“Jimmy! Shh!” Sandrine tried to make herself disappear, because she didn’t want anyone to see her with him. “What are you doing?” she whispered intensely, and she got up and stood in front of him to block him from view of the girls who were at her bachelorette party.

“Gettin’ our waitress. She said holler if you need anything, so I’m hollerin’,” explained Jimmy matter-of-factly, unaware—or maybe not caring—that he was making Sandrine uncomfortable.

“HEY!” he yelled again, and then asked Sandrine, “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know—Jimmy, what are you doing?”

“We gotta celebrate! You got found! By Martin La-friggin’-Ferriere! He’s … quite a guy.” Jimmy paused and looked Sandrine dead in the eye and said in all earnestness, “And so are you. I mean—you’re quite a girl. Or—person. Just—you’re awesome is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

Sandrine looked down and was about to say that she wasn’t awesome, because an awesome person doesn’t leave a guy the way she had left Jimmy, but, before she could, Jimmy was calling to the waitress again. “HEY!” he hollered, raising his right arm and waving to the waitress.

As he did so, his unbuttoned shirtsleeve slid down his arm enough to reveal some kind of marking on the inside of his forearm.

Sandrine was trying to shush Jimmy and had looked toward the front to make sure no one in her bachelorette party was seeing her with her ex.

When she turned back to tell Jimmy that she didn’t want to celebrate with him, she noticed the marking on his arm. It looked like a tattoo.

“Hey, Jimmy—whoa! What’s that?” Sandrine was pointing to—and almost touching—the marking on his arm.

“What?” Jimmy looked to where she was pointing and realized that the tattoo he had gotten after Sandrine disappeared on him had been revealed.

“That!”

“Oh…” Jimmy quickly dropped his arm, pulled the sleeve of his blue work shirt down to cover up what he didn’t want Sandrine to see, and tried to button the cuff. “Nothin’. Just—a tattoo.”

“What?!?” she cried, totally intrigued.

“A tattoo.” Jimmy tried to get back on task and hollered to the waitress, waving with his other hand. “HEY!”

“No way!” said Sandrine. Jimmy wasn’t the kind of guy who she ever imagined would get a tattoo. “When did you get that?!?”

“Um … after you left,” said Jimmy, and he hollered to the waitress again to try to deflect attention from the skin art on the inside of his forearm. “HEY!” he hollered. But the Moose Paddy was busy and the song about the guy who likes big butts was playing, so the waitress probably couldn’t hear him—and was nowhere to be found.

“Well—what’s it of, what’s it say?” asked Sandrine, trying to grab Jimmy’s tattooed forearm.

“Nothin’, nothin’…” Jimmy really didn’t want to talk about his tattoo or let Sandrine see it, so he pressed his right arm close against his body, holding tight to the cuff of his sleeve, and he waved to the waitress with his left hand again. “HEY!” he hollered, but, as he did so, Sandrine grabbed hold of Jimmy’s right arm and tried to pry it away from his body. Jimmy resisted. “No, don’t—”