“Mine is on my collarbone,” Mom says with a warm smile. “Close to my heart.”
There is a chorus of awws.
“So where will it be?” Hen asks.
Hollis glances at me, and I feel that same flutter in my stomach I’ve been getting since I was sixteen. “I think I have an idea.”
“Okay, be honest,” Hollis says, his eyes glittering with amusement, as we zip down the freeway. “Exactly how much hotter am I with this tattoo?”
He grips the steering wheel and flexes his forearm. He got it in the exact spot as mine. In the exact font. God, we’re one of those couples who have matching tattoos.
And I fucking love it.
“Well, right now, it’s covered in a bandage and oozing blood, so I’d say not much at the moment, but check back later?”
“I’ll hold you to that. In like two weeks, when I’m done shedding skin like a snake.”
“Don’t forget about the itching.”
“What the fuck? It’s gonna itch too?”
“Oh yeah.” I nod. “You’ll be slapping it like crazy just to get some relief…and I’ll laugh and laugh.”
“That doesn’t sound very supportive of my suffering.”
I snort. “What if I agree to rub the lotion on it for you and then maybe rub some other parts of you as well?”
His face lights up, but he keeps his eyes on the road. “Now we’re talking.”
He takes an exit—the wrong one—and I glance over at him with a puzzled look. “Why does it feel like I’m suddenly having a case of déjà vu?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’m just driving.”
Once again, instead of heading for our apartment, we go west toward Malibu. I don’t bother asking if we’re headed to the bar or my parents’.
I already know our destination.
We’re going home.
Something warm and wonderful blossoms inside of me when I say this to myself. Home.
As an adult, I dreamed of having a space I could make my own. I could paint the walls pink or knock them down. It was mine, after all.
But for my husband, a home meant safety. Security. Love.
I’ll never quite understand how much it means to him to finally have all those things, but I’m so glad I’m the one who gets to share it with him.
When we pull into the familiar circular drive, he parks, and we get out. The landscapers we hired have already been by to spruce up the front, pulling all the weeds and replacing dead plants with drought-resistant ones. The once depressing exterior now looks healthy and lush.
When we get inside, he looks around and then turns back to me. “I know there’s no furniture, but I thought it might be nice to order a pizza and just…”
I smile. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
While he orders pizza—extra cheese, obviously—I walk through the kitchen and run my hands over the brown granite that will be taken out and replaced next week.
I wonder what memories were made here.
Did they roll out dough for Christmas cookies? Have a flour fight? Did a big discussion take place at this island? Maybe even an argument or two?
