He sets his glass down gently. “Then came the tattoo. And after spending two days getting my skin pricked with needles, she up and left. Never heard from her again.”
“Wow. I’m sorry, Alex.” Truly, I am. I can’t image trusting someone so completely—letting them use your body as a canvas—only for them to disappear without a word.
“I’m okay with it now. It’s been eight years.” He shrugs, but his voice carries the weight of it anyway. “My only reminder of her is our daughter… and these goddamn tattoos.”
I reach for a slice of warm bread from the basket and begin spreading butter across the top. “So… and correct me if I’m wrong, but—by assembling the puzzle pieces, you’ll have an answer? Maybe that was her way of explaining why she left? Like… a message hidden in the design?”
“Maybe. Probably.” He exhales, eyes flicking up before rolling with exasperation. “Except— wouldn’t you know—there’s a missing link.” He scoffs lightly, the sound laced with bitter humor. “So typical of Meera.”
He turns his wrist over, revealing the lone puzzle piece. “And this one? Doesn’t seem to belong anywhere. Trust me, Emilee and I have racked our brains trying to piece it together. We’ve got Meera’s original sketches at home, but even with those… it’s like she left us with an unfinished story. Or maybe one we weren’t meant to solve.”
“You know.” I eye him skeptically, contemplating whether or not I should make this suggestion. I decide to go for it. “Gabriel is an artist. Maybe he can take a look. I think there’s a saying… something along the lines ofsome things can only be seen through the eyes of an artist. Maybe it needs another look—by a fellow artist. Someone who speaks the same creative language.”
Alex grins, mid-bite, then points his fork at me.
“Funny you should say that. My daughter suggested the same thing last week.”
“Did she?” I swallow hard, caught off guard, wondering why they’d been talking about Gabriel.
“Well… sort of,” he explains, lifting his wine glass. I don’t miss the slight tremor in his hand. “I asked her how she’d feel about us dating.”
A warmth spreads through my chest, curling around my ribs.
“She actually said she likes you more than her mother.”
“She said that?” I place my fork down and blot the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin, stunned by this news, but happy all the same.
Alex chuckles. “Don’t get too excited,” he teases, lifting a brow. “She also said you were cool, but that Gabriel was”—he raises both hands and does finger quotes— “muchcooler.”
I fall into a fit of laughter, causing a few glances at us from nearby patrons. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Gabriel is like a recycled teenager. The kids love him.”
“Mm,” he replies, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you still love him?” He fidgets with the corner of his napkin, twisting the material through his fingers. I reach across the table to take his hand, but at the last minute, he pulls away, placing it in his lap.
“He’s Ana’s dad,” I offer in lieu of an answer. Then, feeling the need to be honest, I add, “But, yes. Both Ana and I love him. It’s just that my love has changed over the years, Alex. It’s different now. I love him because he completes our family, but I’m no longer in love with him. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” he utters, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Meera and I met in high school. She was the new girl—almost two years older than me—but we clicked from the onset. Strange, in a way, because she was such an introvert, didn’t have many friends… actually, nofriends. Mostly kept to herself. But she was insanely talented. Spent most of her time in the local artists community.”
He pauses for a moment, so I take the opportunity to inject myself into his thoughts. “Ah, Gabriel’s old stomping grounds. Maybe they’ve crossed paths. Was she from the city? There are so many great art schools here in New York. I’m wondering why she chose to attend a public school.”
“You know what, Elijah? I honestly don’t know. She never talked about her life prior to high school. It’s like she materialized out of thin air. No backstory. No family photos. Nothing. But to answer your question, no, definitely not a city girl. For what little she shared, her family lived overseas. She mentioned having a younger brother once or twice. God—her face would light up when she talked about him. I wish I could remember his name. But she loved him. That much was clear. And missed him too, like crazy. And—oh—she spoke French,” he adds as an afterthought, slumping back in his chair.
I watch as the color suddenly drains from his face, his hand drifting to his temple. I place my fork down and lean in.
“Are you okay?”
“Migraine,” he mutters, grimacing.
Without thinking twice, I stand and reach for his hand. “Come on,” I say softly. “I’m taking you home.”
15
ELIJAH
I steermy vehicle into the underground garage at my apartment building and slip into the reserved parking space. Alex’s eyes are closed as he sits beside me, seat reclined halfway back, warm hand still wrapped up in mine.
