything in my brain. I’d argue that not only is it a therapy moment, it’s a self-love moment. Tattoos always make me feel better in that way.
This is the least I can do for myself. It would seem I don’t give myself grace in any other way. And I perpetually fuck up good things.
I reach for my pencils and sketchbook. I don’t really need them for what I have in mind, but I’m compelled to sketch it out anyway, so I can make the lines thicker and play with the orientation. And before you ask, no. I’m not too tired to lay down a stellar tattoo. I can certainly manage some lettering.
Before I start, I pop my earbuds in, ready to get lost in the buzzing of the machine.
This isn’t the worst day of my life. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking it’s one I’ll remember for many years to come.