“You remember Brad from that poker night?”
“I do, actually.”
“His son, Theo, is at my house with Josh. They go to school together.”
“How’s he liking school?”
I can’t see Atlas, but he’s closer to the bathroom when he says, “Fine, I guess.” It sounds like he’s right next to the door. I slip the dress over my head and open the door farther. I chose a merlot-colored fitted dress with spaghetti straps. It has a matching shawl, but it’s still hanging in the closet.
Atlas looks me over when I appear in the doorway. His eyes journey up the length of me, but I don’t give him time to compliment me.
“Can you zip me up?” I give him my back and lift my hair, but I can feel him hesitate. Or maybe he’s soaking in the moment.
A couple of seconds later, I feel his fingers press against my back as he raises the zipper. It sends chills rolling over my skin. When he’s finished, I drop my hair and turn and face him. “I need to put on makeup.” I start to back into the bathroom, but Atlas grips my waist.
“Come here,” he says, pulling me until I smush against him. He admires my face for a couple of seconds, smiling appreciatively. Seductively. Like he’s about to kiss me. “Thank you for inviting me.”
I return the smile. “Thank you for coming. I know you’ve had a busy week.”
Atlas’s eyes look tired. The usual glimmer has dulled a little, like he’s been stressed and could use a night of relaxation. I can’t help but touch his cheek when I say, “We can Uber there if you want. You seem like you could use a drink.”
Atlas touches my hand that’s cupping his cheek. He tilts his face so that he can kiss the inside of my palm. Then he pulls my hand away and threads his fingers through it. He opens his mouth to say something else, but I see it the second his eyes get a glimpse of my tattoo.
Atlas has never seen the heart tattoo on my shoulder—the one I got because he always used to kiss me there. He touches it softly with his fingers, tracing the shape of it. His eyes flicker up to mine. “When did you get this?”
My voice catches, and I’m forced to clear my throat. “In college.” I’ve thought about this moment a lot—what he would say if he ever saw it, how it would make him feel.
He quietly regards me and then looks at the tattoo again. He’s so close, I can feel his breath trickling across my collarbone. “Why’d you get it?”
I got it for so many reasons, but I choose to say the most obvious one. “Because. I missed you.”
I wait for him to lower his head and press a kiss there like he’s done so many times before. I wait for him to kiss me. To press his mouth to mine in a silent thank-you.
Atlas doesn’t do any of those things. He continues staring at the tattoo for a beat, but then he releases his hold on me and turns away. His voice is detached when he says, “You should probably finish getting ready or we’ll be late.” He takes a couple of steps toward my bedroom door, and then, without looking back, he says, “I’ll wait in the living room.”
I feel like I just got the breath knocked out of me.
His entire demeanor changed. It wasn’t at all what I expected from him. I stand frozen in place for a few depressing seconds, but then I force myself to finish getting ready. Maybe I’m misreading his reaction and it wasn’t a negative one. Maybe he liked it so much, he needed alone time to process.
Whatever the reason is for his unexpected reaction, I fight back the sting of tears the entire time I’m trying to do my makeup. I can’t help it. I think my feelings might be hurt, and that’s not something I expected to happen tonight at all.
I go to my closet and find my shoes and grab my shawl, and I half expect Atlas to be gone when I walk out of my bedroom, but he’s still here. He’s standing by the wall in the hallway looking at pictures of Emmy. When he hears me exit the bedroom, he looks in my direction, and then full-on turns to face me.
“Wow.” He looks genuinely pleased when I’m back in his presence, so the whiplash is a little confusing. “You’re beautiful, Lily.”
I appreciate his compliment, but I can’t move past what just happened. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the relationship I was in before and the relationship I witnessed between my parents, it’s that I refuse to be someone who brushes everything under a rug. I don’t even want there to be a rug.
“Why did my tattoo upset you?”
My question catches him off guard. He fidgets with his tie, and seems to be looking for an excuse, but nothing comes to him, and the hallway remains silent, other than a ragged, slow breath he pulls in. “It wasn’t the tattoo.”