Inked Hearts (Lines in the Sand Book 1)

by Lindsay Detwiler

“Let me see it,” I say reaching for the paper. After a quick mental calculation, I tell her, “The total would be thirty-six dollars and forty-two cents.”

  “Okay, Einstein, slow down already.”

  I smile. “I was an accountant, remember?” I rush off toward the table of college-aged kids waiting for their greasy fried foods, feeling much more confident than I did when I first started.

  This waitressing thing is coming along. I only dropped one drink all week, managed to get some decent tips, and even remembered to smile. Most of all, I’m actually liking the work. It’s still stressful as hell, probably more stressful than working at the firm. I go home with an aching back and feet when I leave, and sometimes the customers’ attitudes are a bit salty. Still, there’s something special about having Lysander, Jodie, and even Reed to laugh with during cleanup.

  Max, another waiter who is working to make money for college, brushes by me. “Family emergency, Avery. Can you get table sixteen?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” I yell over my shoulder as he rushes toward the door. I turn to see table sixteen in the back corner.

  I freeze. Good thing there isn’t a drink in my hand, or I’d have to up the dropped-drinks count.

  It’s him. Green eyes. Jesse.

  “Shit,” I mutter, and the table of rowdy twentysomethings look at me in surprise before laughing. I rush back toward the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen Shakespeare’s ghost,” Jodie says.

  “Worse.”

  “What?”

  “Max asked me to cover table sixteen.”

  “So what?” Jodie asks, stretching her neck to peer at table sixteen. She turns back to me, not in horror, but in delight, clapping her hands. “Oh, of course. It’s Tuesday. It’s Jesse’s night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Every Tuesday when he comes in, he sits at table sixteen. We save it for him. It’s his thing.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  “Of course not. What, did you think he was stalking you?”

  I sheepishly avert my eyes. “Of course not.” I sort of did, which is embarrassing now. How full of myself am I?

  “Listen, I don’t blame you for wishing Mr. Ink was stalking you. Now get over there and serve him.” She winks coyly before rushing back to her side of the restaurant, leaving me with abnormal heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and a sudden frustration for my job.

  I calmly walk over to the table. “Hey,” I say. “What can I get you?”

  “Hey, Avery. How’s the tattoo?”

  “Fine. No changes since this morning,” I reply, smiling.

  He tousles his hair with a hand, seemingly wishing he could take back his question. He seems a little nervous, too, judging by his tapping foot and pinker than normal cheeks. “Right. Dumb question. Anyway, I’ll have my usual, the burger and fried pickles.”

  I involuntarily grimace. “Fried pickles? We have those?”

  “Yeah, they’re awesome. You’ve never had them?”

  “Never. Ew.”

  “Okay, give me two orders of them, in that case.”

  I shake my head. “Whatever you want.” I put my pen down and look down at him. “Be right back.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, I wait on my other seven tables, rushing around delivering drinks, answering questions about the restaurant to newcomers, saying a prayer to Shakespeare’s spirit that table fourteen will leave already when I see them taking bets on who can flip the water glass over without spilling it, and trying not to trip.

  I also find my gaze wandering to table sixteen, to my chagrin.

  Jesse sits there, arms crossed, his back leaning against the wooden booth seat. He stares out the window directly in front of him, the darkness of the summer night probably not giving him much to see. He looks peaceful but also wistful in some way. I can’t help but wonder what his story is. He’s friendly and warm, but there’s a deepness to him. I see it in those eyes when he looks at me. He’s masking something, covering something. I remember what Jodie said about him having a rough few years, and I wonder if her words are even truer than she realizes.

  When Jesse’s order is up, I grab it and deliver.

  “Here you go.”

  “Have a seat,” Jesse says. I turn back and see my waiting tables.

  “I can’t. I have tables to wait on.”

  “I asked Lysander if you could take your break now.”

  I look over to the bar in time for Lysander to wink at me. Is everyone here conspiring to match me up? I know the answer without even asking.

  “Okay.” I clumsily climb into the seat across from Jesse, wiping my brow with the back of my hand, feeling self-conscious about the sight and smell of me. Waitressing is never glamorous, and those women in the movies who look gorgeous while doing it quite simply don’t exist.

  Jesse slides the second basket of fried pickles across the table. “Try one.”

  I grimace. “What? No way. You ordered these for me?”

  He shrugs. “Every woman deserves to try fried pickles in her lifetime.”

  I want to argue and say no, disgusting. I want to talk about how it’s unprofessional or how it’s just gross or how it’s too high in calories. But then I remember my vow to break away from the past.

  So I take a deep breath as if I’m preparing for a marathon or a root canal, and I pick up the greasy, crispy pickle.

  I mentally count to three before shoving it in my mouth.

  And I’m shocked. It’s freaking good. Like so good, I finish it and reach for another.

  “Oh, look at that. I do know what I’m talking about,” he says, shoving a fried pickle in his own mouth.

  “Okay, so they’re not so bad,” I say, reaching for another and smiling.

  “That’s what I thought. They were always my dad’s favorite. When he first ordered them, I gave him the same look you gave me. But I came around.”

  I chew up my fried pickle, hoping there isn’t any in my teeth. Somehow, though, Jesse doesn’t seem like the guy who would care, even if I did. He’s right across from me, chomping away like this is an everyday occurrence for us. He’s relaxed and comfortable. It makes me feel the same.

  “Does your dad live around here?”

  “No. Dad died about ten years ago now.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Great. Bringing down the mood over fried pickles. My forte.

  “It’s okay. I brought him up.”

  There is now a stiff silence. I don’t know if I should ask more questions or leave it go. I opt for the second choice just because I don’t really know what to say.

  “So tell me about you,” he says, probably feeling the awkwardness of the silence too. “Where did you grow up?”

  “I’m from a town just outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My parents own a CPA firm there, where I worked.”

  “What made you decide to come here? Was it him?” He gestures toward my shoulder, and I know exactly what he’s getting at.

  “Pretty much. I needed a new life. I was feeling suffocated. When my marriage fell apart, I decided to do what I’d always wanted to do but didn’t have the courage to. I picked up and moved here, wanting to try a new life. Does that seem crazy?”

  “Not at all.” He grins. “I basically did the same thing ten years ago. Not because of a broken marriage, but still. Sometimes those big life moments make you realize you aren’t living the life you want.”

  “Exactly. It was a tough time, but I’m sort of realizing it might not have been the worst thing. I’m finding a new groove here, and I’m happy.”

  “Glad to hear it. Listen, if you ever need anything, just let me know. I know it can be fun uprooting your life, but it can be scary too.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I smile at him, seeing the genuine kindness in his eyes. He’s not trying to make a move—or stalk me. He’s just a really nice guy. Behind his stoic, professional attitude is a genuinel
y good guy who gets where I’m coming from.

  At least it seems that way over our fried pickle encounter.

  “Well, I better get back to work,” I say. “Thanks for the pickles.”

  “Anytime. Really,” he says, smiling as I scooch out of the booth.

  As I’m walking away, I stop and turn. “Maybe we could set up a painting lesson soon?” I ask, letting him know I haven’t forgotten.

  “Yeah, I’m game.”

  “Great. See you around.”

  “See you around.”

  I saunter back to the kitchen, Jodie’s grin huge. “Painting lesson? Sounds intimate,” she says, winking.

  “Stop, you creepy eavesdropper. How did you even hear that?”

  “I have my methods,” she says, winking again.

  “Well, it’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

  “With benefits, I hope.”

  “You’re crazy.” I head over to table twelve to get them started with a round of drinks.

  The rest of the night is pretty uneventful. We only have one near-fight at the bar area that Lysander has to break up. I don’t drop any food or mess up any orders. Jodie even manages to give her number to a cute guy in a business suit who is visiting from Detroit for the weekend.

  For one seemingly regular night, all is well in life.

  Chapter Eight

  “So, did you set up your painting lesson yet? Any new brushstrokes?” Reed asks as Lysander and Jodie huddle around me. It’s Wednesday night, and we’re closing the place up after a pretty intense karaoke night.

  “Oh, stop. We’re just friends.”

  “So boring. Come on. The man is gorgeous. If he was gay, I might have taken a crack at him,” Reed says. Lysander groans. “Before you, of course.”

  “I’m not looking for love. Really.”

  “What woman comes to the beach, gives up her old boring life, and swears off men? Stop being so conservative. Loosen up, girl,” Lysander says, nudging me.

  “Yes. Get your party on.”

  “I’ve been partying. We go out on weekends sometimes.”

  “Yeah, and you have a few martinis if we’re lucky. Plus, you turn down every guy we send your way,” Reed complains. This discussion is starting to get an intervention vibe.

  “You did come here to have fun, didn’t you?” Lysander asks.

  “I did, within reason. I don’t know what kind of girl you think I was, but trust me, even before the whole matrimony and mortgage thing, I was never quite a wild one. I didn’t come here to go crazy, guys. I just came here for a fresh start, for a life that was a little less… scripted.”

  “You’re still being boring,” Reed adds.

  “Agreed,” Lysander seconds.

  Jodie, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, studies me. “I think I know the problem,” she says, putting a finger up as if she’s just had a truly genius thought. It terrifies me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s the hair.”

  I raise an eyebrow, self-consciously putting a hand to the ends of my brown, shoulder-length hair.

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It’s boring. Come on, Avery. A brown lob. It screams middle-aged married woman who is off the market.”

  “It doesn’t. My hairdresser said it looked chic. And it’s not boring brown. It’s a warm chocolate brown. She said it complemented my complexion.”

  “Now that you mention it, Jo, you’re right. You’re totally right. It’s the hair. It doesn’t scream ‘come hither.’ It screams librarian or middle-aged soccer mom… and not in a sexy way.”

  “Are soccer moms ever sexy?” Lysander asks, and Reed shrugs.

  “Guys, ouch. Just kill my ego.”

  “Your hair is doing that for you,” Jodie adds. “I should’ve thought about this before. A woman looking for a new life needs a new haircut. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I don’t know. My hair’s worked up until this point. I don’t know if I want to change it.”

  “Come on, darling, listen to Jodie. Lysander and I know this fabulous guy, seriously. He’s a miracle worker. He’ll have you prancing out of his shop looking like Renee Zellweger or Kate Beckinsale. Seriously.”

  “Isn’t it time for a change?” Lysander reasons. Again, I’m feeling the intervention-like vibes creep in.

  Still, running a hand through my hair, I admit it’s a little exciting. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s time for a change.

  With a sigh of resignation, I cave to the hair intervention. “What the hell. Get me an appointment.”

  The three of them jump up and down like they’ve just won the lottery.

  “You guys, I appreciate your help. But can I ask something? What did you used to do before you had me as your little pet project?”

  Jodie examines the ends of her hair now. “Um, well, let’s see. We gossiped more about Alex, the weekend cook, and tried to guess his sexual orientation.”

  “We went through a brief tennis phase,” Lysander adds.

  “We tried fixing Jo up with every man in a six-mile radius,” Reed says.

  I look at them all, shaking my head. “You three are unbelievable. Seriously. But I love you.”

  “Let me ask you this. What did you do without us?” Reed asks now, smiling.

  “I think I just sat around wondering what it would be like to have a group of friends like you.”

  “That’s pathetic,” Jodie says, grinning to soften the blow. “Thank God we came into your life, or you’d be one of those creepy cat ladies sitting around knitting sweaters and watching game shows. We got to you just in time.”

  “Give us a few months. You won’t even recognize your old self,” Lysander says. “Except the good parts, of course.”

  “I’m starting to worry there aren’t good parts.”

  “Honey, you’re gorgeous and sweet. You’re supersmart. You just need a little nudge to be the best version of yourself. You’ve spent too much time being his other half. Now you’ve got to learn how to be just Avery, how to stand on your own feet.” Reed isn’t smiling or laughing. It’s an unusually serious moment from him.

  I nod at the truth in his words. He gets it. He gets me.

  And although sometimes I wonder if this is the life I’m meant to find, lately, it seems more and more like I’m right where I belong.

  ***

  I think I might puke up my Captain Crunch any second. Seriously. I’ve never been this nervous, not even on my wedding day.

  “One,” Alexander counts out loud with as much drama as a person could possibly muster. He’s leaning down in front of me, one hand on either side of me as he holds the chair. I take a deep breath. This is it.

  “Two,” Jodie says, standing right beside him, clapping dramatically.

  “I hope I don’t regret this,” I say, interrupting the countdown.

  Jodie convinced me to live a little and let her and Alexander pick my hairstyle… without me seeing it. I’ve been in Alexander’s salon, Beach Babes, for hours. My hair has been pretreated, colored, highlighted, washed, dried, cut, fluffed, and styled. My neck hurts from leaning back in the sink so many times, and I’m starving. Beauty is pain and all that—but I’m ready to see the results.

  But I’m not. I’m terrified to see what these two concocted. From Jodie’s over-the-top personality to the fact Alexander is sporting a magenta mohawk, I have no idea what to expect.

  “Three,” Alexander says, whirling me around.

  There is a long moment of silence as I stare in the mirror, my eyes adjusting to the “new” me. I’m not really sure what to think. I’m speechless, not out of shock, just out of “what the hell happened?”

  My hair’s a little shorter and now super layered. It looks like Alexander razored pieces into it to give me the edgy vibe. The chocolate brown is now a bright, bright blonde. I’ve never been a blonde, so I’m not sure what to think.

  The most shocking thing, though, is the
hot-pink streak on my left side. I look like a rocker without the charisma.

  “Do you love it? Isn’t it great?” Jodie says.

  I’m not thinking about love right now, though. I’m thinking about how my mom would react if she could see this. I’m thinking about how unprofessional I look, how no reputable CPA firm would ever hire me. I’m thinking of all these practical reasons why I should make Alexander color my hair the flat brown it used to be, and run out of here.

  Instead, I shove the practical Avery thoughts aside. I look at myself, really look at myself.

  I grin. “I actually love it. It’s fun.”

  I mean it, running a hand through the pink streak and fluffing the layers. A smile spreads on my face, and I can’t help but feel radiant. It’s a new side of me. It’s the side of Avery I always wanted to be but couldn’t—because of Chris, because of my job, because of who I decided to be in order for society to approve.

  But this pink/blonde-haired Avery looks like fun. I flip my hair in a sassy way, feeling a confidence I have never had.

  Alexander claps wildly, apparently happy all his hard work paid off. I sashay to the counter, leave him a huge tip on my card, and turn to Jodie.

  “Do you need to get back to your writing?” I ask, knowing she’s under a publishing deadline.

  “I mean, technically yeah. But I could be persuaded to shirk off my responsibilities for a while longer. What do you have in mind?”

  “Shopping. These clothes just aren’t quite right anymore,” I say, looking down to appraise my trouser jeans and button-up pink cardigan. “I need some help finding some twentysomething clothes that say fun instead of practical.”

  Jodie actually lets out a squeal. “Yes! I was hoping you’d say that. Shopping spree. I could use a new pair of heels, now that you mention it. Let’s go. I know some great places.”

  We spend the next few hours trying on all kinds of styles, laughing, and swiping our plastic way too much. Still, it feels so good to let go.

  It feels so good to come into my own, I think in bed that night, flipping my hair one last time before drifting off to sleep beside Henry, and kiss the librarian, soccer mom Avery goodbye.

  ***

  “Are you sure this isn’t too revealing?” I ask, eyeing the neon pink halter and tan shorts Jodie put me in this morning.