Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 2

  “Well, we can move when you’re ready,” Jeff says. “We can go apartment-hunting this weekend, if that’s what you want.” He’s been saving, too, planning to move out of the apartment he’s shared with two frat brothers since our senior year.

  I shake my head slightly. “No, I mean, I’m thinking about moving to a new city. For a while, just to get out of Eugene and see somewhere else for a change.”

  Jeff’s face scrunches in confusion. “I thought we talked about this. I can’t move while I’m in manager training, but then after that we can bid for a new city. I’ve got another year to go, babe.”

  Jeff works for a rental car company, and from what I’ve heard from the girlfriends and wives at company events, the pickings are slim for transfers. I don’t want to move to a town where the cultural hub is a shopping mall.

  I twist my hands in my lap and I can hear Stella screaming, “Spit it out!” So I do.

  “No, I mean, I’m thinking of going by myself. To New York. I sort of got a job offer there.”

  Jeff reels back as if I’ve hit him. “With—without me? Why would you want to go to New York? It’s dirty and crowded and expensive.”

  “And different.”

  “And unsafe.”

  “You don’t know that. Dan says it’s changed a lot.” Jeff has never been to New York, but he’s saying the same things I thought when Dan suggested it. Only now I feel like I’m defending the Big Apple.

  “Who’s Dan?”

  “My dad’s best friend. He offered me the job.” I watch as Jeff’s expression morphs from hurt to frustration.

  “Why do I feel like you’ve already made up your mind? Beryl, this is crazy. You can go visit Stella or something, but you can’t just go live there. That’s impossible.”

  “The harder to get, the better to have,” I mumble, scoring a point in Stella’s game with another Into the Woods lyric. “Jeff, I want to do this. I’m itching to get out of Eugene, and with this job offer, I could actually do it for a while.”

  “And what about me? Didn’t you think it would affect us? Didn’t you think at all?”

  My easygoing boyfriend is long gone, replaced by a fight-or-flight response at full throttle. But I feel anger burning in my gut, knowing that if I don’t do this, if I stay stuck in my hometown forever, I’m going to hate it—and him.

  “I hoped you’d understand,” I say, wrapping my arms around him in some kind of an apology. “I thought you’d want me to go try this, have an adventure, so that when we decide to settle down or even move to a new city together, I’ll be ready.”

  “I thought you were ready now.”

  I shake my head. Jeff got a job straight out of college that has a clear career path. But I threw my career path away when I left the newspaper. Now, the most exciting thing I write besides my journal is an order ticket for a beer-and-burger special.

  And I call bullshit on that.

  “Jeff, I’ve got to go. Either I do this, or I’m going to hate myself for missing this chance.” I can’t bring myself to say I’ll hate him for keeping me from it.

  He shocks me by making it too easy.

  “Then do it. But don’t expect me to wait around for you.” He pushes my arms off his neck and scoots to the other end of the couch, pulling his headphones on his ears and grabbing his videogame controller.

  I stand and watch his eyes redden, feeling a sob build in my chest. He won’t look at me, only the TV.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I cry as I ride to the brewpub, wash my face in cold water in the bathroom sink, and do my shift in a daze.

  I can’t believe what just happened. Did I really just throw away eighteen months with my boyfriend for a job?

  I decide not to go to New York a dozen times during the dinner shift. But then a group of college students stiffs me with a buck-fifty tip for a table of four, a woman yells at me for a screwed-up order that was the kitchen’s fault, and a customer pats me on the butt.

  I want to take a chunk out of the customer’s arm with my teeth, but I just chew my lip and keep moving. I have to keep moving. If I stand still, I’ll break down again.

  The same fear and exhilaration I felt when I quit my reporting job hits me and I can’t bring myself to eat on my break, so I nurse an Arnold Palmer on the curb behind the brewpub and check Facebook on my phone. Jeff has already updated his relationship status to single.

  Jackass. But I feel the tears flow again.

  I also see a message from Stella. “I saw Jeff’s status. Looks like it didn’t go so well. Chin up, beauty, you’re going to love NYC!” Even through the tears, I smile. Stella always seems to rebound from the bad boys she dates as if they were nothing worse than a hangover.

  I drag my feet during my end-of-shift sidework, hoping the business of mating ketchup bottles and refilling salt and pepper shakers will keep me busy until after my mom’s in bed.

  I’m in luck. Her bedroom light is off, so I tiptoe to my room, knowing that I’ll be up and out of the house again before she gets up. But that means tomorrow night’s going to be rough.

  ***

  “How could you just do this without even discussing it with me?” my mom cries. And she’s just getting started. Years of practiced, impassive expressions in her family counseling practice have made her more prone to outbursts, in my opinion.

  But what do I know? I’m not the licensed therapist.

  “I am discussing it with you. Right now.”

  I move to drain the pasta before it gets gluey, stepping carefully around her in our small apartment’s galley kitchen.

  “But you’ve already made up your mind,” she accuses. “I can’t believe Dan didn’t say something to me first.”

  “You mean, ask your permission?”

  Mom backpedals. I’ve already played my “I’m twenty-two, not a child” card twice tonight. She knows it trumps her “Because I’m the mother, that’s why” card.

  “Beryl, I need you here. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t stand the thought of losing you too. And if you go to New York, you won’t be safe. You won’t have me to take care of you.”

  I clench my teeth, biting back a comment that will only hurt her. After Dad died, I took care of her more than she took care of me. I plunk our dinner down on the table harder than I intend and the sound echoes off the walls.

  Mom sees I’m not swayed, so she plays the pity card, sad eyes and all. That’s practically an ace. “I’m your mother. Shouldn’t my opinion count for something?”

  “You’ve never been to New York,” I remind her. “And neither have I. We’ve never been much of anywhere since—”

  I trail off. I don’t want to say, “since Dad died,” or, “since the accident.”

  My father was a private pilot—his passion, his hobby and his death sentence. He got caught when the weather came in and the clouds rolled down. With nowhere to land but vast stretches of forest, he tried and failed.

  “We don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to go anywhere. You can find a new opportunity in Eugene. Or even Portland.” She frowns at the mention of the biggest city near us, a hundred miles north.

  But her words ring hollow even as she says them. If I stay in Eugene, I’ll still reek of coffee, failure, and frustration. Or I can spread my wings like Stella and get a bitchin’ job and a punk boyfriend (Blayde? Knyfe? What’s with that name?).

  And maybe change my future.

  A knock startles me as I’m setting the table and I fly to the door, eager for something to defuse our argument. Dan stands on our doormat, hands tucked behind his back, looking hopeful.

  Defuse? This is more like throwing a match in a room full of dynamite.

  “Hi Berry, I was wondering if—”

  “New York? What were you thinking?!?” My mother is behind me, hands on her hips, staring Dan down. He takes a step back and ducks his head from the daggers in her eyes.

  I edge to the side, out of the line of fire, pushing the door open wider. I think my
mom would like to slam it in his face, but I’m not going to let her bully us.

  “Meredith. It’s good to see you.” Dan’s eyes crinkle as he smiles but she huffs and stalks into the kitchen, so angry her face is purple.

  “Um, not a good time right now. We were just talking about New York.” I remember my manners and hope he’ll take my side in this fight. “You want to come in?”

  Dan hesitates as he enters our apartment, as if a lion might be lurking around a corner. He’s half-right—my mom can be pretty fierce when she’s angry. I guess I prefer angry to the years when she was withdrawn or just plain sad.

  Dan turns and hands me the bouquet of daisies he’d hidden behind his back. “You’d better hold onto these, Berry,” he whispers. “If I give them to your mother, she’ll probably throw them in my face.”

  My mom rounds the corner from the kitchen, her face pinched with anger. “What makes you think you can just come in here and take my daughter away? What makes you think you can fly back into our lives after all this time?”

  “I tried to call you,” Dan protests.

  “And I didn’t call you back. That should have been all you needed to know.”

  “Meredith, I didn’t mean to disappear. When I came to Eugene, you wouldn’t see me.”

  “But then you stopped coming. Or calling. So what makes you think I want to see you now?” My mom’s blinking fast and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

  Dan raises his palms in surrender. “Meredith, I didn’t come to fight with you. You were one of my best friends. I wish we were still friends. I wish—a lot of things. And so I came to promise you I’d take good care of Berry if she wants to come to New York.”

  “Beryl.” My mother and I correct him in unison and I give her a tiny smile of gratitude. Then I look at the flowers I’m holding guiltily, as if I’ve already accepted his offer to go to New York.

  In my mind, I have.

  “Sorry, Beryl. And Meredith, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. I honestly didn’t expect to run into Beryl at the coffee shop, but when I heard she was stuck here—”

  “Wait. What? Stuck? Beryl isn’t stuck. She’s just figuring out her next opportunity.”

  My mouth forms a surprised O. My mom has given me endless grief for working at the coffee shop instead of going back to get a master’s degree in something, but now I’m hearing her defend my two food service jobs as if I weren’t marking time toward a life of ordinary.

  “Maybe this is it, then,” Dan says gently. “I wanted to give Beryl a chance to try something new. You know New York was a great move for me. I regret the way things ended between us, Mer. There’s no reason we should have stopped being friends after Clint died.”

  “Friends.” My mom is still suspicious.

  “Mom, I need a challenge. And if it sucks—”

  “If it sucks,” she grimaces at the word, but I can tell Dan and I are winning this fight, “will you promise to come home?”

  “Yes.” I promise. I don’t know if that’s a lie.

  ***

  I fire up my laptop and buy a plane ticket that kills off a quarter of my savings. It’s late, but I take a chance and call Stella. She answers on the third ring and I can hear her voice echo above loud music.

  “Sorry to call you so late.”

  “Honey, it’s early!” Stella shouts in my ear. “So what’s the story?”

  “I’m coming. I’ve got a plane ticket and enough money to last until my first paycheck.”

  “That’s fantastic! How did your mom take it?”

  “She wasn’t thrilled. You could have guessed.”

  I think of my mom’s strangled expression when Dan and I piled on the promises that I’d be safe to finally convince her. I could have played my “I’m an adult, you can’t tell me what to do” card, but ultimately I wanted her blessing.

  “Do you have to pack much? When do you get in?”

  “I get there Sunday morning. I’m taking a redeye. That means I’ve got four days to pack, quit the coffee shop, quit the brewpub and I’ll show up for work with Dan on Monday.”

  “I’ll message you my address.” I hear pounding in the background. “I gotta run. Somebody wants in the bathroom. Text me if you need help.” Stella abruptly clicks off the line.

  Help? I need help in about a million ways.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Before my dad died, we flew a lot. Any beautiful day was an excuse to go up in his little plane, gliding low and slow over the patchwork quilt of Willamette Valley farms that ring the city of Eugene.

  That quilt is tucked up to the forest’s chin, from the rugged Cascade mountain range in the east to the gently sloping Coast Range in the west. From my apartment, an hour’s drive can take me to the beach, the mountains, several rivers, or the state capitol.

  My favorite trip is the ten minutes it takes me to drive a little canoe to the McKenzie River that winds its way through the valley. I spend hours floating, thinking and (on hot days) checking out the nudists.

  Eugene’s been called “Blue Jean, Oregon” for attracting hippies, and you can’t throw a rock without hitting a Deadhead, a natural foods store, or a university student.

  Sometimes I’m tempted.

  But today, the pace of life moves from placid to light speed. I take a Greyhound bus to Portland, then the MAX light rail to the airport. I wander Portland International Airport, trying to figure out where to check in for my first-ever commercial flight.

  Every airline’s check-in station is crowded, with harried attendants and ticket counters that look like they were designed by the DMV. But my airline, Virgin America, is actually kind of cool. They have fresh flowers, chatty attendants, and pop music pumping from a little stereo on their desk.

  I think I know what flying will be like from movies. But boarding the plane is like walking into a nightclub—the whole cabin is white, with black leather seats that feel like Jeff’s Mustang. Neon violet and fuchsia tubes light the ceiling and there are video touch-screens in the back of every seat.

  Color me impressed.

  I shove my backpack in the overhead bin and a messenger bag at my feet, ready for my first real adventure to begin.

  ***

  The taxi stops on a gritty side street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side between a Chinese restaurant, a Dominican restaurant, and a candy store.

  “You sure this is the right place?”

  “Yeah, yeah, this,” the cabbie says with a thick Middle Eastern accent, gesturing up the street. A dozen doorways line the sidewalk and my eyes search frantically for the right number.

  I pay him and reluctantly step out of the safety of the cab, tripping on an uneven sidewalk panel as my scary-big suitcase swivels drunkenly behind me.

  I feel sweat blooming under my arms and my eyes are gritty from sleep deprivation. No wonder they call it the red-eye. I’m wearing my fat camping backpack and bouncing a messenger bag along on my thighs.

  Everything about me screams tourist, and yet I am not.

  I am a New Yorker!

  How awesome is that?

  I don’t feel like a New Yorker yet, though. My outfit, which was boho-chic in Eugene, feels country bumpkin next to the relentlessly polished women who pass me. I might as well be wearing overalls and gingham.

  I bump along the sidewalk with a suitcase that was just under the airline’s weight limit, feeling my gut clench uncomfortably with a need to pee. Each apartment number is wrong. I find the numbers close to where Stella’s apartment should be and swallow my rising panic.

  It’s not here. Why didn’t she come get me? I haven’t heard from her since Friday and her last Facebook update was some cryptic song lyric about bad boys being so good. The reference was lost on me.

  I check my phone again and the map says I’m in the right spot. So I look again, and then—relief!—I see that I’m on the odd side of the street, not the even. I squeeze between parked cars to cross the street for the right entry.

  See? I can
do this. I can.

  I lean on a buzzer, and when Stella doesn’t answer, I hit a half-dozen more for good measure. Finally, the outer door buzzes and I drag/bump my enormous suitcase, which I am rapidly growing to hate, up each of the twenty-seven steps to Stella’s apartment.

  I have to take a breath just to get the energy to knock on her door.

  No answer.

  I knock again, listening. It’s Sunday morning—what if she stayed out late? Somebody told me bars here close at 4 a.m. What if she went home with someone?

  I sink down against the hallway wall in despair, wondering if she even got my email with my flight details. I really have to pee, so in about fifteen minutes my “wait it out” strategy is going to get desperate or messy. And I’d rather wet myself than bump my ridiculous suitcase packed with Bumpkin Fashion down twenty-seven stairs.

  And back.

  So I pound on Stella’s door some more, hoping she’s just, oh, passed-out drunk but coming to; wearing noise-canceling headphones while writing a story for her indie newspaper; or wrapped up in some glorious yoga pose that demands uninterrupted meditation.

  As my mind spirals to worst-case scenarios involving Law & Order opening sequences, I hear a rustle, a click, and see the door handle twist.

  I am saved! My bladder does a dance of joy and I nearly pee myself.

  A guy with spiky black hair and three facial piercings stares at me. My mouth kicks in before my brain does.

  “Hi! Are you Knyfe? I’m Beryl. Stella’s new roommate.”

  I ditch my stuff in the hallway and plow into the guy, making a beeline for what I hope is the bathroom. I don’t even get its door all the way shut before I’ve dropped trou and peed, like, a hundred years’ worth of in-flight beverages.

  Tom Hanks has nothing on me.

  (Seriously. You haven’t seen A League of Their Own? Go rent it. I’ll wait.)

  (OK, now that we’re all caught up on culture….)

  So I’m peeing, and then I’m washing, and I wash my hands and my face and my neck and it feels so damn good that I’m thinking I might just strip down and jump in the shower, my new shower, right this moment, when Knyfe pushes on the door I didn’t quite latch.