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“What’s the story behind your tattoos?” I ask. The one on his arm is a skull covered by a medieval helmet. Out of the helmet are two curling horns that wrap around the biceps.
He turns his head slightly and lifts his shoulder to eye the one I’m pointing to. “Mostly drunken stupidness.”
“I thought that it was illegal to get a tattoo while under the influence?” The tattoo is still dark, but I can tell it’s not one of his newest ones. There’s a faded, subdued quality to the ink.
“Only in the U.S. I got this one in Finland. It’s the Norse god, Hödr, a warrior who was tricked into killing his brother. He was exiled, and Odin had another son, sired for the sole purpose of killing Hödr.”
“That’s morbid.”
“I’ve not been in a good place for a long time,” he admits softly.
I gather him in my arms, pressing his face against my breast and wrapping my legs around him as if I could absorb his grief and his past sadness. “The one on your shoulder is beautiful.”
“The dragon?”
“It looks like the dragon is chasing something.” The large colored wings are in motion, folding over the back onto the top of the shoulder, and the neck of the dragon is stretched out between the shoulder blades. His mouth is open, but there’s no fire coming out.
After a long moment, he sighs. “It’s me chasing you. I’m the dragon and you’re . . . not there. I was going to have a dove put on my opposite shoulder, but it never felt right.” He pushes up to look at me. “At least not until now.”
The glint in his eye is one half love and the other half sexual intent. My body protests. “Don’t look at me like that.” I laugh. “I’m too tired and sore.” He smirks, a look of pure unadulterated smugness. I slap his dragon right on the snout. “That’s the smarmiest smile I’ve seen you wear.”
He doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “I can’t help it. You just admitted that I wear you out in bed. That’s a point of pride. Smugness is a natural by-product.”
“A natural by-product of good sex is sleep,” I counter.
He disentangles his body and rolls onto his side, tucking me against him. “Then sleep, baby.”
43
Nathan
We arrive at the clinic early as Charlotte has to give blood and piss at the lab. I avoid hospitals, having developed an aversion to them during our teen years when she was first diagnosed. Everyone here appears to know her, though, and she appears comfortable. I’m the one who can’t sit still.
She ignores me and scrolls through a sea of white lace and satin on her phone. Our parents spent hours last night hammering out the details of the fall wedding. No one complained it was short notice, probably because everyone thinks we need to get to the altar before I flake out again.
Uncle Bo called me on a separate line.
“I’m sorry,” I said before he even got out his greeting.
He heaved a long, heavy sigh. “Not going to lie to you, son. There were times I was mighty disappointed in you, but it looks like you righted your train. That said, let me tell you if you hurt her again, I’ll forget you are my godson. And then I’ll hand you over to AnnMarie.”
“I’m not going to let anyone down again,” I said.
“See that you don’t.”
Mom sent me a long email full of scolds and admonishments finished off by encouragement. Dad’s email was succinct and to the point: “Not everyone gets a second chance. Don’t waste yours.”
“Does it always take this long?” I ask, glancing at my watch. We’ve been in here for over an hour.
“No,” she admits. “But it could be extra busy in the lab. They like to run a couple of tests before I leave.”
“You still taking your shots?” After her chemo and radiation, she had to administer daily shots of human growth hormones to make sure that all her organs fully developed.
“I don’t need them anymore,” she answers, not looking up from the phone. “I’m fully grown. I take a few drugs to help my little thyroid along, but mostly I’m drug free.” She wiggles her wrist, and her medical ID bracelet jingles. It’s the sparkles of my diamond on her finger that capture my eyes, though. I can’t stop looking at it—my little sign post of possession.
Taking a seat beside her, I wrap an arm around her shoulders and squeeze her. “I love you.”
“I know,” she says. She lifts her chin so I can kiss her. That’s a far better way to pass the time than pacing, I think. I massage her neck lightly as I trail soft kisses along her jawline to her ear. The little lobe with its small gold hoop adornment dangles in front of me. I bite the soft flesh and then lick the soft pink upper shell. Her phone clatters onto the counter next to her. I drag her onto my lap.
