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The storm briefly knocked out power in the area – including our hotel – and there was so much rain that the drainage system for the field just can’t keep up. It’s so late in the season that our only option is to play a doubleheader tomorrow, so that’s the plan for now. Our power is back on, but it’s still raining, and according to the local meteorologists, there’s another system on its way later tonight.
As much as I’d love a day to go out and explore the city, I’m content to curl up on the couch in the suite with Max, watch movies now that we have power again, and order room service. Which is exactly what we’re doing now. Once we got word that the game was canceled, I changed into sweats and crashed on the couch with a pillow from my bed, and the extra blanket from the closet.
“Tell me about these,” my fingers trace a stem with thorns as it wraps up his arm and disappears under the sleeve of his tee shirt. Petals and leaves surround the stem and I notice the thorns as well, wondering – not for the first time – about the meaning behind the ink. “What’s the story?”
“Ah, that one,” Max covers my fingers with his hand and guides my hand up the vine. “I thought it was cool. And I was mad at my dad for trying to convince me to quit baseball. He told me I’d never amount to anything in the game and I’d be better off quitting.I’m telling you this because I love you,he’d said. It was the only time I’d ever heard those words from him. I went back up to school, convinced Jake to drive me to a tattoo parlor, and he sat patiently while I got it. Never said a word for or against, just supported me.”
“Sounds like Jake.” I smile as Max guides my hand back to his wrist and the first collection of flowers.
“When I realized that the first tattoo was not only poorly done, but a painful reminder of a rough moment with my dad, I decided to change it, but didn’t want to cover it up. Down here is a collection of marigolds,” my fingers trace the delicate, grayscale flowers, “I got these for my mom. She has an October birthday.”
The marigolds transform into lily of the valley as they climb toward his elbow.
“For Elise,” he says.
Soon, the flowers disappear under the soft cotton of his tee shirt. I greedily slip a hand under the hem and lift the shirt up and over his head, and we continue the tour of his ink with his shoulder, and the closed up rose inked there.
“The irony is,” he huffs out a humorless laugh, “my dad’s birthday was in June.”
“The rose.”
“The rose,” he confirms. “And…you know the chrysanthemum.”
Flattening my palm against the chrysanthemum, I can feel his steady heartbeat, ticking up just a bit as my eyes find his and I press a soft kiss to his lips.
“You’re missing one,” I lightly run my fingers back down his arm toward his wrist. “Violets. Or primrose. For February.”
“You know your flower charts.” He smiles and thumbs away the tears that took me by surprise.
“My mom taught me,” I whisper, my eyes drawn to the chrysanthemum, the only full color flower in the bunch, and I’m too afraid to ask him why. Too afraid to know the answer.
“What about the rest?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from his chest and focusing on his other arm. There’s one on his right bicep that I’ve always been curious about, but never asked. “Tell me about the garbage can.”
It’s small, probably no bigger than a business card, and looks like a classic metal garbage can, with flames shooting out the top.
“My rookie season,” Max says with a laugh. “I got that at the end of the year. As a commemoration.”
“A flaming garbage can?”
“My rookie year in a nutshell.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You don’t have to spare my feelings, Duckling.” He kisses my temple and pulls me close. “Itwasthat bad. My best friend won Rookie of the Year and I ended my season with the highest ERA in all of baseball and the fear that I’d never be on a big league roster again. The garbage can was both a distraction from the emotional pain of that off season, and a reminder to do better the next year. And every year after that.”
Just like the flower garden on his left arm, every tattoo on Max’s throwing arm has meaning. Beside the flaming garbage can there’s a fire extinguisher with the number twenty six on the side. Max has worn the number twenty two for his entire major league career and when I inquire about the significance, he explains that even though they were on differentteams and had gone their separate ways by then, Jake was his fire extinguisher; always helping Max calm his brain and keep himself (mostly) in check.
A grove of pine trees with a starry night sky takes up the bulk of his right arm. Max moved to Seattle shortly after being drafted and fell in love with the quiet of the forest, and has always been fascinated by the night sky. The trees not only extend toward the stars, but their roots travel down his arm, symbolic of the roots he’s planted in Seattle. Below the roots, is another bundle of lily of the valley, this time with a broken length of chain beneath them.
“It’s Elise’s story to tell,” his voice is quiet, thick with emotion. My mind travels to Amanda and the chains of her first marriage. Maxwell, on occasion, alluded to something similar with his sister but never shared the details with us, only that he was doing everything in his power to help her. “She’s out now. And I’m thankful for that. Having her around has been healing for both of us, and she’s blossoming again.”
The last one extends down to the back of Max’s hand, always visible. Another rose, this one in full bloom, petals open as if in their last stages.
“When I started to figure things out with my dad, he finally opened up to me, in a way he never had before. It made a lot of things make sense. When he died, we were finally starting to heal our relationship.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, tears stinging my eyes, “for sharing so much of your heart with me.”
“Thank you for giving me a place to share it.” Max leans down and kisses me softly, the beating of my heart punctuated by the rain that continues to pelt the windows as thunder rumbles in the distance.
