I cleared my throat. “I was wondering why you don’t have any tattoos,” I said aloud.
He moved his arm, stuffing my pillow under his head, considering his answer. Even with my mouth inches from his stomach, he took the time to listen, as if he were actually interested in what I had to say. I liked that so much.
“Like what?”
“Body art is a form of self-expression. It could be whatever you want, a passion, a memory. Whatever feels meaningful to you.”
“Meaningful.”
I nodded. “And lasting. You don’t want something you’ll regret. No words or symbols in languages you don’t actually speak. No names. Ink is permanent.”
Joe met my eyes steadily. “And relationships aren’t.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it, heat creeping up my face. Was he talking about his ex-wife? Or us? “I mean…You can get a cover-up tattoo. Or there’s always laser removal.”
“I don’t see me making that kind of commitment.” He spread out his hands. “I’m marked up enough already.”
I touched him gently, tracing the gouge between the knuckles of his right hand, the purple gash at the base of histhumb, a long—burn? scrape?—along the inside of his left arm in almost the same place as the tattoo I’d gotten to honor my father. “I like your scars.”
“Yeah, but they don’t remind me of anything. Except I should be more fucking careful.”
“You earned them doing something you love. They’re like those wood marks you were telling me about. Your scars are part of you. Your history.”
He circled my wrist, his thumb rubbing lightly over the chisel on my forearm, feeling the pulse racing beneath my skin. “So, you’re saying basically, we match.”
My breath caught.Maybe?
He braced his body up, leaning close, brushing back my hair to nuzzle my throat. His beard tickled as he kissed a spot behind my ear. “You hid this one.”
A micro tattoo of a tiny open book.
I arched my neck to give him better access. “I got that when I was a student teacher. I was afraid I might not get hired if I had a really visible tattoo.”
He stroked my arm.Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet. “You have this one.”
I grinned. “I wore long sleeves to my interview.”
His laughter shook us both.
He lowered his head and kissed the pattern of veins running under my skin. Shifted us both in my narrow bed until he covered me, hands and mouth roaming, searching, as if my body was printed in braille and he was reading me, learning me by touch. I clung to him as I went under, drowning in sensation and tenderness.
In over my head.
25
Joe
Sex made everything better.
Or maybe it was sex with Anne, Joe thought. Whichever, the vague dissatisfaction that had been riding his shoulders was gone. Better, easier, to think about her, her bright hair and her smart mouth and the changing expressions of her face.
On Thursday, they’d hiked up the bluff under a canopy of trees, the dog snuffling and bounding on the trail beside them. Anne had clambered over roots and rocks in her orange-laced boots, as cheerful and noisy as the birds, pointing out wildflowers and exclaiming over the glimpses of shoreline, the glint of clear water and endless sky through the trees.
But when they reached the summit, she’d gone still, gazing out over the water with wonder. The lake was shaded from green to blue, the sky from blue to gray. Joe stood back, content to watch the sharp, clean line of Anne’s profile and the wind playing with her hair.
“I watched those TikToks,” she announced abruptly to the lake.
His mind scrambled to catch up with her.
