Page 28 of A Heart On A Sleeve

sixteen

Sam

Something Isn't Right

“I understand, thanks for calling and letting me know. I will see you next week on Thursday at three.” I hang up, shaking my head at how my day has completely fallen apart.

I was supposed to do two large tattoos today, but both clients had to reschedule.

One for the stomach flu, thank you for not sharing the love.

The other because his in-laws decided to come into town, and now he is playing “entertainment committee.” (His words not mine.)

It’s not unusual to see cancellations in this business, tattoos are a big commitment. But it is weird to have blocked my whole day for these two, only to have both of them unable to make it. Walk-ins do happen. I suppose I’ll be hanging out and waiting around most of the day.

My phone buzzes with an incoming message.

I’m hoping it’s from Olive. She hasn’t responded to my attempts at checking in, and I’m starting to worry she really is sick.

I’ve already consulted with my mom and Max.

Both told me to wait it out and if I haven’t heard anything by the end of the day, they would check in with her themselves so I don’t scare her off.

I glance at my phone, a small flutter in my stomach, until I see the name Beau Brooks in my notifications.

Beau

Are you busy today?

I shoot back a reply.

No, my day completely fell apart.

Beau

Olive called out. I need help at the shop if you can swing it.

It’s not the first time I’ve given Beau a hand. Whenever he is short-staffed and I don’t have appointments, I come over and relieve him for his lunch break.

Sure. I’ll be there at eleven.

Beau sends me back a thumbs-up, and I scan my shop thinking of what I can do to kill time for the next hour. The books are up to date and everything has been cleaned. I guess I’ll burn time by sorting old files and clearing out drawings I don’t ever plan to use.

At ten till eleven, I lock up and walk over to Black Kettle Bindery. The door chimes as I enter, there’s not a customer in sight.

“Hey, Beau.” I spot him nodding off reading a book behind the front counter.

“Oh, Sam. I’m so glad you’re here. Olive couldn’t make it in for the second time this week. I need to go home to make sure Mr. Pickles is fed.”

“I hope she’s okay. Did she say why she wasn’t coming in today?” I pretend like I don’t know she’s sick, or at least that she was last night.

“She didn’t. Her father pranced in here like he owns the place and demanded the day off for her.” Beau huffs and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Wait, what? Her dad came in?” Her parents don’t live close by. Did she know they were coming?

“He sure did. Mr. High and Mighty waltzed in here and introduced himself like I should have already known who he was. He must be a big deal where he comes from, but he isn’t one here,” Beau says while shuffling papers around on the counter.

“And you just agreed?”

“What was I supposed to do? Olive and I will be discussing her attendance at work when she returns. If she doesn’t want this job, I will find a replacement.” He grabs his hat, keys, and wallet to head out.

“Beau, she loves this job. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” He doesn’t stay to listen to me try to convince him she’s perfect for Black Kettle. Instead, he whips open the door and saunters out.

I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help sending her another text. It’s the third of the day, which I realize is bordering on too many. I’m a fucking grown man who has apparently lost all chill. She’s an adult, and she will respond when she can. I hope.

Hey, again. Helping Beau out, and he said your parents are in town. Let me know if you need anything.

As suspected, my text goes unanswered, and after five minutes of double-checking and re-reading it, I decide to grab a book that details the history of tattooing to pass the time. Two hours flies by, and the next thing I know, the door is chiming once again with Beau’s return.

“How is Mr. Pickles?”

“Well fed, no thanks to Olivia.” Beau sets his hat on the coatrack and shoos me out of his seat behind the counter.

“She’s good at what she does, just hear her out.” I can’t help but remind him that he needs someone like her, someone with the very specific set of skills that are the backbone of his business. My advice might be selfishly motivated, but that doesn’t mean it’s untrue.

“Well, she did look miserable. Maybe you’re right.” He opens the book he left behind earlier and glances at the pages.

“You saw her?”

“Yes, on my way out earlier. She was walking out of the Brewhouse with two of the wealthiest looking people I may have ever seen.” Something about Beau pointing out their financial status makes me nauseous. I’m not a yacht club kind of guy and likely never will be.

“Why did she look miserable?” I’m genuinely worried. She hasn’t said much about her parents, but the little glimpses I’ve had have not been great.

“Her mother was barking orders at her. Beautiful woman, but a total witch.” I’ve never heard Beau speak this negatively.

It must be bad. Tension vibrates at the base of my skull, causing a dull ache to take root.

I’m not sure why I’m so protective of her, but the thought of her being subjected to criticism on any level irritates the hell out of me.

“Do you need anything else from me?” I’m curt as I grab my stuff, ready to head out.

“Nope, thanks.” He nods at me, returning to the pages that will likely have him back to sleep before I cross the street.

“Oh, and Sam—” He calls out as my hand wraps around the doorknob.

“I know you like her, anyone would. Just tell her to come to work. There’s a pile of restorations stacking up, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. ”

I glance back at him over my shoulder and give him a friendly wave. Beau’s a good man, he knows Olive’s a keeper as much as I do.

As I step onto the sidewalk into the crisp fall air, the austere charm of Mage hits me.

I’ve lived here my whole life, and I don’t like to think I take it for granted, but sometimes I do fail to notice the appeal.

Thinking about Olive showing her parents around, I can’t help but wonder if they noticed all the little things.

Did they appreciate the nod to our history in each hand-hewn sign?

Did they see the way each shop has a carefully curated aesthetic that both separates it from the next and maintains enough cohesiveness to tie the town together?

Each step I take over the cobblestone sidewalk pulls me down a rabbit hole of Mage’s history.

“Hey, Sam,” Howie shouts and waves from up ahead at Union. He’s sitting at one of the wrought-iron bistro tables that line the restaurant’s wrap-around patio.

“Howie, how’s it going? You on break?”

“Nope. Just nowhere else to be.” He seems sad or maybe lonely. There’s something on his mind.

“Mind if I join you then? I also have nowhere else to be.” He perks up at the question.

We haven’t really hung out one-on-one, but he seems to be a nice guy.

He’s a few years younger than I am, but he can pour a mean drink and occasionally comes up with something so funny and unexpected it knocks your socks off.

“Yeah, uh . . . that would be cool.” Howie scoots the chair across from him out with the toe of his Chuck Taylors, making room for me.

“Not working today?” I ask as I plop into the seat and peruse the menu that he pushed across the table. I don’t know why either of us pretends we need to look at it. I could probably recite the damn thing.

“It’s my day off.” Howie leans forward. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, shoot.” I fold the menu and place it back on the table knowing I’m ordering the usual.

“What’s so special about you? Is it the tattoos?” His question isn’t accusatory, more curious. Does he have a thing for Olive?

“I’m going to need more to go on here . . . I’m not special.”

“You don’t even try, and the women they just, well, I’ve seen it at the bar so many times. They just gravitate toward you. What’s your secret?”

His question makes me laugh so hard there are tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. Howie’s face instantly deflates.

“I’m sorry. I know from your perspective it might seem that way.

I’m only laughing because it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Sure, the ones I’m not interested in might think I’d be fun to take for a spin, but that’s all it is.

The ones—and let me say there have been very few, maybe one—that I’ve actually seen a future with, don’t even text me back.

” I slump down in my chair. I didn’t really plan on telling anyone outside the family how much this Olive thing is getting me down.

“Are you talking about Olive?” Howie asks, a mixture of relief and pity on his face.

Sabrina, the server working the patio, approaches to take our order. We both go with the Reuben and Harvest Moon drafts. When she walks away, Howie turns his hand over at me as if to say out with it.

“Yeah, man. She’s different, and I’m falling hard for her. It’s too fast, and I know it’s probably destined to blow up in my face, but I don’t know. Wait—you guys are friends. Forget what I said.” I shake my head and look out across the square.

“Sam, I know we aren’t really friends, but I’d like to be. And this is Vegas. What happens on the patio stays on the patio.”

Sabrina returns with our beers, placing them down and confirming the rules of Union. “He’s right, Sam. What happens on the patio stays on the patio, and Howie is the most trustworthy man I know. You’re in good hands.” She leaves as quickly as she came, her sentiment hanging in the air.

“Okay, fine. Vegas rules. Olive won’t text me back. I took her out last night, but she said she was sick and bailed early, and now she’s ghosting me and I’m a fuckin’ wreck.”

His eyes practically pop out of their sockets when he looks at me. “She’s not ghosting you. The she-devil is in town.”

“The what?”