I reach for my water, wincing as my inner arm brushes the side of my ribs. It’s still tender—heat trapped beneath the wrap, reminding me of the slow drag of the needle. The dull burn. The permanence of what I chose to mark into my skin.
The tattoo looks damn good so far. We got most of the outline done, and even started shading a few parts of the forearm. It was a long session, seven hours straight before we both tapped out.
He told me I could take some Tylenol for the pain, but I’m not going down that rabbit hole again. It’s just Tylenol, I know. But that’s how this whole thing started. No drugs. Not even pain relievers. Not for a couple of years, at least.
Matt plops down on the couch a few cushions over. “When do you talk to your parents?”
“Tomorrow. I want to get it over with before Christmas Eve. My mom’s already losing her mind over not seeing me yet.” I chuckle. “She’s gonna lose her shit when she sees this tat.”
Matt grins. “Yeah. Remember when I got my first one? She’s not even my mom, and she flipped.” He takes a swig of his beer. “But hey, maybe I’ve softened the blow.”
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “She took it personally when Megan got that tiny one on her foot. Didn’t talk to her for weeks. This?” I glance down at my arm. “This’ll push her over the edge.”
“Your dad will think it’s cool.”
“Yeah. Dad’s always been more open minded when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“How does Alley feel about them?” Then, almost instantly, he grimaces. “Shit. Sorry. That just came out.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. Honestly? I’m not sure. We never really talked about it, but she’s never said anything about not liking them.”
He shifts in his seat. “Have you heard from her at all since… you know…” He makes a vague gesture with his beer. “The papers?”
“Yeah. She texted me back.” I pause. “Middle of the night on Saturday.”
Matt raises an eyebrow. “And?”
I exhale, the words catching like barbed wire in my throat. “She said no. That the lawyers can handle it.” My gaze drops down to my wedding ring. I twist it, the familiar metal smooth against my skin. “Like it’s no big deal. Just sign the papers and move on.” I lean forward and grab my phone from the coffee table. “But she also said something I can’t stop thinking about.” I pull up the message and hand it to him. “Here. Read it.”
His brows scrunch together as he reads. “She doesn’t trust herself to see you? That’s basically her saying she knows she’d end up in your bed.”
“Right?”
He scrolls down, snorting. “Thanks for reaching out? What the f—” He trails off, eyes still scanning. “And then you responded with, ‘I understand. I’ll respect whatever you need. Just know I meant every word—and nothing you say or don’t say will change how I feel about you.’”He looks up. “What the hell is that? Sounds like something you’d send your grandmother.”
He tosses the phone back. I catch it and reread the message, already second-guessing myself. “Shit. I don’t know, man. I’m trying to be respectful. I just want her to know that no matter what she says, I’ll stay clean. I’ll keep loving her. No pressure. No drama. Just… patience.” I drag my hands down my face with a groan. “It’s just so fucking hard to do from here.”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it, maybe send her a cardigan and a prayer candle.” He leans forward. “Come on. Make herwantyou. Remind her what she’s missing. Hit her with something that says,I still get hard just thinking about you.”
I stare at him. “That’s what you’d text someone in the middle of a divorce?”
“Okay, maybe notexactlythat,” he says, shrugging. “But something that makes herfeelit. Women want to be respected—but they also want to feel wanted. Give her both. She hasn’t had sex in months either—get her panties wet. Make her remember how good it was. How goodyouwere.
I shake my head, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “So what do you think I should say?”
He takes a sip of his beer, eyes narrowing like he’s crafting the perfect speech. “You say something like, ‘Alley, I miss you more than you could ever know. I think about you every second of the day. When I’m watching TV. When I’m at the gym—’” He glances up briefly. “Gotta remind her you still look good. ‘Or when my hand’s wrapped around my cock, picturing your pretty lips—’”He pauses, then shakes his head. “No, better make it about her.‘When my face is buried in?—’”
“Jesus,” I cut in. “I can’t say that.”
“Why not? She’s your wife. Remind her.”
“Because you don’t just text that after getting served divorce papers. That reads like Stockholm syndrome. I’m not trying to fuck some random chick. I’m trying to get my wife back.” I shake my head again, letting out a breath. “Christ… Is this why you’re single?”
He chuckles. “Hey, I do a lot of sexting. Don’t knock my methods.” He leans forward, grabbing a chip, then shoots me a look. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re about to be single too if you don’t let her know just how bad you still want her.”
Shit. Iamabout to be single. The thought alone makes me nauseous. And I hate to admit it, but… he’s not wrong. What do I even have to lose at this point? What’s the worst thing she could say?Let’s get divorced?Newsflash, Jensen. Already happening.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll send her another message.” I glance at him. “Something thoughtful. Not sexual.”
