Page 47 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

My body is mine.

August works without talking, and I’m grateful for it because I’m using most of my available processing power for not making undignified sounds.

And being proud of myself because:I’m doing this.

Not just the tattoo specifically.

But in general.

I left.

I left and Jake locked me out of everything and Brianna called mecray crayand Kathy called me Jezebel and I’m sureeveryone at church agrees. I have a thousand dollars in a sock and I’m living in someone else’s RV but I am still here.

The world as I knew itdidfall apart.

But… maybe that’s not the disaster I was always afraid it would be.

I haven’t had a migraine in days and I feel wonderful, and wild, and free?—

I mean, look at me. I’m getting a freaking tattoo! I always wanted to get a tattoo, but Jake said he wouldn’t be as attracted to me if I ever did.

August’s hand pauses again.

“You’re doing great,” he says quietly. Not in a patronizing way, just like it’s a fact he’s observed and decided to say out loud.

I look at him instead of the ceiling.

He’s focused on my arm and on the work. But every time I involuntarily tense, he registers it, with the smallest shift in his own posture and his eyebrow furrow.

“You hate this part,” I say.

He glances up, pausing. “What part?”

“The hurting people part.”

A pause. He looks back down. “It’s just part of the process,” he says carefully. “But yeah. I hate that I’m causing you pain.”

His jaw clenches a little as he resumes.

“Even though I asked you to?”

“Still sucks even though I know the end product will be good.”

“A little pain now for a beautiful forever seems worth it to me.”

He sucks in a quick breath and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and I’m glad he’s focused on the tattoo instead of that gaze of his coming my way.

I look at the side of his face and the tattoo that wraps around his neck of a fire-breathing dragon. And think of the dragons he and his son conquer on the weekends.

I bet getting tattooed on your neck hurts way worse than on your forearm, but that’s not what has tears pricking at my eyes. Or the pain that I’m starting to get used to as August explains he’s switching to shader needles instead of the single he’s been using for the outline. The shaders feel like more of a scraping across my skin, and that’s somehow less painful than the singular.

I don’t want to over-romanticize this guy.

I don’t know him. But I get the feeling he really loves his son. Maybe he’s a womanizer. He probably is, with how gorgeous he is. He was certainly willing enough to hop into my bed the other night. But why not? He’s single. He makes me feel stronger than I ever have in my life. And meanwhile, there’s just this… devastating halo of sadness around him.

I can see the art emerging now, every time he wipes away the accumulating ink.

“This isn’t damage,” I say, resting back against the tattoo chair. “This is healing.”