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An unread text from Mana only added to my mountain of guilt. But unlike my relentless attraction to Poppy, that guilt I could ease.
I knew what the text would say before I opened it.
Mana
Pos eisai?
How are you?
kalo
Pos eisai?
Mana
Kalo
Patera?
She replied that my father was also good before telling me to be well.
Na se kala,I texted before tossing my phone on the nightstand. The frequency of the conversation changed, but the contents seldom varied beyond pleasantries that served as proof of life. At least my mother checked in. I hadn’t received a call or text from Patera since my parents moved back to Greece nine years ago.
I worried I’d forget the language with how little I used it and started listening to Greek podcasts last year. When I was younger, I’d hated when Mana made me speak to her in her native tongue, especially in public. It was hard enough being the kid with spanakopita instead of PB&J in their lunch box without everyone staring every time I talked to my mom at peewee football. Add to that the fact I could switch hands while I took notes without changing my handwriting, and I stood out, even then. Now, I can’t walk down Main Street without everyone gawking, either because of the way I look or the mistakes I’ve made.
I swung my feet to the worn carpet and rubbed my eyes before reaching for the gym shorts by the bed. Maybe I’d have fewer wet dreams if I wore them at night, but I’d rather deal with another load of laundry and guilt than give up the luxury of sleeping naked.
I slipped on the shorts and a pair of sneakers for my morning workout routine, which hadn’t changed much since I started it in prison. But first, I stripped the sheets and trucked downstairs, so I could finish the laundry before the shop opened. When I got back to my apartment, I tossed the comforter over the mattress, since leaving my bed unmade made me anxious, and started my workout.
My best friends, Cal and Aiden, had given me an annual membership to their gym for Christmas, but burpees before breakfast happened whether I worked out later with them or not. The Xs I’d tattooed on the backs of my hands glared up at mewhen I started my pushups. Sex, or the lack of it, was the only part of being straightedge that felt like a deprivation. I’d never done drugs and giving up alcohol was easy since the last time I drank was the worst day of my life. I tried to limit my sugar intake as well, but giving into a cookie craving now and then doesn’t have the same repercussions.
Plenty of people have tattoos like mine and still enjoy sex in committed relationships, but since I’d never drag someone into the shit show that is my life, I gave it up a few years after serving my time. When I realized all my one-night stands and friends with benefits acted as an escape from the reality of my life, I tattooed the Xs on my hands and committed fully to the lifestyle. Well, my mind was committed; my body still needed convincing.
By the time I’d finished working out, a few lights were on in the other buildings on Main Street. Marked didn’t open until noon, but most of the shops and restaurants opened earlier. Not too many people were eager to get a tattoo before lunch, and quite a few arrived at Marked a couple drinks into the evening. My boss, Max, insisted we close at eight for walk-ins to prevent most drunken mistakes, but he allowed me to work later with established clients, the ones who expected extraordinary and knew they’d get it with me.
I could work for Max a hundred years and never repay him. He started visiting me, a complete stranger, in prison after hearing about my case in the news. Not many people would donate their time like that, and even fewer would give a twenty-year-old paroled felon a job and a place to live. As apartments went, it wasn’t much. But it was more than I needed, and I can’t beat the commute. After a year crammed in a tiny cell with a car booster with questionable hygiene, it felt downright palatial when I moved in eight years ago.
I glanced at the clock and groaned. I had a lot of time to kill before my first appointment. The apartment was immaculate, asalways. I didn’t feel like painting, and it was too cold to go for a hike, so I shot off a text to Aiden and Cal to see if they wanted to grab coffee before work. Usually, Aiden would already be on a job site, but his business slowed in winter. He texted right back.
Aiden
Karma in 30?
Works for me. Cal?
Aiden
Don’t bother. He’s banging Rowan
I waited a minute, but when Cal didn’t reply, I jumped in the shower and got dressed before checking again.
Cal
You’re such a dick, A. I was walking Skye but I don’t have time for coffee
Aiden
Because you haven’t banged Rowan yet or you’re late because you already have?