Page 67 of Devilish Ink

Me: So how about lunch here today? There’s someone I want u to meet

Hubby: Sorry, can’t. I’m busy

I waited for him to propose a new time to come see me like he always did.

But minutes went by without another message and my guts twisted even further.

Was he getting cold feet? Growing disinterested?

Calm down, Ry. He’s busy. Just because you and he have spent every single free waking moment together in the last few weeks, doesn’t mean that it could have lasted. Life happens. People get busy. People need space.

Besides, him needing space couldn’t have come at a better time now that Rian was back. I’d have more time to spend with my best friend. Right?

Lee had been practically living with me in Rian’s spare room, and it’s not like we could keep doing that now that Rian was back.

I hadn’t told Rian about my new boyfri— wait, was that what he was? Lee and I never actually discussed that’s what we were, but…

Shite, was he seeing someone else? We never actuallysaidthat we were exclusive.

Although I couldn’t see how he would have time to meet anyone else let alone date anyone else.

Maybe I should stop by his work. I looked up O’Sullivan’sGarage, the name of the mechanics he worked at. It was only a twenty-minute bus ride from here.

God, Ry, stop being so paranoid.

Besides, isn’t that what you wanted? A way out? Him to lose interest so it’d make it easier when you inevitably left Dublin?

I threw my phone into my backpack. Fuck. I needed a distraction. Something to get my mind off Lee.

I didn’t realise what I was drawing at first.

It happened sometimes. A pencil or pen would just appear in my hand, silence would drape over me like a blanket, I’d blink and there the start of something would be on the page.

I’d blink again and it would start taking shape.

I’d blink again and it would be there: the answer. All along. As if my soul was keeping a secret from me. As if it knew what it would draw and knew to not tell me.

So I wouldn’t stop it.

It was a new butterfly breaking out of a tiny cocoon. A delicate thing. The size of my thumb. A tattoo for an inner wrist. Or the small patch of skin behind an ear. A tattoo to be tucked away somewhere private, somewhere safe.

There it was from my soul: a beginning, a miracle, a new life.

I’d been so fixated on it, my finger running over the delicate pencil lines, that I hadn’t heard the door of the tattoo parlour open. The cocoon’s warmth had become my warmth so I didn’t feel any gust of misty wind from outside.

When the hand came to my shoulder I yelped.

“Ry, it’s me. It’s just me.”

I sagged with relief, exhaling shakily: it was Rian. It was my best friend.

“You know how consuming work can be,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Ry,” Rian said.

His hand came to squeeze my shoulder. He’d gained backweight in rehab. Healthy muscle. His fingers no longer felt skeletal through my shirt.

“Rian,” I said back.

---