Since Decker’s return, it’s been a crash course in how my computer isn’t always right. It can’t just push out a magical solution to every single problem, no matter how many times I tweak the code. Despite how badly I want it to, it can’t make every story perfect. I echo what Brian said back in my apartment: that the real world functions with an arc. That trials and tribulations aren’t things we can program to be wiped out or ignored. Instead, we have to find ways to accept them, cope with them, and let them enrich the overall story. And mine, I’m beginning to understand, is one that’s always being written.

It’s the next day when I find myself pacing at the curb, waiting for Brian’s Uber to drop him off at King Cobra. As I see the car pulling up the ramp a few minutes later, my stomach does a triple axel. I’ve lived my entire post-Decker life being scared of anything nonlinear. Now I’m intrigued by what it feels like to just go with your gut. And after talking to Casey last night, my gut said to text Brian this morning and tell him to meet me at a tattoo shop Casey recommended.

Brian shuts the door to the Uber and slogs his way over to me, emotionless. He doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic and I can’t blame him. I didn’t give him any details and shut down his opportunity to ask questions via text. But between shutting him down like a jackass, and the letter he wrote me that revealed he was the even bigger jackass, I figured two jackasses texting back and forth about the logistics of an impromptu tattoo appointment was not the best way to ensure we’d actually meet up here.

“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”

“Tired. Haven’t slept. What are we doing here?” he asks.

What are we doing here? It’s a good question. And if I think about it too long, I’ll change my mind. But for now, the answer I’m going with is a simple one: “I’m getting my tattoo covered.”

My hand trembles as I hold out my arm and expose the D tattoo for what is bound to be one of the last times. I’ve never made the decision to permanently ink myself in five seconds flat based off a fleeting comment from my kooky roommate, but here we are.

“Right now? Are you sure?” Brian tips his black Wayfarer sunglasses up to see the D tattoo a little more clearly. He looks good for a serious lack of sleep, and his gray joggers coupled with a Clippers jersey, nothing underneath, is an excellent look on him. Debbie said it best when she was explaining med-school Brian: a poster child for disheveled living. But as I look at him now, I have to admit his whole post-turning-thirty look begs to be featured in a spread in GQ.

“Yes. Right now. You have your ID, right? They don’t let anyone in without it.”