“Yes.” And he is, God help him. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”
“How far along is she?”
His lips morph into a thin line. Which is answer enough.
“Four months,” I say helpfully. “This is where you say ‘four months’—and tell me that she’s just starting to show. Because you swore you only had sex the one time, remember? A terrible, horrible mistake that just happened once. You remember the story. I’d been unconscious for six months. The doctors had just suggested flicking off the switch and you turned to each other for consolation. So Celine should be four months pregnant.”
Only she’s not, she’s less than that. I can see it all over his face. The last little bit of hope inside of me dies. It sucks to be right. I wanted our marriage to be stronger than this. For our love to mean more than this. But it isn’t and it doesn’t and I’m done. You can only volunteer to get knocked down so many times unless you enjoy living on your knees.
I cross to the sink, taking the flowers with me.
“Anna—”
Mom’s waste disposal roars to life at the flick of the switch. She really should get it fixed. It clunks and clatters and sounds like it’s coming apart. More than loud enough to drown out the worst of my husband’s useless bullshit protestations that I’ve heard a thousand times. How he still loves me. How he’s sorry. How he never meant for this to happen. How we can still make this right if I would just let him fix things. Only some things can’t be fixed. Shouldn’t be fixed.
Other people come to the kitchen door to see what’s happening, but I ignore them. Awkward and embarrassing and whatever—I don’t care. If we have an audience, so what? I haven’t had control over any other aspect of my life lately. Let them see my meltdown in all its furious shambolic glory. Let them witness the final death throes of my supposed great love. It sure makes for one hell of a dramatic birthday. Forget party games, spectacle is the go. It’s his own fault for coming here and doing this now. The idiot.
One at a time, I feed the beautiful, glorious roses into the machine. It churns and crunches and gurgles and grinds them into a gooey pulp. And I don’t stop until every last rose is gone. It’s cathartic, really. Satisfying. Like some weird piece of domestic performance art. And I’m not even artistic.
The silence rings in my ears when I finally turn off the waste disposal. “I want a divorce.”
For once, Ryan doesn’t say a thing.
Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is only a few blocks away from Leif’s condo in the same cool urban area with busy streets. Purse on my shoulder and bottle of single-malt scotch in hand, I head inside. The buzz of the drill sets my teeth on edge, but everything is clean and orderly. Not even my mother could find fault with the place. There’s an old grandfather clock and a green chaise. Lots of framed drawings on the walls. And rock ’n’ roll plays over the sound system. Some old Tom Petty song, I think.
At the counter stands a woman with beautiful dark curly hair and a whole lot of ink on her umber skin. She seems flustered and sets the phone down as she asks, “Can I help you?”
“No,” a familiar voice yells from farther back. “But I can.”
The woman raises a brow and gives him a questioning look over her shoulder.
“I’m here to see Leif,” I say with a hesitant smile.
He’s standing beside a massage-type table giving me his devil-may-care grin. Or maybe it’s the scotch he’s smiling at.
My hands shake from nerves. “Hi.”
“You come bearing gifts.”
“Yes, I do.”
There’s a large man with gray hair laid out on the table in front of Leif with a fresh tattoo happening on his left arm. He turns his head and looks me over with interest. Same goes for the other tattooist working at the back table on a woman. Only this man isn’t a stranger. He’s the one who stood watching while Ryan tried to pick a fight with Leif. The one from in front of the condo that day. Awesome. This is so embarrassing.
“You’re turning pink,” says Leif, head cocked with obvious interest. “What does it mean when you turn pink?”
Oh, God.
“Don’t be an ass,” says the woman with the fabulous hair. “Come on through, you’re fine. I’m Tessa.”
“Anna. Nice to meet you.”
Tessa pulls out a chair close to Leif and directs me to it. I like Tessa. She takes in the collection of small pink scars on my face and the one dissecting the edge of my upper lip, but doesn’t dwell on them. I put on makeup, but didn’t go overboard trying to cover them. They’re part of me now. Time to accept and move on. My face is different, my body is changed, and my life is altered. It’s not the end of the world. It just feels like it sometimes. As for how I feel about Leif, I’m still deciding. The other dude keeps working on the lady’s back, sneaking looks at me. Fair enough. I’m a little curious about who he is too. Without another word, Tessa heads out the back door. I’m kind of sorry to see her go. I could use all the emotional support I can get. Girl power and all that.
“I’m sorry,” says Leif. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
I settle into the chair, placing the scotch on my lap. “Yes you did.”
The big guy on the table, the customer, just snorts.
“Help me out here, Art. You’ve been married for roughly forever,” says Leif. “What do I do?”
“When in doubt, apologize. Profusely.”
“Wise words,” says the other dude. “I’m Ed, Leif’s brother.”
“Anna. Hello.”
He gives me a chin tip. Now that I know they’re brothers, it’s obvious. Like Leif, he’s a very handsome man. The same amber eyes and dark blond hair. A heavily tattooed body that’s muscular, long, and lean. Must be some great genetics going on in that family. Unlike Leif, however, Ed is wearing a wedding ring. I try not to worry about what he must think of me. But he can’t be happy about a married woman causing trouble for his brother. No one would willingly welcome this nonsense into their life.
It took me a week since my birthday to work up the nerve to see Leif again. Sad but true. But kicking off the divorce proceedings made it a busy week.
“How have you been?” asks Leif, eschewing further apologies.
“Good,” I say, my smile weak. “You?”
He just nods. Conversation is so not flowing. The tattoo gun buzzes to life and he starts in on the piece in progress. There’s a lot more blood than I imagined. But every so often Leif wipes the skin clean, and his work suddenly comes into view. The design is an old-style compass, beautiful and ornate. Above the northern point is a woman’s name, ‘Glenda.’ I wonder if that’s his wife of forever. I hope so.
“You haven’t told her she looks pretty,” says Art, the relationship specialist.
Leif takes in my flowy white blouse and faded blue ankle jeans with a pair of flat black leather mules. Nice but not fancy. It only took me three hours to settle on it. Why it mattered so much I’d rather not say. Friends is great and friends is fine. Thinking of anything more would be foolish. No matter how attracted I might be to the man.