"I promised," he says, gesturing to Liam.
I can't take my eyes off my husband, though. He hasn't been to a game with me in so long, and that makes me realize how alone this has truly been.
Cheering at Liam's games, at Noah's art shows, all by myself while my husband was drowning in his own thoughts.
Not anymore. Not ever again.
Atlas tilts his head, his voice so soft and tender. "Are you okay?"
"You're here."
That's all I say.
And Atlas smiles.
"No place I'd rather be."
???
Atlas is completely focused through the game, watching with slightly awed eyes as our son dominates the court.
Liam's about a head taller than most of the kids playing, and moves through the court with ease. He steals the ball and runs down the court, making a layup.
The other parents around us explode in cheers, and Atlas stands up and yells, "Good job, Liam!"
Liam turns his head toward us and shoots a quick smile before running back on defense.
Atlas sits back down and sees me looking at him and smiles, "What?"
I just shake my head, feeling so happy right now.
My eyes drop to Atlas' hand, namely his left hand that's resting on his thigh, only inches from my own hand. His fingers are twitching, like he wants to reach out and hold mine.
For a moment, my own fingers twitch, and I say fuck it, about to reach out and grab it when I freeze.
On his ring finger is a small layer of saniderm. Forgetting myself, I grab Atlas' hand and bring it closer to my face.
Atlas looks at me with wide eyes, but his whole face is soft. The touch of his rough, warm hands used to be so familiar, and since going months without a constant fix, I realize how much I’ve missed it.
But his hands aren't what I'm focused on—it's the tattoo on his ring finger. Atlas works with his hands on heavy machinery. He has a gold wedding ring, but he only wore it on weekends or when we were going out.
He tried a silicone wedding band for work, but it kept snapping or tearing, so instead he went out and got our wedding date tattooed on his finger in Roman numerals.
That was over ten years ago, and from the wear and tear of his job, working with his hands and washing them so much, the date had faded.
Now, he's gotten the tattoo redone, the numbers thicker, darker, more vibrant. And he added something—a small, cursive W.
Always Wendy, never Gwendolyn.
"When did you do this?"
Atlas grins, "Monday night."
"Why?"
"So no one could ever mistake me for a single man again."
"But, we're—" I cut myself off, because the words aren't from meaning it, they're from the guilt welling up inside me.
