In my hotel room, I sat at the dressing table and pulled my dirty blonde hair back into a loose updo. I applied dark brown eyeliner and mascara, smudging the pigment artfully in the corners. My understated lipstick was supposed to last all night. I shivered at the idea of Gabe attempting to kiss it off. My nipples puckered, hard and proud in the cold air conditioning. I knew that I looked good in my crimson silk sheath and nude suede pumps. I was embarrassed by how much the new ensemble had cost, but looking in the mirror from all angles, faced with the reality of finally seeing Gabe again, the investment suddenly seemed entirely worth it. My hips looked trim, my boobs pert. The low-cut dress accentuated my collarbone.
I wondered if Gabe would notice that I still had my tattoo. We had gotten the ink together on my eighteenth birthday. He'd waited for me, wanting us to get our first tattoos together. The art didn't obviously match. A person wouldn't notice unless they knew both of us. I had an American traditional rooster strutting on the inside of my left wrist. Gabe had a black spotted pig in the same style etched on his right wrist. He had taken me to the shop and double dog dared me to do it, offering up the cash as a birthday gift. He had been unusually suggestive, lasciviously running his calloused index finger up and down the thin skin inside my elbow.
The tattoos were an outward sign of betting on ourselves as adults, a self-fulfilling prophecy for good luck. When we were kids, Gabe's mother had told us stories about old cutter ships. Sailors used to keep the smaller farm animals in wooden cages. In unfortunate instances where the ships sank, the lightweight wooden enclosures would become personal flotation devices, giving the animals a surprising chance for survival.
I had pretended to hesitate, but I was never not going to do it. I remember feeling so alive, holding tight to Gabe's warm hand as the artist did his painful thing on my skin, then on his. As he flirted with me, I had hoped that day, that ink, was a positive sign of things to come. Over the years, there were times when I had thought about having the tattoo removed, but I could never bring myself to make an appointment. The story still meant something to me, and the art's existence tied me tangibly to Gabe. It felt as if I had the ink obliterated, it would be like saying that I didn't believe in myself, or in us, anymore.
After getting ready in my room, I stood outside the boutique hotel, anxiously smoking a cigarette (which I ostensibly didn't do anymore), teetering on the edge of a panic attack, box breathing and trying to psych myself up. I was counting on Gabe already being inside while I strategically planned my entrance, and I cursed myself as I saw him coming toward me from the right, jingling his car keys nervously in his left hand. Seeing him, I did an embarrassing double take, almost turning my ankle and falling on my ass.
Even from across the parking lot, I could already tell that my old friend still cut a handsome figure in his slim black suit. My heart hammered in my chest, and if I hadn't taken a very deliberate deep breath, I would have awkwardly swooned. As Gabe got closer, I could tell that he had changed the way that he wore his hair. In high school, the thick mop had hung around his chin in loose, light brown waves. Now, Gabe was coiffed, his hair carefully faded on the sides with combed volume at the top.
Gabe had always known that he was hot. It wasn't a secret. He used to be slightly embarrassed by his looks, but that associated awkwardness seemed to have faded over time. On his approach, I could see the industrial piercing that he still wore in his right ear. His avocado-colored button down was open at the throat. The hue brought out the green undertones in his hazel eyes. He was still the sexiest man that I had ever seen in person. I didn't know if I should feel vindicated or disappointed.
When Gabe spoke, I watched his lips move instead of focusing on his words. I saw flashes of his tongue stud, could still hear the slightest drawl around the edges of his sentences. Trying to get my bearings, I clung to the memory of the day that he had gotten it pierced. I had gone with him. A friend of his knew some guy who owed him a favor. When we got home, his mother hadn't cared about the addition to his face, but she had made fun of his garbled speech as the puncture had healed. She had jokingly told me that if that were the most controversial thing that either of her sons ever did, she had done her job right.
Over the years we had been apart, I had collected little details, surreptitious snippets of information about Gabe. I always tried to pretend that I didn't care what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. I knew that he was about to start his neurosurgery fellowship. I had no doubt that he was going to be great. Gabe had always had steady, deft hands, regularly kicking my ass at Operation and Pick-Up-Sticks. In high school, he had been the reluctant front man for a pop punk band called Cabbage Patch Christ, playing his cheap pawn shop guitar like it was a Fender Strat, a rock god on makeshift, shoddy stages shakily propped up at house parties. Looking at Gabe, now all grown up, I couldn't help but imagine for the millionth time how his strong hands would feel running all over my body.
He leaned in to hug me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I closed my eyes when we made contact, smelling his menthol aftershave, a faint hint of cloves, and an undertone that was all him. I had never encountered its exact match anywhere else, but it was the scent I most strongly associated with home. I melted into him against my will, resisting the urge to lean up and press my lips to the warm hollow of his throat. Gabe's embrace was tight. I could feel tense muscle under his clothing; his heart beat fast as he leaned down against my shoulder. As he breathed in my ear, goosebumps sprung up on the thin skin of my neck.
Tears pricked my eyes when he whispered in my ear, "It's so good to see you, Fox." When he let me go, everything inside me sighed with regret, but my pride kept me from clinging to him like a limpet.
After a protracted, overly pretentious dinner consisting of tiny portions, we made it inside the elevator together.
Gabe asked, "Which floor are you on?"
I pushed the button for three. We rode up together in silence.
