The light through the curtains is the white-gray of a November morning. I’ve been awake for a while, watching the light shift incrementally across the ceiling. Lola is asleep on my chest, and it’s peaceful listening to her breathe.
How could Daniel pretend to care about me for so long when behind the scenes he was depriving me of this woman?
I can’t think about him right now. I don’t want him in this room.
Lola stirs, her legs stretching out. She tips her face up, and we look at each other in the morning light. I think,I would do anythingto keep you looking at me exactly like this.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Good morning.”
She shifts to sit up, and the sheet falls slightly. I reach out and touch the tattoo on her shoulder.
“When did you get this?”
“Two years ago. Nadia, an artist I really love, did it. Have you seen this kind of flower before?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s incredible.” My fingers trail over her skin.
“It’s a night-blooming cereus—can you believe something this beautiful only blooms once, and when it does, it’s in the dark?”
I look at it for another moment. Then I lean down and press my mouth to the center of it, and she goes still.
“Tell me about the others,” I say against her skin.
She turns around to fully face me then, and we do it properly, carefully exploring each other’s art.
“I love your flower sleeve,” she says.
“Took a while, as you know.” I smile as I touch hers.
She smiles back. “I can’t seem to stay away from the flowers.”
“They suit you.”
She finds my broken clock and runs her thumb across the fracture lines.
“I love this one. It’s new to me,” she says.
“I got it about four years ago.”
A flicker of pain crosses her face. She spreads her palm flat over it and leaves it there for a moment like she’s trying to hold the broken parts in place, and I have to look at the ceiling for a second.
On her, I find the small swallow behind her right ear that’s hard to see unless she pulls her hair aside. I kiss it. A band of intricate vines trails over her skin, and I follow them with my fingers.
She runs her fingers over the 19 and the wolf, smiling like she’s remembering when she gave them to me. She leans in and runs her hand over my phrase.
Go be great.
“It’s something my mom wrote in my last birthday card from her. This is her handwriting,” I say.
Her breath catches slightly.
“I love that,” she says softly as she kisses it.
She finds the new piece on my left forearm—an arrow with a feather.
“This is beautiful.”
