Tattoos & Teacups

by Anna Martin

  Tia looked up from where she’d been stirring her orange juice with a straw. “Uncle Robert, why don’t you want all the girls liking you?”

  “New topic of conversation!” Marley said loudly and enthusiastically, clapping her hands and smiling brightly. Adam leaned over and whispered something in Tia’s ear, making her frown, then violently start stirring her juice again. I suspected he’d told her the truth.

  The waitress came shortly after that and took our orders.

  THAT evening I settled down with an Indian takeaway meal and tried not to think of Chris and his number and the paper that was burning a hole through my wallet into my ass cheek. Arse cheek. Eventually, as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I removed the slip of paper from my wallet and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tomato. I stared at it for long moments, wondering what the hell I was going to do with it.

  I CLOSED my eyes and dialed his number blind, letting the beeps tell me that I was pressing the right numbers. I gritted my teeth as it rang. Felt like I was going to throw up.

  I cleared my throat. “Hello, um, Chris? This is Robert.”

  “Mm. Robert. Robert, Robert… oh! Gerard Butler.”

  This was a bad idea. “Yeah.”

  “Hey! I was hoping you would call.”

  “Oh. Well, I did. How are you?”

  “Good, man, I’m good.” The sound of him rummaging around. It sounded like he was still in bed. It was nearly two in the afternoon! I was calling from my lunch break! “What are you doing?”

  “I’m actually just on my lunch break.”

  “Cool. Wanna meet for a beer later?” My heart leaped.

  “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “Awesome. Well, I’ve got your number now. I’ll text you when I move.”

  “Okay. I’ll speak to you later, Chris.”

  “Yup. Later.”

  Then he hung up. I stared at my phone for long moments, in complete shock. I had a date. On a Tuesday night. I slammed my laptop shut and raced across campus to try and find Adam.

  THERE was no time after my last class of the day to go back to the apartment and change, so I was forced to go out still dressed in my suit (although I did take off my tie and leave it in the car, with my jacket. It was an attempt at casualness at which I fear I failed.)

  I had received a text from Chris saying that he’d gone to a coffee shop; I was relieved it wasn’t another bar after our last encounter. I parked just a few doors up and compulsively wiped my hands on my thighs a few times, trying to dispel the nerves that were gnawing at my stomach. I hadn’t been on a date in… too long.

  Chris stood as soon as I walked through the door and waved me over.

  “I was starting to worry you were going to stand me up,” he said, teasing.

  “Oh, no, I would never do that,” I said. “I got caught up at the office. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” he said, flashing me his boyish grin and settling back into his deep leather chair.

  I bought him a refill and me a decaf in an effort to calm my nerves. The hot liquid scalded my tongue as I sipped at it, forcing me to hide my grimace of pain.

  “Where do you work?” Chris asked as I sat back in my chair. I carefully returned my cup to its saucer.

  “I’m a professor, actually, at the university.”

  “Oh yeah?” He sounded interested. “What do you teach?”

  “Colonial literature, with a particular emphasis on Kipling. Please tell me you’re not a student.”

  Chris laughed easily. “I’m not a student, Rob.”

  “Robert,” I corrected automatically, then cringed. “Sorry.”

  “I had an uncle called Robert,” Chris said, waving off my apology. “He was a pervert and an alcoholic. Rob sounds… younger.”

  “I don’t generally let people use that as a nickname.”

  “I’d gathered that.”

  “I suppose I could make an exception for you.”

  I was treated to another smile. To see it again, the concession on my name was nothing.

  “And you?” I asked. Sipped still-scalding coffee. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a percussionist,” he said.

  “A drummer?”

  Chris frowned, rolled his eyes, and threw his hands up in the air. “No, not a drummer, a percussionist.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

  “It’s fine. Well, to be fair, I do own a drum kit. But I also work freelance for orchestras and symphonies and all that shit too.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “How long have you been doing that?”

  “Drumming? Since I was eight. I started on everything else when I realized how much money there was to be made doing all of the highbrow shit as well. I’m in a band,” he added, bragging, but it suited him. “Yeah. That’s how we ended up here. We’ve been on tour for about a year and a half.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Florida, originally,” he said, leaning forward to collect his mug from the table and stretching the thin white T-shirt he was wearing tight over his back. “Moved about some when I was a kid, ended up in Tallahassee, where I met the guys. We played out the South over a period of a few months, then decided to get on the road.”

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “Sorry—I don’t mean to bombard you with questions, I’m just interested.”

  “Nah, I don’t mind,” he said, smiling again. “I’m an arrogant little shit, I like talking about myself. We hit most major cities on the East Coast on our way up here. Atlanta, DC, Baltimore, New York… then Boston, and here I am.”

  “Boston isn’t nearly as impressive as where you’ve been before,” I said, trying to phrase the next question not like a question at all.

  “Ah, John’s sentimental,” Chris said. “Our strings man. He grew up here and wanted to come back, play some gigs, catch up with people he used to know. We’ll be here for a few months yet.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Chris asked, and I nodded. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two,” I said.

  “Oh. That’s not so bad.”

  “You’re going to destroy me if you say you thought I was older.” I could feel a telltale flush creeping up the side of my neck.

  “No, not exactly,” he lied. “Just… you’re really cute, Rob, you know that?”

  “No I’m not,” I mumbled, flushing even more.

  “Ah, maybe you just need someone to tell you it more often.”

  I nodded and fiddled with my coffee cup. “Why?” I blurted out.

  “Why what?”

  More blushing. “Why me?”

  He laughed—not at me, it wasn’t malicious, but almost as if he was mocking my naïveté. “You’re interesting,” he started, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’ve got to admit, I think the accent is very sexy. You’re… strong-looking. Composed. I like that.”

  No one had ever pulled me apart like that before, highlighting what I was sure were my faults and turning them into compliments.

  “And it doesn’t bother you that I’m… older?”

  “What, by nine years? No, it’s nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Look, Rob, I like you, but I’m guessing you have a problem with me, and that’s cool, I promise.”

  “No, no.” I scrambled for some kind of control over the conversation. Did I ever have it in the first place? “I do, I mean, I like you too, but I just… I don’t know how…. Oh, shit.”

  Chris’s frowning softened. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’re really not very good at this, are you?”

  I lowered my hands from my face. “I’m really not.”

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like to see you too. Would you like to come out to dinner with me on Friday night?”

  He smiled again and scratched behind his ear, exposing a long line of colorful tattoos up his inner arm and sneaking
under the edge of his T-shirt. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Excellent.” I smiled and let out a long, relieved breath. “I’ll call you when I’ve made reservations.”

  “Do people still make reservations?” he asked. “I thought they only did that in the movies.”

  It took a moment, but I realized he was teasing. “Fuck off,” I told him, surprising myself. “You need reservations to go to nice restaurants. I’m not going to take you to Wendy’s.”

  “Fuck off,” he said right back, laughing too. “I’ve been to nice restaurants before. Do I need to dress up?”

  “No,” I said, desperately trying to think of a nice place to take him. “Just be yourself.”

  “My usual self won’t get served in fancy places,” he said.

  “We’ll be fine.” I stood, stretched, and smiled. “It’s been good seeing you again, Chris.”

  He stood too. “You too. I’ll speak to you soon.”

  It was too early for kisses, or even a brief hug, and the low table was between us, making it hard to lean over, anyway. A handshake was too formal. In the end I smiled again and left, the knot in my stomach starting to make its presence known once more.

  Chapter 2

  I DECIDED on a Chinese restaurant for our date, mainly because it was one of my favorite places to eat, and also because who doesn’t like Chinese food? I felt more nervous than I’d been in years, probably because I hadn’t been on a date in years. Even the normally tedious task of dressing myself became something nerve-wracking. I pulled nearly every item of clothing out of my closet, discarding one thing after another before settling on a pair of worn jeans and a white shirt, and a pair of comfortable boots. I wanted to take my glasses off, and get a haircut, and change all sorts of things about the way I looked. It was a frantic phone conversation with Marley that settled my nervous stomach, her reassurances that Chris already liked who I was and that I didn’t have to change for him.

  Although I offered to pick Chris up from his place, he just asked for the address of the restaurant and said he’d meet me there. Still, I was early and parked a block or so away, hovering by the entrance to the restaurant and trying desperately to not look like someone who had just been stood up.

  I did not expect Chris to pull up on a motorbike. The rational side of my brain, the dominant part to the point where I didn’t realize I even had an irrational side, disapproved. The newly discovered irrational side shot a hot thrill to the base of my spine.

  “Hey,” I called as he pulled off the helmet. Thank God he was wearing a helmet.

  I wasn’t sure if Chris had dressed up or dressed down for the occasion. Clearly I hadn’t seen enough of him yet. It was the “yet” that sent another little thrill through me. He was wearing wool pants, dark charcoal grey, almost black, and a soft, soft blue cotton shirt, loose at the throat and with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his brightly tattooed forearms. It was stuck somewhere between formal and casual, and I wanted to reach out and touch him.

  “Rob,” he said with the slow, confident grin of someone who knows how amazing he looks. His stride across the sidewalk was long and casual, and he came right up close to me, leaning in and brushing his lips over the corner of my mouth. I reached out blindly and grabbed his upper arm, loving the strength apparent in his lean muscles.

  I desperately wanted to take his hand as we entered the restaurant, but I didn’t know how open he was with his sexuality and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It became clear pretty quickly, though, that he was happy to be affectionate in public.

  As I gave my name to the hostess, he placed his hand on my lower back, only lightly but enough for me to feel its solid heat through my shirt. I could feel the erratic beat of my heart in my chest, knowing that I’d not felt this way for a long time, and the last time it had taken months for me to get to a place where I was this confident in someone else’s presence.

  I felt him inhale from behind me, breathing in the scent of my cologne. Fuck if this man wasn’t going to drive me to distraction. But as we were led to our table, he dropped back, out of respect to other diners or to make me feel more comfortable, I didn’t know. I never asked.

  I wondered if Chris was the sort of person who expected me to order since it was our first official date, but he seemed quite happy to accept the menu from our server and asked me what was good here, so I guessed he was independent enough to make his own decisions—when it came to what he ate, at least.

  “Are you vegetarian?” I asked.

  He laughed shortly. “No. You think I got a body like this without a healthy amount of protein in my diet?”

  The little wink at the end of his sentence made me smirk right back at him and wonder exactly what was his main source of protein. I had the impression if I were to ask him, he would almost certainly tell me “meat.”

  “Do you like sweet and sour?”

  “Mm.”

  The woman who took our order was tiny, and her shiny dark hair fell in a sleek crop to her neck. When Chris asked for a beer, I followed his lead this time and hoped the alcohol would soothe my nerves. Normally I’d drink wine but was slightly fearful of appearing prissy. And beer was fine.

  “So how long have you been in Boston?” I asked as our drinks were delivered.

  “Um,” he said. “About ten days?”

  “Really?” I said with a laugh.

  “Yeah. Lexi—Alexis, she’s backing vox and rhythm guitar—she arranges where we’re going to stay in each city. Since we’re planning on being here a bit longer than we normally camp out, we got a house this time, down over on Mansfield?”

  “I know it,” I said.

  “Yeah. I told you before that John went to college here, so we knew we’d stop by for a while. His grandparents are here too, so I applied for a guest spot with the symphony and got it.”

  “That’s pretty great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So Alexis and John, they’re in the band with you?”

  “Yes. And a guy called Danny too. We play under a couple of different names. Ice on the Tracks for our own stuff, and sometimes Dark Side of the Spoon.”

  “Pink Floyd?” I said, laughing.

  “Yeah. We don’t just cover Floyd tracks, but it just so happened that one of theirs was the first song we learned to play as a group. John came up with the name, and it sort of stuck.”

  “Are you any good?”

  A platter of starters arrived then with soup, and we took a few minutes to rearrange things on the table to make room for it all.

  “We’ve got a gig the weekend after next,” Chris said, looking up at me from under his pretty blond eyelashes. “You should come.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  Our conversation was smooth and natural as we talked about the area and the various things there were for a newcomer to explore, weighing these against the naturally beautiful sights of touring this part of the world and the cities along the East Coast that we’d both visited. Every little thing he told me about himself I savored, piecing the nuggets of information together to start to build a more three-dimensional picture of this most interesting man.

  “Tell me about your family,” I said after our starters had been cleared and the main course was served.

  “I’m the middle child of five,” he said with a wry grin. “Two older brothers and two younger sisters.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And my youngest sister is only nine. My mom and dad had a surprise when Molly was born ’cause I was twelve at the time. Then they had Brianna two years later.”

  “They know you’re gay?”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and smirked in what I was starting to learn was an often repeated gesture. “My mother likes to tell the story of how I told her at eight years old that I was going to marry a boy, because girls were ‘gross’. It was probably a bit young to be coming out of the closet, and neither of us mentioned it again, but since I was eight, it’s sort of just been understood
in my household that I’m not straight.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said softly.

  “Are your folks not cool?”

  “Not really.”

  “That sucks,” he said sympathetically. “Come on, I’ve given you the lowdown on my family. Spill.”

  “Well,” I said, and took a mouthful of really good fried rice. “I have one sister. Her name is Jillian, but we call her Jilly. She’s two years younger than me.”

  “Married?”

  “No, she says she doesn’t have time for a boyfriend. She works in advertising. My parents moved us over here when I was sixteen; my father was working for an international shipping company in Edinburgh, and they have offices here too. My mother never worked.”

  I fiddled with a napkin on the table as Chris cocked his head to one side, clearly interested in my story.

  “My mother, ah, she’s a complicated woman. They don’t really accept me.”

  He shrugged. “So fuck ’em,” he said. “My band are my family. Even though my folks are okay with who I am, if I was their only son, things would probably be different. The fact that both my older brothers are married and having kids means they can afford to have one son who breaks the mold.”

  As we finished the meal, our conversation turned to music, and we surprised ourselves and each other by having very similar tastes. I found great pleasure in being able to impress him by having seen some of his favorite bands live and was equally impressed by his wide and extensive musical knowledge, although that should really have been expected.

  When Chris excused himself from the bathroom, I paid the check without his knowledge so he wouldn’t try and split it with me. I didn’t have any problems with equality. In fact, I couldn’t imagine a relationship working without it. Instead I merely held the belief that since I had been the one to invite him to dinner, I should be the one to pay.

  The table was cleared by the time he returned, and I had his jacket brought over for him.

  “Thanks,” he said in a soft voice as he shrugged it on.

  I led him from the restaurant and turned to him in the cool night air, struggling for the words to keep this going for just a little bit longer.