Page 21 of See You Next Winter
Aged nine, I asked my parents for his address, convinced we could become pen-pals, but they didn’t know it, and our grandparents had passed away, so I couldn’t ask them either. The following winter, it seemed daft to have even considered writing to each other. The joy of winter with Ryan was all in the build-up, in catching up and telling stories. It wouldn’t have been so fun if I’d heard them all before.
Now, it’s easier to pretend I don’t care if I don’t ask about his life. L.A., other women, his job. Who gives a shit about all that?
I do. Unfortunately.
I care so much it hurts, even when he’s here, and all mine. There’s a pinch behind my ribs, my little heart warning me. It knows it’s heading for war, and I know there’s no way to avoid it.
Ryan pulls my hands away from my face and presses kisses to each fingertip.
“What’s wrong?”
“We don’t talk all this time and you’re off getting secret tattoos for me?”
He tucks loose strands of my hair behind my ears, thumb sweeping away a tear that’s spilled over. “I got it for me, mostly.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have anything of yours, and I wanted to always keep a part of you with me.”
The rest of my heart shatters, and I know there’s no way I can put it back together on my own.
“You cannot be serious.” I wrap my hand around the base of his throat and pretend to throttle him.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a problem, Ryan. I’m trying really fucking hard to get over you and you’re making it impossible.”
“Why are you trying to get over me?”
When he asked at the parade if he could see me today, I should have said no. I knew if I let my guard down, I’d undo all the work I've done to get over him. He could have taken his sexy ass and his secret tattoo back to California, and I could have lived a perfectly reasonable life without ever knowing anything about it.
Now he’s here, all naked and golden, and I know I’d never have said no. His lopsided smile belongs to both the boy I fell for first, and the man I’ll never get over. He’s part of all of my best memories, and now we’re deep under each other’s skin.
Accepting we have no future has been a work in progress. Tattoos make us a permanent part of each other, and I’m too tired, too emotionally wrung out, to think about what any of this means for us.
Fuck it. He’ll find out, eventually.
I twist in his lap until he can see the back of my arm, and he gasps.
“Two skis,” he says, tugging my elbow back so he can press his mouth to the spot that bears similar markings. He doesn’t kiss it, just holds his lips there in some sort of silent worship.
“One for you and one for me,” I whisper.
Repeating his words is no lie, even though I’ve never confessed the true meaning of my tattoo to anyone else. My design is more simplethan his, two line drawings crossed in the shape of an X. You can’t even tell they are skis unless you're up close, and so few people are.
“When?” he whispers, and the lump in my throat doubles in size.
“Around the same time, I guess.”
It was a spontaneous decision. I was meeting a friend for lunch and walked past a tattoo shop in Edinburgh. Even now I couldn’t tell you what called me to go inside, but before I knew it, I was in the chair and marked forever.
To think he was doing the same on the other side of the world has me believing in invisible strings and soulmates and forevers. The very stuff I’ve trained myself to ignore.‘Soulmates’is a dangerous concept to entertain when there are thousands of miles keeping you apart.
“Baby.” His breath shudders out against my skin, and I twist back to hold him close against my chest. His arms tighten around me, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck, a spot he once told me was his happy place.
‘Baby’is new.
Soft.
