Page 3

Lizzie—

The warm sun heats my cheek, waking me. My eyes flutter open, and I quickly register the heavy arm draped over my waist. Glancing down, the black scrawling tattoos are stark against the skin of his muscular arm. The events of last night rush back like a flood.

The tattoo artist who’d done my ink.

I carefully lift his arm and wrap the white sheet around my body, then rise and tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click. Dropping it, the sheet pools at the floor around my feet. The reflection in the mirror reveals how thin I’ve become. The weight loss doesn’t surprise me, not when I’ve only been living off alcohol and chocolate. The bandage on my outer upper thigh hides my first tattoo. At least that’s one thing I won’t regret. My eyes shift to my face. I almost want to look away. The woman staring back at me is so different from the one who stood there not six months ago.

The sparkle has left my eyes, replaced by the hollow emptiness I feel. I’ve felt this way for what seems like forever. Since the day my world crumbled around me. Since the day I lost my husband—my everything.

He was on duty at the firehouse that day. Three on, four off.

The doorbell rang, and I answered it. The moment I opened the front door, my whole life changed. Jack, Matt’s partner and best friend, stood there in his gear. I knew the second I saw him, his face covered in soot, except where his tears had washed it away.

“No, no, no.” I crumbled to the floor at his feet.

“I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” he choked out.

“Tell me he’s okay.” My voice broke.

“I tried to get to him. I—”

A sound came out of me I’d never made before and have never made since… part scream, part wail, like a piece of my soul was ripped from my body.

Everything since that moment has been one giant blur.

The bed creaks in the other room, knocking me out of my downward spiral. Dashing away the tear that rolls down my cheek, I grab the sheet from the floor and wrap it around myself.

My one-night stand is sitting up when I walk through the door.

“Hey, babe.” He grins at me, scratching his chest. Hell, I don’t even remember his name.

I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the bathroom doorframe. “I’m not your babe. We had a good fuck. You kept my mind off some things for a little while, and now you can be on your way.”

He comes to his feet. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed, and when I come out, you won’t be here.” I push off the doorframe and move to the closet, grabbing some yoga pants, one of Matt’s old t-shirts, and a pair of panties.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath.

Ignoring him, I turn the shower on as hot as it goes, letting the steam fill the room. Moments later, the door slams. My eyes close, and I slide to the floor, still clutching Matt’s shirt to me. His smell lingers on it, the woodsy scent of the soap he used. I give myself two minutes to feel everything, then I tamp it down and move to the pounding water, turning carefully to keep the bandaging of my new tattoo from getting wet.

I wash the regret of last night away. Apparently, I’m going to need a new tattoo artist. He was a stupid mistake—something to fill the void, to make me feel again. But it only lasted a moment. Thankfully, drunken exhaustion took over, forcing me to actually get some sleep.

I linger under the spray until it turns cool and goose bumps cover my body, then wrap myself in the beach towel I’d slung over the shower rod. The pink and orange stripes wash out my already paler than usual complexion. My skin is usually dusted with the kiss of the sun, but I’ve refused to venture out on gorgeous days. It doesn’t feel right to enjoy a beautiful day when something so ugly has happened.

Dragging a washcloth over the mirror, the image that stares back at me reminds me of everything I was before with Matt. My blonde bouncy curls seem to mock me. Anger at the unfairness of it grips at my chest, and I snatch up the scissors lying on the counter. I hold out a strand of hair and cut. The curl falls to the floor, and the release I feel urges me on until a pile of curls rests at my feet. My hair comes to just past my shoulders, but a good six inches are gone. Picking up the hairdryer, I blow my hair out straight, ridding myself of my curls that seemed to dance with movement. Straight feels better, feels more like me right now. But the golden color still feels too bright.

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I head to the door.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve returned with a box of white, blonde hair dye. I don’t want to do anything too drastic.

After dyeing and blow drying my hair, I stare at the new me. She looks tougher in a way, and that only strengthens my resolve.

A knock at my front door startles me. I stride across the floor, really hoping it’s a girl selling cookies. I could really use a chocolate fix, and I ate my last candy bar last night.

A glance through the peephole deflates my shoulders. Kate, my best friend, stands there.

When I jerk the door open, her smile fades.

“You don’t have cookies,” I grumble, turning and walking toward the couch, but leaving the door open for her to follow.

“No. But I do have two lattes and a box of donuts.” She kicks the door shut behind her and trails after me.

“I hope there’s a chocolate one in there,” I mutter, knowing I sound as cheerful as a bowl of gruel.

“How are you doing?” She eyes my hair but keeps her mouth shut.

“Just fine,” I lie, knowing I’m fooling no one, least of all Kate.

“How’s work?” She flips open the box, revealing a half dozen assorted donuts.

My eyes immediately seek out my favorite Boston Crème. I grab it and shove half into my mouth. “Well, I got fired, so not great,” I say around the mouthful.

“They fired you?” A spark of anger flashes in her eyes at the unjustness. “How can they do that?”

“Well, my boss said I actually have to show up to keep my job. So there’s that.” I stuff the rest of the donut into my mouth.

“You haven’t been going to work?” Her forehead puckers with a frown.

“Kate. Sometimes I can’t even get myself out of bed. You’re lucky you caught me with my hair washed.”

“Yeah, your hair.” She eyes it sadly.

“What about it?” I snap.

“It’s just, different.”

“I needed a change.”

She nods solemnly. “Maybe you need to get something to help make it easier. Talk to a doctor or therapist. Maybe they need to get you started on a medication.”

“Remember that whole I lost my job thing? That means money is tight and no health insurance.”

“Right.” She squeezes my arm. “Are you okay?”

“No, but there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. I’m going to have to crawl out of this dark hole on my own or let it swallow me completely.”

She shifts at my words.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re here to help, and I’m kind of shitting all over your good will, but I need some more time.”

“Okay, I can respect that.”

“Thank you for checking on me.” My eyes connect with hers. “Honestly.”

She nods. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that, right?”

“I know that,” I admit quietly.

“Good. Now I have to pee, and then we can talk.”

She rises and moves toward my guest bathroom.

“Use mine. It has toilet paper.”

Pausing mid-step, she changes direction, moving toward my bedroom instead.

My latte warms me. The sweet frothy liquid runs down my throat.

I hear her footsteps approaching.

“Okay, I have to admit, lattes and donuts may have been better than the cookies I’d hoped were standing at my door.” My eyes lift to her, and she stands with one hand on her hip and the other holding a small square foil wrapper up for me to see.

“What have you been up to?” Her voice is laced with a tinge of laughter.

I don’t have to be any closer to know exactly what she’s holding. I close my eyes. “What are you digging through my trash now?”

“Well, it’s hard to miss when it’s sitting right on top along with the used—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” I interrupt her. “I had sex.”

“No shit.” She smirks. “Who? When? How? These are the questions I want answered.” She tosses the condom wrapper in the kitchen trash and washes her hands.

“You know, you didn’t have to touch it.” I eye her as she dries her hands on my kitchen towel and moves across the room to join me on the couch.

“You wouldn’t have admitted I saw what I saw if I didn’t dangle it in front of your face.”

I cross my arms, knowing that’s exactly what I would have done.

“I’m waiting.”

I huff out a sigh. “He was nobody. My tattoo artist.”

“Whoa, back the train up. Your tattoo artist? Since when do you have a tattoo artist?” Her eyes widen. “Lizzie, did you get a tattoo?”

“Yes.”

She glares. “Am I going to have to pull every detail from you with a pair of tweezers, or can you just spill the damn beans already?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Yes. I got a tattoo.”

Her gaze flicks over my body, clearly searching for said tattoo.

“It’s a raccoon.”

“A raccoon?” Her mouth twitches up at the corner.

“Yeah, it was just something between Matt and me. This raccoon used to visit us…” I wave it off. Not wanting to share. “Never mind. I guess it’s kind of silly.”

“No, it’s not silly if it means something to you. Where is it?” Her voice softens.

“My thigh. But it’s bandaged right now. So you’ll have to see it later.”

She gives me a stern look, but says nothing.

“My tattoo artist was really nice about it. He knew I’d lost my husband and that the tattoo was for him. Afterward, I didn’t want to be alone. So, I asked him if he wanted to grab a drink.” I shrug a shoulder. “One thing led to another and…” I gesture toward the bedroom. “We had sex.”

“And?”

“And what? It was just sex. A onetime thing.” I know what she’s asking. “I’m not ready to date. I just want my needs met now and then.”

“Now and then? This isn’t the first time?” She almost squeals at me.

“No, but just one other. It was some bartender. No one I ever had feelings for more than finding him attractive. These men were here to scratch an itch, Kate.”

“I get it, but maybe it is time to start piecing your life back together.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.” I turn and stare out the window.

“Lizzie, I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this.”

The last thing I want is her pity, so I change the subject. “How’s your life going?”

“It’s going well.” She doesn’t elaborate, almost as if talking about her joy will hurt me. So, we move on to very safe topics like the weather as we finish our coffees.

“Do you want me to make some coffee?” I ask. “It won’t be half as good as these.” I hold the empty latté cup up.

“I have to go, but you know I’m only a phone call away.” She rises from the couch.

“I know.”

She pulls me in for a hug, and I feel like I need to prove to her I’m on the mend. “Look, I’m going to search for a new job on Monday. I’ll get back on track.”

She nods and smiles at me, but I can still see the worry in her eyes. “Love you, girl.”

“Love you, too.”