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“Can I help set the table?” I ask.
“Napkins and silverware are already on the table, and here’s a plate for you to use,” he says, handing me a large black plate. “Take however much you want.”
“It smells so good,” I say again, as I scoop food onto my plate. He makes his plate after me and we both walk towards the table and sit down. “Is this a family recipe?”
“It’s my mom’s recipe,” he says, filling his spoon and blowing on it slightly before putting it in his mouth.
I take my own bite and moan. “It’s so good.”
He smiles at me, his brown eyes twinkling with happiness. He finishes his bite before he asks, “How was your day?”
“It was good, pretty slow. Lots of meetings,” I say and he nods. “So did you really cook all day or did you do something else too?”
He laughs, “I woke up and went for a run since it was so nice out today, and then went grocery shopping. Stopped for some coffee and then came back here where I have been slaving over the stove until you knocked on my door,” he finishes with a smile. I can’t help but return one. He really does have a beautiful smile, I love his dimples. I look down at the tattoos on his arms that I haven’t seen much of since he wore long sleeves in the winter.
“Do your tattoos have any special meanings?” I ask, nodding to them.
He chews his bite and swallows before saying, “Some of them do. Some of them I just liked. And one of them I got because I lost a bet in college.”
My eyes widen and I laugh. “Tell me about that one.”
He sighs and drops his head before he pulls up the short sleeve of his shirt showing the underside of his bicep. I look towards the muscle there and see the words ‘no ragrets’ in an old English font. “No,” I say in disbelief before I burst out laughing. “That’s amazing,” I say, still laughing. “It could have been worse!”
“That’s true. If my other friend had won the bet I would have had to get his face,” he admits. My eyes go wide, “Yeah he’s a wild one.”
“What was the bet?” I ask, eager to hear the answer.
He groans, putting his hands over his face. “It’s so stupid. We were out at a sports bar and a little buzzed,” he admits sheepishly, “and one of my buddies bet me that I couldn’t eat a dozen of the place’s hottest chicken wings.”
I let out a loud laugh, “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”
“I ate seven, and I couldn’t take it anymore.” He joins me in laughter, “I chugged about four glasses of milk, but I couldn’t get that taste out of my mouth. I think I burned off a layer of my tongue.” I laughed again. “So that’s the origin of that tattoo,” he says with a defeated chuckle.
“What about the other tattoos?” I nod to the ones I can see on his arms, all of them in black and gray ink.
He points to the moth on his outer arm, “I thought this one looked cool.” He moves his finger to the words in a typewriter font on his forearm, “Cada día es un regalo.” Every day is a gift. Then to the flower on the other arm starting mid bicep and going down his elbow, “the ceibo, the flower of Argentina.” He taps his finger against the angel on his outer bicep, “Thought this one was cool.” And finally to the smallest one—about three inches tall—a small black flower on his wrist, “And a lily of the valley, which is my mom’s birth month flower,” he says with a small smile.
I think for a moment, “Were those the flowers you brought for me on our first almost date?” I ask.
He looks down for a moment, a little embarrassed I realize and I wonder why. He says, “Yeah. My mom always said that they represent ‘new beginnings’. I thought that they might be fitting.” He looks away, cheeks pink. “It’s silly.”
I reach over and cover his hand with mine. He freezes at the contact and looks at my hand before looking up at my face. “It’s not,” I tell him. “It’s really thoughtful.”
He stares at me, with warmth and longing. “Thank you.”
I smile at him and remove my hand, trying not to let the shakiness of it show. I grab my fork and shovel some more food into my mouth to give my hands something to do. “So that’s it? Just those ones on your arms?” I ask him after I swallow.
“I have a few on my back and chest, one on my ribs and one on my thigh,” he says, his voice a little shaky. I nod. Trying not to think about his back or chest or stomach or thigh. “Do you have any?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not against getting one, I just don’t know what I would get.”
He nods. “It’s a serious decision.”
“Yeah. Maddie and Elliot got matching ones in college after only being together a few months. They’re nuts. But it was actually really special and sentimental to them,” I say. Then I laugh, “Hayden wanted us to get the same tattoos in the same place but bigger to try to one up them—” I cut my laugh off, not realizing what I just did. I look up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about?—”
“Ana,” he says gently, “You can always talk about him.” His words are covered in sincerity and truth. I nod, meeting his eyes, seeing the truth of his words in them.
“It used to hurt so badly,” I admit. “Talking about him. Saying his name, even hearing his name.”
