Saturday, July 4th, 2009
“IT'S SETTLED. JUST DO it.” I told the tattoo guy.
“I don’t feel good about this, not shaving your hair back here.” He told me again for the thousandth time.
I was getting a tattoo at the nape of my neck, slightly under my hair line—although, part of it was actually in some of the hair. That was where we didn’t agree. I didn’t want to shave it. That would look weird. He told me the issues and I thought I could manage.
Yeah, yeah. Infection.
Yeah, yeah. It could get in the way.
He was tattooing one simple character. A symbol really. So I didn’t see the need.
“I’ve signed all of your waivers, now do it.” I had had enough of his ninny-picking. I’d thought that tattoo artists were supposed to be reckless and wild. This guy sounded more like my mom.
When it was finished, I went back to my hotel room. I was staying in Las Vegas for a few days working on a restaurant overhaul in the Bellagio. It was going smoothly and I was happy to see this project finally taking shape.
I began traveling with the ships, for no other reason that they made me feel better. When I would think about all the times and talks I’d had with Casey, I’d take them out.
The two were similar, certainly a pair, but they weren’t identical. One was a little taller and I thought it was more masculine. So, symbolically, it was Casey’s ship. The other was leaner and looked more feminine.
I started modifying the Casey ship on my last trip. I painted the belly of the ship red and laughed the whole time remembering those ridiculous pants.
There was a band that went from the stern to the bow and I painted that white with liquid paper. I wrote The Lou on it with a fine-tip Sharpie.
That night I decided to work on a new part of my custom Casey ship, it needed some lime green, like the sunglasses he wore to the coffee shop the morning after we’d met.
A paper clip would do the trick.
I unwound the metal and reshaped it into a pair of aviators, which by my own admission, looked crooked and wonky, but I had to go with what I had. I saw the lime green nail polish in a shop a while back and picked it up. I pained the metal and hooked it to the mast in the front and the one in the back.
Then I ordered up a bottle of champagne and toasted to how crazy I’d managed to become in my twenty-five short years.
I was certifiable.
Saturday, September 12th, 2009
I thought about reaching out to him every day, but I didn’t.
I ran into Audrey, the eldest of Casey’s younger sisters, whom I’d met twice, once at Micah’s shower and then again at the hospital when Foster was born. And we had coffee.
She’d returned to Seattle already in her sophomore year of art school.
“You don’t have to tell me anything, but I know you and my brother had something going on,” she admitted, and was sort of warning me where her line of questioned was headed. “What happened?”
I looked at her, her wild curly hair that reminded me so much of her brother’s, only lighter, and tried to answer with only my expression. I tried to give her a let’s not go there look, but evidently it looked more like maybe you should beg.
“Please, Blake. I won’t say anything to anyone, I’m just curious. I mean, I’ve never even seen you two together, I only know bits and pieces from overhearing my brothers talk, and from what Morgan has told me. I want your side. No judging. Promise.”
She was sincere. And Casey had been right. She was a romantic. It was so unfortunate that our story wasn’t a romance instead of a comedic tragedy. I would have enjoyed telling her that story more.
I drew in a long breath and decided that, maybe talking to someone who knew him—and sort of knew me—might help. It could be cleansing.
After I married Grant, I never spoke to Micah about it or Casey again. I don’t think either of us knew what to say. It would probably sound something like, “How nice. Your baby’s godparents had a secret affair and now they won’t speak.” Totally normal.
I warned Audrey right off that it wasn’t really my place to tell her any of what I was about to say, and that it was a little weird to be chatting about Casey, especially with Casey’s younger sister. But she waved me off and said, “Just f*cking get on with it already.”
She was a lot like him. No wonder I felt at ease spilling my guts.
“You may not like me after you know everything,” I said.
“Blake, I told you, no judgments. Mistakes are mistakes. I’m sure you only did what you thought was right. Now tell me.”
I started from the beginning. And I spared no detail. She laughed and so did I. When I thought I might cry, she did, and I fought the tears back.
We drank about six cups of coffee apiece before it was all said and done. She was holding my hand as I slowly spoke about my wedding and how we’d fought right before it.
She really didn’t judge me. She listened with more understanding than I would expect from an eighteen-year-old. It was cathartic to release the story from within my heart. I didn’t feel less sad, just a little lighter.
We’d be friends.
We didn’t speak every day, but it was probably once a week.
Her classes started at Cornish and she was very focused on her work. She was talented in all things artistic and interested in learning everything about all of them.
Photography. Painting. Sculpture. Design. She was always talking about someone else’s art like she loved it as much as her own.
I was packing a bag to head out the next day when I got a message from Audrey.
Audrey: I was asked not to call you, but he needs you. I know that he does. His mom died last week.
My hand covered my mouth as in shock and sadness squeezed the air from me. I had to go to him.
I’d wasted so much time, waiting for the right time to set my plan in motion. Afraid as usual.
I couldn’t call.
I couldn’t text.
I had to go to him.
But first, I cried.