She nods at me and looks at JP.
“I guess I’ll get the same.”
She nods again and pulls out some consent forms for us to sign and an hour later, we leave with the tiniest tattoos on our wrists. A simple taco about the size of a quarter. We make it halfway down the block before looking at each other cracking up.
“We just got tattoos!” I scream, holding out my wrist. He does the same, then tucks me in his arms. We rock side to side as we embrace in the middle of the sidewalk and I relax into the feeling of freedom in his arms.
“Audrey hated tattoos!” JP throws his head back with laughter.
“Oh, but I think she’d love the gesture. I mean, she had me bring tacos every time I saw her just so she could smell them. She’d probably call us idiots,” I laugh, wiping the tears from under my eyes.
“She’d probably say we’re meant for each other,” he says back, laughter still hanging onto his words even as I fall silent.
We stay frozen, eyes locked on each other while the world spins around us. The people on the street, the cars whizzing by, the streetlight as it turns from green to yellow to red. I think of our short time together and the million moments that have followed. I think of how unpredictable life has been. I think of him and how I’ve always wanted him at the perfectly wrong time. I think of how Audrey asked me to be there for him when she’s gone. How she thanked me for letting her be married to him.
Then I think of Donavan.
“We need to go home,” I say with a painful swallow. “I mean,Ineed to go home and so do you. We should call an Uber. Where’s your car?’
“Still at the church,” he answers, trance breaking at the mention of logistics. Then he laughs. “Man, Jesus is going to be so pissed at us for getting drunk and getting tattoos after my wife’s funeral.”
The mere mention ofmy wifeescaping his lips hurts me in a strange and inexplicable way, causing the sour taste of shame to spread across my tongue.
“I think...” I begin over shaky vocal cords. “I think Jesus would be getting tattoos and toasting to Audrey with us all night. He’d probably make the wine.” I smile wryly and JP’s smile mimics mine.
“I like your version of Jesus.”
As we wait for our Uber, Donavan texts me.
Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.
I shudder at the passive aggressiveness in his tone but I also am hit with my own complete disregard for my fiancé. I told him I was going out for a drink with JP five hours ago. My thoughts sober with my blood as I realize I need to see him. I need to get home and smell his skin and get wrapped in his arms. I need to be physically reminded of my love for Donavan. Because every time I’m with JP, I can only think of my love for JP.
“Come home with me,” JP whispers, stepping closer to me.
I’m embarrassed by the temptation as much as I’m angry at him for even mentioning the idea. He runs a hand down my arm until he reaches my hand, weaving us together finger by finger.
“Don’t say that,” I say, hating him but not wanting to let go of his hand.
“Just for a sleepover,” he adds.
“We’ve never been good at those.” I hate that I want to smile at the memories of him. I hate that he’s vulnerable and hurting and asking me to do something he never would if it weren’t under these circumstances. “You’re drunk, JP.”
He breathes out heavily through his nostrils as he stares at the concrete between us. “You will have many loves...”
“Don’t throw that in my face right now.”
“I think of that all the time,” he says, not changing his line of thought.
“Most not all, JP,” I caution, dancing around Donavan’s name and the fact that he’s home in our apartment, lying in the bed I share with him.
“Do you remember what she said to me?”
My jaw tenses. I do but I don’t say it out loud.
“She said I’ll have just one.”
I try to swallow but it feels like my throat is closing in.
