Page 2 of With Stars in Her Eyes

Thea

While male whimpers echoed off the seascape murals, I stabbed my pocketknife into a stubborn section of packing tape. An antiseptic tang hung in the air of Squid Tattoo Shop, mixing with the tangerine scent of the cleaner I had used earlier to scrub the shelves.

A scream—an actual scream like the ones in horror movies—rang out, so startling I nearly cut off my thumb. “ Dang it. ” The pocketknife clattered onto the counter.

As I grabbed it, I caught my reflection next to the jewelry display.

The image was strange somehow. I pulled off my sunflower-colored beanie and scrutinized what was wrong with the mirrored version of me.

The long wavy brown hair needed a trim and still refused to sit nicely over my awkwardly growing-out undercut, but overall, those things still looked normal.

My makeup was smudged at the corner of my right eye from the hours spent cleaning and my olive skin looked more sallow than usual, but neither was the problem.

My vintage denim button-up wasn’t too dusty. My necklaces weren’t too tangled.

After another second of careful observation, I noted the persistent downward angle of my reflection’s mouth. Somehow the frown made my brown eyes duller than usual.

“Oh my god.”

Some people complained about resting bitch face, but ever since I was a sprout, I’d had the opposite problem. I had resting stop and tell me your life story even though I only said a polite good morning at the gas pump face.

Marshall had been the first one to point it out. He had spent years of our friendship extricating me from conversation after conversation with strangers whenever we went out after his college football games. I wasn’t even being hit on.

I was drawn into hyperpersonal monologues about medical problems or endless extended family genealogies.

Since Marshall mainly thought in football terms, he developed a signal to run a “TNF” play— Too Nice Face play.

If I did the signal, which had evolved in levels of subtlety over the years, Marshall would swoop in with all his six-foot-four NFL tight end self and liberate me.

Given that I was normally so smiley it created an actual social problem, I shouldn’t be as frowny and grouchy as I felt. Screaming man background noise notwithstanding.

Kansas was my fresh start after years of failed relationships and all the weirdness with my family obligations back in Alabama.

So why did I look like I was sucking on a stale lemon drop?

I should be brimming with happiness and gratitude.

I had a good job and a free place to stay for a few months while I figured out a new path for my life away from constantly feeling like an outsider. I should be ecstatic.

But I, Dorothea Estelle Quinn, felt as ornery as all hell. And I had the sourpuss scowl to match. Unacceptable .

I checked my phone.

Three more missed calls and several texts.

My mother was still calling a couple of times a day.

The calls had started out normally, but they always ended with a barrage of I miss you s designed to make me feel guilty rather than make me feel loved.

I should have expected that though. When I lived a few miles from my childhood home, Mom relied on me a lot.

I had moved several states away, two months sooner than expected, so of course she was having trouble with the transition.

My attention snagged on the date on the screen.

Oh…

Maybe my subconscious was fueling my orneriness, since on this very Tuesday in March, I was supposed to be halfway between Huntsville and the music festival in New Orleans I had been anticipating for a decade.

I would have been spending tonight looking absolutely adorable in the outfit I’d spent weeks searching for at thrift stores after splurging on the ticket.

And then tonight I would finally, finally get to see Kestrel—mysterious cowriter of all my favorite Violet Trikes songs—perform.

Buying the ticket had been a dumbass decision given how broke I was before I got the job here.

When news broke that Kestrel had disappeared from performing after some kind of drug-fueled breakdown at a concert in LA, it had seemed like an even dumber dumbass decision.

Selling my ticket had covered some of my moving-related expenses, but based on my face today, I was still salty about the whole darn thing.

A louder moan from the man in the back jolted me from ornery to all-out cantankerous.

I pulled my Bluetooth speaker out of my grandfather’s old leather camera bag.

I jammed my finger into the button, then paused.

Normally , the Violet Trikes’ first album, Golden Hour , was my salve to a fragile emotional state, but it would probably only increase my grump level today.

Instead, I selected my grandfather’s favorite classical station and cranked the volume.

My typical sunniness might be a stretch, but I could aim for pleasant or tranquil or at least a little less stabby, damn it .

To further my efforts away from murderousness, I set down the pocketknife I was still somehow clutching in my white-knuckled hand.

After a semi-effective calming breath, I finally opened the box of after-piercing cleaning solution and tattoo ointments, checking the expiration dates and labels.

After I had filled the shelves with bottles and hooked the new shipment of hypoallergenic jewelry into the display case, the shop door opened behind me.

The creator of the TNF play himself, Marshall Greene, sauntered up to lean on the desk.

“Hey, how’s your Tuesday goin— What is that?

Is someone being tortured?” Marshall’s face oscillated between winces and chuckles at the various sounds the man in the back was making.

He was dressed as fashionably as always, beard neatly clipped and clothes appropriate for the off-season professional football player and part-time aspiring restaurateur he was.

“It would be going better if men could more accurately assess their own pain tolerance.” I flinched as the sounds of agony hit a new volume.

“First tattoo for the guy?”

“How’d you know?”

“Hopefully something small.”

“He booked her for a full black-out sleeve.”

Marshall snorted.

“They talked him into something more feasible.” I dug my fingers into all the tense places on my scalp.

“Lemme guess, barbed wire around his bicep?”

“Infinity sign with his lovely lady friend of two weeks’ name.”

He smirked. “Should I just wait around and give him Rachel’s business card after he pays?”

“As much as your sister probably appreciates your support of her laser services, I think my boss will kill you if you start telling her clients they’re going to regret her art in the near future.

I’ve already had to give her enough bad news this week about the mess the piercing guy before me left with all the expired supplies. ”

“I’ll zip it then. So, I’m about to go over the books at the pub, but let me know if you want to meet for dinner later, or if you won’t have…” His blue eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. “You seem a little… hmm… did you change your makeup? New lip stuff? Something’s different.”

“ No .”

He lifted his hands defensively. “Whoa. Sorry.”

“ No , I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just grouchy and I’m grouchy about being grouchy.” The wall clock caught my eye. “Oh, shoot, I needed to—”

Another actual, full-on scream came from the back area of the shop.

My nerves frayed like I was a supervillain who ends up shoot ing lightning bolts from every orifice while shrieking a death song at her enemies.

Remembering myself, I pursed my lips into what was hopefully a blandly sympathetic expression. “Well, bless his precious little heart. But screaming? Really?” I said before I could stop myself.

Marshall looked like he was trying not to burst out laughing. “C’mon. We all scream sometimes.”

“I sure don’t.”

“You absolutely do.” Marshall leaned on the counter. “Roller coasters?”

“No.”

“Horror movies?”

“Laughable.”

“The unexpected appearance of a cockroach?”

“I lived in Alabama my entire life. You think a little water bug fazes me?”

“Flu shots?”

“I’m not six years old.” I couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Or a thirty-three-year-old man baby.”

Marshall glared. “I told you that story in confidence.”

“Hey, I just felt bad for the poor nurse who tried to catch your big professional athlete butt before you fell out of the chair. I hope you brought one of the linemen with you the next time.”

His appraisal was thoughtful. “You really don’t scream ever?”

“Absolutely not. Probably one of the few things that stuck from my mother’s efforts to make me a proper lady like my big sisters.

Suffice it to say the rest of it failed.

” I gestured to my double nose piercing, tattooed fingers, and my overall outdoorsy-meets-edgy look that would definitely never be featured in a Vineyard Vines or Lilly Pulitzer catalog.

All the reasons my mom felt the need to give a disclaimer any time she introduced me at a family function.

Isn’t she so brave for living an alternative lifestyle?

“Fine. You win. You’re unflappable. What were you saying ‘oh shoot’ you needed to do before you looked like your head was going to explode about Mr. Infinity Symbol’s noisy tattoo?”

“Need to do…? Oh, right.” I swiped on the screen to my Maps app, and it stalled again.

Either the Wi-Fi was still acting up or my old phone was about to shuffle off its mortal coil.

“There was a message on the shop machine that a couple boxes for us got mistakenly delivered somewhere else. Have you ever heard of Menagerie—um—something.”

“Books?”

“I think that’s what the message said. I need to pick up the package before they close. If it’s far I’ve got to get gas first, so—”

“Oh, you don’t need to drive. It’s on the other side of this building. I guess you don’t usually park on that side, come to think of it. Is it a lot of boxes?”