Page 72 of The Words We Lost

If only for this moment right now, I wish I could be her again. I want to be the Ingrid who doesn’t filter her every action through her past heartaches. I want to be the Ingrid who doesn’t need all the directions before she’s willing to take a step forward. I want to be the Ingrid who walks toward someone she wants to trust without planning her exit strategy.

When I slide off the barstool and move to the other side of the island, his gaze tracks my every step, much the way I imagine him doing the night of the banquet before I won a cold trophy that had no arms to hold me, no lips to kiss me, and no voice to congratulate me.

I feel the heat of his body as I draw near—and the closer I get to him, the closer I want to be. His breathing grows shallow when Ireach for his arm and cradle it in my open palm. I trail my fingers along the smooth surface of the inked skin between his wrist and elbow, exploring the artwork that appears as fresh and bold as the day it was tattooed. His is of a compass surrounded by mountains, trees, and water. On the upper left quadrant, an old Victorian hotel perches at the edge of a bluff, reminiscent of the Campbells’—all of it entwined by a thick, three-strand rope that ends at an anchor. And there, carved into the crown of the anchor’s arms, are the coordinates all three of us shared:our home.

The intense green of his eyes flickers as he skims my face with a silent request I need no help to interpret. Ever the gentleman, he releases himself from my hold and allows me to answer in my own way, in my own time. My nod is certain as I grant him an invitation I’ve given no one else.

Gingerly, he brushes my hair aside and then slides the chambray overshirt I’m wearing off my shoulder. His fingers graze along the ridge of my left collarbone until they connect with the high neckline of my black camisole. My eyes remain focused on his face as he slips the fabric low enough to expose the artwork inked on the soft flesh directly above my heart. The span of my tattoo is easy enough to cover with a modest neckline but impossible to hide wearing anything cut to rest near my breastbone.

Joel hasn’t seen this tattoo in five years.

Truth is, I’ve barely allowed myself to look at it in nearly as long.

The shaky exhale that escapes him sounds half-pained, half-relieved. And I have to remind myself to keep breathing as his fingers trace the surging waves that break over the left half of my compass before they trail to the right. To the side where a dock stretches across peaceful waters to a shoreline masterfully shaded to resemble the illuminating light that first led me here. To the coordinates permanently inked to my chest.

Joel presses his palm to my skin, searing his heat into my tattoo, which forces a confession to break from my lips.

“I wanted to forget,” I utter into the safe space between us. “When Ileft, I told myself it would be better that way. I told myself that I could control the pain if I was the only one I had to rely on. And I’d almost managed to convince myself that grief had tainted my memories of you—of us together. That they couldn’t possibly be real.”

With a tenderness that makes me weak, he whispers, “They are real, Indy. We are real.” He brushes his thumb across the width of my tattoo. “I can’t erase the darkness for you, but I can be the one to hold the light when you’re ready to come home.”

When I meet his steadfast gaze, Joel lifts his fingers from my hot skin just enough to tap them to my chest three distinct times, communicating in a sacred language that echoes through me like a vow. There’s purpose in the way I reach for him then. My desire for Joel is as intrinsic as it is honest, as if for the first time in years I might actually be able to look ahead and not behind.

When our lips connect, it doesn’t feel like the start of something new, but rather the continuation of something that began long ago. Of something that never stopped despite the distance. Of something backed by a history belonging only to us. And with every move of his lips over mine, every taste of his kiss and caress of his hands, pulling me in, pulling me close, I want it all to be real.

I want it to be as real as the truth branded on my chest.

24

Joel

Rontu hopes you slept well last night.

My eyes have barely opened when Joel’s text comes through, and yet my grin feels as if it needs no warm-up time at all. I’m fairly certain it’s in the exact same position it was last night after he walked me to the cottage door, brushed my hair away from my cheek, and pressed a lingering kiss to my mouth.

I touch my lips, welcoming the tingling sensation the memory brings.

Immediately, I picture all the manuscripts I’ve marked up over the years while donning my editor’s hat. All the opening lines of chapters I’ve highlighted featuring giddy protagonists who rouse from deep slumbers while enjoying a mental frolic of recent romantic escapades ...

Let’s rewrite this opener,I’d type in the margins.Can we try for something a bit fresher?Or simply:This is too cliché.

Only this morning, I am the cliché protagonist. And I have no desire to be anyone else. Perhaps as long as I can stay snuggled in this bed, I won’t have to be.

I pull my phone deeper into my cave of covers and text him back.

Ingrid

Please let Rontu know that I slept till 9:06 a.m. ... and I can’t decide if I should be horrified or exhilarated by this rare phenomenon?

Joel

He says as long as you woke up where you were dropped off last night ... then he votes for exhilarated. He’s a big fan of sleep.

And because I want this blissful, out-of-body experience to last for as long as humanly possible, I snap a picture of the mound of blankets covering my legs and feet, making sure to include the glorious beach scene just beyond Cece’s large bedroom windows. I tap send.

Ingrid

Still here.

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