My daughter was good at picking expensive gifts. Gucci bags, Tiffany jewelry. Who could forget the BMV convertible on her eighteenth birthday that I paid the monthly storage rent for while she was away at school? So, judging by her previous taste in gifts, I was shocked when she told me she wanted a tattoo. In a weird way, I was flattered that she wanted me to go with her to get it. Most twenty-year-olds nowadays already have tattoos that they kept hidden from their parents.
I asked her what she design wanted to get and where she was going to put it. She pulled out a picture on her phone of a dainty little daisy and said she wanted a small one, on her wrist.
I glanced at the picture. “You know, I’ve been thinking of getting one too.”
“Really?” she said, surprised. “What do you want to get?”
“I haven’t put much thought into it,” I lied. “Something around my bicep. Barbed wire, maybe?”
“No—way too nineties.” She shook her head, shooting me down.
“How about thorns?” I asked, as if I’d just come up with the idea.
“Like rose thorns?” she asked.
“Yeah, no roses, just thorns.” I pictured my arm wrapped around Sarah and how my thorns would match the thorns that wrapped around her ribs.
“I like it,” she said. “Can we go tonight?” She was excited. Really excited.
“You don’t think I’m too old to get a tattoo?” I asked.
“Too old?” she laughed. “You’re the youngest dad I know. All my friends talk about how hot you are.”
“Really?” I laughed. “That’s kind of gross, but I guess a compliment in a twisted way.”
“You think it’s gross for you? Imagine how I feel when they say stuff like that!” she said.
I made her a deal that I would get her the daisy tattoo, but she couldn’t get it on her wrist. She had to get it somewhere less visible, since she had no idea what her career was going to be yet. She settled for her hip, and so we went to get tattoos.
The tattoo parlor wasn’t what I’d imagined it would look like. I expected some kind of dirty, underground space, but this place wasn’t like that at all. The interior was brightly lit, with clean white tile floors and pictures of designs decorated the walls. Nineties alternative music played in the background. Mixed in with the designs were framed photos of famous people; old Hollywood icons, all tattooed up. I thought I’d be the oldest guy there, but I wasn’t by far. An artist worked on an entire sleeve on a man who looked so old, he could have been my father. As Casey flipped through the stencils on the wall, I watched the artist work.
“First tattoo?” he asked, when he realized I was looking.
“Yes,” I laughed. “How can you tell?”
He smiled. “I’m warning you now; they get addicting,” he advised.
I watched Casey while she got hers. They sat her on a chair, behind a mobile curtain. Then they went through a whole tutorial, showing her the package before opening it, proving the needle was brand new. They explained in detail about how we could tell they were using fresh ink.
Casey took the whole process like such a champ. It made me wonder if this really was her first tattoo. I didn’t like how the artist had positioned her, or the way her shorts were pulled down so low, and I started second-guessing my decision of making her put it somewhere so hidden. Once hers was finished, Casey stayed next to me the whole time while the artist worked on mine. After the initial shock of the needle, my arm turned numb pretty quick. It felt more like scraping than anything else. I could see why tattoos could get so addicting.
When we got back to the house, Casey couldn’t wait to tell Samantha. “Mom! Dad and I got tattoos!”
Mom was not happy.
“Dad and you did what?” Samantha exclaimed. She stood in the kitchen, glaring at me like she wanted to stab me right there, dead on the floor.
As if realizing what was now about to happen between Samantha and me, Casey kissed me on the cheek, thanked me again, and escaped upstairs to her room.
Samantha looked at me, outraged. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yelled. “How could you let her get a tattoo?”
“Sam, she’s twenty years old. She’s an adult. She doesn’t need either of our permission to get a tattoo, so be happy she asked me to go or it would have been on her wrist.” My voice rose to her level.
“And you? What did you get?” she asked, looking me up and down as if she had some sort of x-ray vision and was examining my body.
I lifted the sleeve of my polo shirt and peeled aside the bandage, not realizing how gross everything would look. Covered in blood and excess ink, it probably wasn’t the best presentation.
Her face dropped. “Are you losing your mind?” she demanded. “Are you having a mid-life crisis? Who the fuck gets tattooed at forty-five years old?”
“Oh yeah, I’m having the mid-life crisis—because a tattoo is really so much different than the silicone in your tits!” I yelled. “Actually, it is different, because this didn’t cost me ten grand. Twice!”
Oh, she was so mad! She got right up in my face and sneered. “You fucking disgust me. Get out of my face.”
“Fine,” I said. I quickly made my way upstairs. I went into the room and threw on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt. I grabbed a baseball hat, threw it on my head, and then went back down to tell her I was going for a jog. That was when I smelled something horrible—a very pungent, minty aroma. Almost astringent. I couldn’t figure out what the terrible smell was.
“I’m going for a run, what the fuck is that smell?” I asked, walking into a cloud of smoke in the kitchen.
“Sage,” she responded. “There’s something really negative in this kitchen because every time we’re here together, I can’t stand you more and more. So, I’m cleansing the area.”
I looked at her like she was insane. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is—kitchen demons!” I said sarcastically.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” she said.
I slammed the door behind me.
I ran about five blocks before I stopped and picked up my phone. I couldn’t wait to show Sarah my tattoo. She answered, sounding surprised that I was calling her so late on a Saturday night.
“Hey baby, what are you doing?” I asked.
She told me she was at a lounge in the village that was kind of lame, but it was Isabel’s birthday. I asked if I could meet her there, if she could come out for a few minutes. She said okay, so I took a taxi over. I called her when I was on the corner outside, since I was nowhere near to being dressed appropriately to walk into a bar.
Sarah walked out, and her gaze traveled up and down my body. “Damn, you look sexy!” she said.
I was taken back. No one had ever told me that I looked sexy in joggers. “You like the bum look?” I asked.
“You don’t look like a bum. You look hot. The joggers, the white t-shirt, hat—very New York,” she said.
“I want to show you something,” I lifted my sleeve.
Her jaw dropped, and then her mouth widened into a huge smile. “Are those thorns? Is that real? You got a tattoo?”
“Yes, it’s real. And yes, those are thorns, I got it to match yours. Do you like it?” I asked.
She threw her arms around me and kissed me. “I love it! You look so hot!”
“You know, it’s amazing what you find attractive about me. The smell of scotch on my breath, joggers, tattoos—just the complete opposite of what I hear at home,” I said.
“I’m guessing the tattoo didn’t go over too well?”
“No, not at all. She’s currently performing an exorcism in the kitchen,” I said.
“An exorcism?” Sarah said.
“Yeah, sage-ing out the spirits in the kitchen that make us fight when we’re in it.” I laughed, shaking my head. “We have crystals all over the house. Magical crystals, all holding different superpowers.”
She laughed too. “Do you happen to have a c
rystal on you that will allow us to transport to my apartment miraculously? I can give you a hands-on demonstration of just how turned on you make me,” she said enticingly.
I wrapped my arms around her again. “I wish, but I don’t have that type of time.”
As we stood there talking, I noticed a guy come out of the bar and stare over at us from down the block. “Do you know that guy?” I asked.
She turned around to look. “I’ll be right in!” she yelled over to him. We watched him walk back inside.
“There’s a bunch of people in there. It’s Isabel’s birthday,” she explained.
“It’s okay. I just really wanted to show you, and I couldn’t wait until Monday. I have to go back—maybe the demons are all gone by now. I’ll see you on Monday.”
She turned my baseball cap backward on my head and gave me a long, hard kiss. I hailed a cab. “Tell Isabel I said happy birthday.”
SARAH
Once Vincent left, I went back into the bar and headed over to our table with a stupid grin on my face.
“Who was that?” Brendon asked.
“My uncle,” I said, winking at Isabel. “Who, by the way, wanted me to tell you happy birthday.”
She smiled back at me, realizing what had just happened. “Well, you make sure you tell Uncle Vincent I said thank you.”
“He was looking at you a little inappropriately to be your uncle, no?” Brendon said.
I didn’t answer him. The truth was, I would have left them all right then if Vincent had been able to go back to my apartment. Like he’d asked me in Puerto Rico—that night, I would have walked away from everything.
The next day, I was in my dressing room when there was a knock on the door. Matt walked in before I could even respond. “I didn’t say come in yet,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “Girl, there is nothing you have that I’m interested in,” he said, laughing. “I need a favor.”
I knew this day would come—payback for the time I’d asked him to be my wedding date.
“What’s up?” I asked, throwing on my robe.
“So that guy Dave, the casual sex one? He wants to go out for dinner. Like on a date. I’m afraid he’s going to try to get serious, can you and Vincent come?”
I didn’t know what to say. I knew I would have to pick a Wednesday night, because that was when Vincent and I were together.
“Let me check his schedule and get back to you,” I said. “But it shouldn’t be a problem.”
We went out and did our performance. I kept worrying about how I needed to convince Vincent to go on the date when he returned the next day for lunch. By this time, I was living a double life, too. I had my career life, where everyone in the show knew Vincent as my boyfriend, and my personal life, where Isabel and I were dating friends. I didn’t mix either of the lives, though it was hard. Brendon was a nice guy, made a good living, and was very good-looking. He was tall and built, with dark hair and light eyes. In many ways, he was the complete opposite of Vincent: immature and extremely short-tempered. He spent most of his time playing video games and enjoyed things like comic book conventions. He and his friend Chris would even dress up for the conventions, which was something that didn’t interest Isabel or me.
“How exactly are you going to get them to agree to leave Manhattan?” Vincent asked, when I brought up the subject at my apartment the next day.
“We’re the lead actors in the hottest, Tony Award-winning show in New York right now. I’ll tell him I’d rather not be seen. You’re not the only big deal in New York City anymore. Maybe we can go to Brooklyn,” I suggested.
“Brooklyn is very up and coming, there are a lot of brokers that live there,” he said.
“We don’t have to go downtown. We can go to Bay Ridge, there are a lot of nice restaurants there, too,” I said.
“Bay Ridge like Saturday Night Fever?” he asked.
“Is that the one with dancers?” I replied.
He shot me a condescending look. “You don’t know what Saturday Night Fever is?” he asked.
“I know what it is, I’ve just never seen it,” I admitted.
He shook his head, disbelievingly. I think the generation gap got to him sometimes.
“Well, do you know what Dirty Dancing is?” I threw back at him, expecting his answer to be no.
“I have a twenty-year-old daughter; of course, I know what Dirty Dancing is. I’ve seen it about five times more than I would have liked to. And NO, before you get any crazy ideas, I am NOT learning that dance routine with you, no matter what holiday it is!” he said.
“Not even on a Thursday?” I asked, pouting.
“No, not even on a Thursday,” he said.
“So…” I continued. “You know, you can’t say anything about being married or having kids, none of it. I trust Matt, but I don’t even want to go there,”
“I assumed as much, I’ll think of something,” he said.
Plans were made for the third Wednesday of the month. Vincent picked me up in this huge black truck.
“This is the family SUV?” I asked, jumping in.
“Yes, why?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t call it an SUV.”
“What would you call it?”
I peered over my shoulder, into the back that seemed never to end. “A bus?” I laughed.
“Speaking of,” he began, “I hope they have valet; it’s a bitch to park this thing.”
We drove over to pick up Matt and Dave. The second they climbed in, Matt exclaimed, “Oh shit, Vincent, you’re driving! I legit thought you sent a limo service when I saw this thing outside.”
Vincent laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said.
We ended up at a trendy hookah lounge for dinner that Dave had picked out. The smell of different flavors of smoke mixed with thick curry spice lingered in the air, and big hookahs sat on every table.
“I have an announcement to make,” I said, as we sat down.
All three men looked up at me, looking curious as to what I was going to say.
“If you’re going to suggest the coconut flavored shisha, I was thinking the same!” Dave said, holding up the tobacco menu.
“I’m not smoking that thing!” I exclaimed.
“Nor am I, we’re both singers, remember?” Matt added, pointing at me.
“I’ll do it with you,” Vincent told Dave.
I looked at Vincent a little surprised that he was going to smoke it, but at the same time, somehow turned on by it.
“You don’t have to inhale it—you kind of just move the smoke around your mouth to taste the flavor. Like a cigar,” Dave explained.
“Really?” Matt asked, looking directly at Vincent for verification.
“Well, you’re not supposed to,” Vincent said. “I personally find it hard not to inhale because I used to smoke cigarettes, so I find myself inhaling, even on cigars sometimes.”
“You used to smoke?” I turned to him and asked, surprised that I was learning anything new about him at this point in our relationship.
“Yeah, for like ten years,” he answered.
Suddenly I felt a little prudish, saying I wouldn’t smoke. “I’ll try it,” I said.
Vincent shook his head. “No, don’t. Would it make you feel better if I don’t smoke?”
“No, you can. I don’t care,” I said.
“Anyway, what was that announcement?” Matt asked me, trying to intervene into our awkward banter.
“Oh, what I wanted to say is that Vincent is going to learn the finale in Dirty Dancing to dance with me!”
Vincent looked up from the hookah menu.
“Oh, hell no,” Matt said dramatically. “Vincent, you’re a nice guy and all, but she’s my work wife, so if anyone is going to be having the time of their life with her, it going to be me.”
I giggled; I just knew Matt would be annoyed by that.
“And by the way, I don’t need to l
earn the routine, just throwing that out there,” Matt continued, moving his fingers in air quotations around “learn.”
Vincent gave an exaggerated sigh. “Damn, I was so looking forward to that lift scene.”
“Do you guys ever do that? Like, learn different dance numbers from movies, just messing around?” Dave asked.
“We haven’t but not going to lie, I am kind of inclined to now,” Matt answered.
We were having a really good time. I couldn’t help but watch Vincent as he smoked the hookah. His bicep hardened, and a hint of his new ink peeked out of his shirt. He had this vein in his forearm that bulged every time he held the pipe to his mouth. I was never attracted to smokers before, but for some reason, watching him blow that smoke out of his mouth was unbelievably sexy.
Dave was doing a lot of the talking. I think Matt was right when he said that Dave was really into him; I could tell he wanted more than just casual sex. Matt quickly changed the subject anytime a topic got too serious.
“Okay, Vincent, what’s your story?” Matt asked.
Vincent looked up from his plate. “What do you mean ‘my story?’” he asked.
“How old are you?” Matt said.
“Forty-five,” Vincent answered.
“Forty-five, balling, hot,” Matt continued.
“Aw, you think I’m hot?” Vincent said.
“Oh stop, you know you’re sexy as fuck, so why are you single? What’s your deal? What’s wrong with you?” Matt said.
Vincent put his fork down while I watched, waiting for his answer. This was the big moment—what was he going to say?
“Well,” he began. “I dated a girl for a really long time. Seven years. I was so in love with her. We were engaged, practically married. We had an apartment in the village, and I was best friends with her brother. Really nice girl, extremely smart and very pretty. She was a nurse. We were already up to planning the wedding, and then I came home early one day, and well…”
He paused, like he was suddenly getting sad.
“She was in bed with another man. In OUR bed with another man. Needless to say, we broke up. I was devastated. Not only did I lose the love of my life, but I also lost my best friend, because her brother never spoke to me again. I can only imagine the story she must have told him. Now, I’d just turned thirty-five and after that, I was kind of turned off to women in general. I became a bit of a playboy, thinking I could never trust another woman again.”
Wounds of Time Page 14
