Page 6 of Can’t Kiss the Chef (Westvale University #2)
Lola
I keep with my annual tradition of getting a new tattoo the Sunday before classes start to signify the start of another school year. This one will be the last one in a traditional school setting.
The familiar buzzing of tattoo guns and bright drawings by Lucky’s Tattoos employees greets me, making me feel at home.
Cora is behind the industrial looking desk waiting for me.
She was an apprentice when I first started coming to Lucky’s freshman year.
Newly eighteen and deciding to forgo college to start her career as a tattoo artist. It’s been incredible to watch her go from tattooing grapefruits to becoming one of the shop’s most sought-after artists.
“Hey, Lola!” she squeals, as she runs around the desk and wraps me in a hug.
I pull away from the girl who has become a close friend and rake my eyes down to see what she is wearing today.
A pink floral maxi dress with strappy sandals, and still she is a girl my parents wouldn’t approve of me being friends with just because of her tattoos.
If they got to know her, they would learn that in her free time, she volunteers at a rec center for individuals with developmental disabilities and crochets hats for premature babies in the NICU.
“Not overly girly today,” I joke. Cora might be covered in tattoos, but she is as girly as they come.
I’ve gone out with her in the winter when her left arm sleeve is covered, and people genuinely think that she is lying about her job.
Their faces all drop when she pulls out her phone and shows them her Instagram page, which has nearly fifty thousand followers.
I place my phone screen up on the tray next to her station. The picture I took this summer of a penguin enjoying the sun in the Galapagos is pulled up.
“Can you use this as inspiration for a stamp?”
“Let me see what I can do.” She raises her eyebrows and I can see her wheels turning, meaning I’m absolutely going to love what she draws up.
“Give me thirty minutes to get this all sketched for you. This one is going to be a good one, I can feel it.”
“I’m going to grab a coffee from next door. Can I get you anything?”
“Oh my gosh, yes! If they have those blueberry scones, will you get me one?”
I nod, secretly judging Cora because I know that I make a better scone than Expresso Yourself. The name of our local coffee shop is tacky but they make a mean latte.
The shop is right next door, so once I put my order in, I still have twenty more minutes to kill so I pull out my phone and call my Nonno and Nonna.
My Nonna answers the phone my grandparents share after the second ring.
Even though she has lived in the United States for sixty years, her Italian accent is still thick, and hearing it feels more like home than any physical place has.
“Lola! Why haven’t you called?” The desperate tone in her voice makes it sound like I haven’t talked to her in months, but I saw her Thursday afternoon when she cooked Oliver a lunch big enough to feed all seven of her children and twenty-five of her grandkids.
“I saw you three days ago, and things have been a little crazy here.”
I hear my name being called, and behind the counter is my coffee and sandwich, along with Cora’s scone.
“Thank you,” I say quietly to the girl who made my coffee.
“Why are you thanking me?” My Nonna asks, confusion extinguishing her anger.
“I wasn’t thanking you, Nonna. I just got some coffee.” I shake my head. I love her but sometimes this woman drives me crazy.
Like she can see me from her house in Philly, “Don’t be shaking your head at me, missy.”
“I’ll never understand how you are able to do that,” I murmur. “Is Nonno there? I want to say hi before I have to go to an appointment.”
Purposefully leaving out what kind of appointment because even though my relationship with my grandparents is much better than my parents, they still hate my tattoos.
“Mario, Lola is on the phone,” she screams to my Nonno in Italian. They only speak to me and my siblings in Italian.
“You don’t need to yell, Antonella. I am sitting right next to you. How are you doing, Lola?”
“I’m good, Nonno. Are you guys having everyone over for dinner today?”
“Yes, the sauce is simmering on the stove now.” Pride oozes in his voice.
My phone vibrates against my ear. It’s a message from Cora saying that she finished the sketch.
“I have to go.” I hate hanging up the phone after talking to them. “I love you guys, tell everyone hi from me and Ollie today.”
“We love you too, Lola,” they say in unison.
I find Cora at her station, the sketch of the tattoo lying on her bench. I’m not shocked to see that it is perfect. The outline of the vintage stamp fits perfectly between my cowboy, representing my trip to Austin and my Byron Bay lighthouse.
Suddenly It feels like my heart stops. A hazy memory plays out for an audience of one.
Byron looked sad when he saw the tattoo that bore his name.
He told me with so much confidence that it was a sign that we were meant to be together.
I told him it was just a coincidence that one of my favorite places in the world happened to have his name in it.
That night I made him promise me that one day we would travel there together.
For a while, I really believed we would make that trip.
“It looks so good!” I tell her as I look at the placement in the floor-length mirror.
Once you get a couple of tattoos you become unfazed by the continuous pricking and somehow are able to talk through the pain.
We fill each other in about our summers, other than my trip, there isn’t much to tell.
Just the balance of good and bad of being at home.
Cora shows me the business plan she wrote up for her own shop.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to jump off the bench and tug her into a hug.
Since I met her, Cora has toyed with the idea of opening her own place, only to decide it was too dicey since she was making great money where she was.
“It was you changing your major that was the final push. Can’t have my friend pursuing her dreams and be too scared to achieve my own.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been an inspiration to anyone.” I say softly. I’m normally just a disappointment.
Cora takes a paper towel and cleans off the extra ink. Like always, I’m not allowed to look at the finished product until I’m in front of the full-length mirror. I’m in awe of what I see, another flawless tattoo from Cora.
“It’s amazing. I’m obsessed.”
I squeeze my friend and make her promise to come out with me and my roommates next weekend.
After she wraps my arm to protect my new ink I leave the shop. I get halfway out the door, when I remember that I have the sandwich from the coffee shop in my bag. I’m digging through my large tote bag when I run into a wall. When I look up, a beautiful pair of golden brown eyes are locked on mine.
“I’m so sorry,” I say at the same time he says, “Lola? Is that you?”
“Dalton! How are you?” I tuck my sandwich back in my bag before I hug him. “Why are you in Westvale?”
“Some guys on the team heard about a new brewery, so we decided to come here for the day.” He shrugs like it’s not totally weird that we’ve run into each other
“New tattoo?” His eyes are glued to the saniderm wrapped around my arm.
“Yeah, I just got this one, it’s of that picture of the penguin I took this summer.”
Awkward pauses in conversations always make my skin crawl but the way he’s smiling at me makes me want to keep the conversation going.
“You’ll have to let me know how it is. The new brewery I mean.”
“To do that, I’ll need your number.” He hands me his phone with a smirk so sexy I don’t think twice about giving him my number. He sends me a meme from Stepbrothers that says ‘ Did we just become best friends?’ so I have his number too.
“I see you don’t have to be drunk to be absolutely ridiculous.”
“Nah, I’m just a good time.”
That cocky arrogance–that every guy I’ve ever been attracted to has–shines through Dalton so brightly I feel like I need to find my sunglasses.
“Yo Dalton, our table is ready.” Somebody yells from halfway down the block.
Dalton points his thumb over his shoulder before locking eyes with me. “That’s my call. I’ll text you this week. I’d love to take you out.”
“Yeah, that could be a lot of fun.” I try to keep it cool but I’m not sure I hit the mark.
“Yeah, definitely could be.”
Indy always says the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new, and there are a lot worse people to get under than Dalton Powell.