Everett sits at his table and starts drawing. I slide over next to him,totallyin his space, and put my chin on his shoulder. He turns around and looks at me, his lips mere millimeters from mine.
“Whatcha doin’ there, buddy?”
I smile as innocently as I can. “Just watching you work. It’s fascinating.” And it really is. If my simple tribute piece is any indication, he’s a gifted artist.
“Then can you stand back about a foot? I’m sure you’d agree it’s important I get this right.”
“Oh? Am I distracting you?” I blink innocently at him.
“No, your chin is pressing down on an old injury, and it’s sending excruciating pain down the nerves of my arm, making it nearly impossible for me to draw.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
Fuck,way to go, Rafi.Cause nerve damage while trying to seduce the war hero who’s working on a tribute tattoo for your dead husband.Classy. I manage to avoid any other land mines by keeping my distance and my mouth shut while Everett puts a final flourish on the drawing. Silently, he hands it to me and waits for my reaction.
?????
Seeing Asadi’s name in Arabic calligraphy is more emotional than I’d planned for, and tears spill down my face. Everett’s solid, tattooed hand gently lands on my shoulder, rubbing it. He opens his arm to me, and I attach myself to his side like a barnacle on a Corpus Christi pier.
A wet, noisy hitching sound escapes from my chest, and after that, the dam bursts. I sob into his manly chest, drenching his sharp, eggplant-colored button-down with my tears. And probably a little snot.
“Now, now. It’s okay. Let it out.”
God, I’m hopeless.
You’re notthathopeless.
Asadi is being kind, but I’m in a plaid shirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in, wearing boots that are pinching both my heels and my toes, crying about my dead husband to a guy who I’d very much like to get naked with, while the psychological representation of that same dead husband tries to encourage me.
Fucking hopeless.
“Oh, baby boy. You’re a mess.”
I wail even harder because he’s just telling the truth. He’s not even being a dick about it; his voice is kind and warm.
“I don’t mean to be a mess! I’ve had to write his name over and over and over again to get through the will and the property deed and the taxes in the bank accounts, and I’ve been writing it in English and I’ve been writing it in Arabic, but I’ve never seen his name look like that before. It’s so beautiful.”
“Well, sweetie, I’m glad you like it.”
“Oh god, this was such a stupid idea. Why would I bringyouAsadi’s name?”
Everett shifts when I say that but waves it off. “Grief makes you do weird shit.”
I hitch a few more times, wiping my tears to look up at him. “Who do you grieve for?”
He smiles, sad and a little wistful.
I take his hands, tracing the tattoos. The heart and the swallow.
“Was it your lover? The one you lost in Iraq?”
He nods, a soft expression on his handsome face. “Daniels. His first name was Robert, but…he was always Daniels to me. We were a two-man team, which made our relationship a terrible idea. Theworst. And the best. We told ourselves we were just fucking around, two lonely sailors in the middle of the desert.” His smile is fond and sad at the same time. “It was the biggest lie I’ve ever told.”
I kiss the tops of his hands gently, blessing his sword-driven heart and survivor’s soul.
He kisses the top of my head and continues. “He sacrificed his position to save me…and I couldn’t even say how much I loved him because the comms were live. It can still take my breath away if I’m not careful.”
I take a good look at my friend and realize I’ve been so focused on my grief, I’ve missed his entirely.
