I had spent the past ten months cultivating solitude, but now I wanted contact, physical and emotional. If Hayden came up with an adaptation we both agreed on, I would get both. The warmth of his touch made me feel grounded and alive. It was shockingly foreign after so much isolation. I could only hope that the tattoo itself would bring the type of catharsis I craved.
I paced around my apartment, flipped through the most recent version of my thesis but couldn’t concentrate enough to make Professor Calder’s proposed changes. I set it aside and turned on the TV but found nothing to hold my attention. I tried to think about anything but Hayden, to find something else to occupy the space in my mind. But it was difficult, because the only other thoughts as constant as the icy-eyed tattoo artist were the things I didn’t want to think about at all.
I followed the line of the barbell in my ear with my fingertip. There was comfort in the dull throb. It was a vague and minor echo of the ache in my chest. Hayden had been right about the effect of physical pain as a release for the emotional. The initial sting of the needle as it slid through skin and cartilage reminded me I’d been through worse and survived. So far. I imagined the tattoo would be infinitely more purifying, an etching of pain into skin; a release for the agony I carried with me.
The sound of my phone ringing shocked me out of my self-flagellation. I was perilously close to cracking. I took a deep breath and another, and another, pushing emotions down, locking them away. I looked at the screen, but the number came up as unknown.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Tenley.”
Nausea was the first physical response, followed by irrational fear. “Trey.”
“I haven’t heard back from you. I expect you received my letter.”
Trey didn’t deal in preliminaries; he got right to the point. That he referred to the thick document as a “letter” bordered on ridiculous. There was no point in calling him out on it. In his mind it had been the most logical course of action, even if it was insensitive and hurtful.
“I got it.”
“So you’ve signed it, then. My lawyer should be expecting it shortly. The end of the week?” I could hear the condescension layered under the placid tone.
“Not exactly.”
“What’s the delay?”
“I’ve been busy. I haven’t had a chance to review it.” I couldn’t tell him the truth. He wouldn’t understand why I couldn’t face returning to Arden Hills to deal with this. All of our possessions were in that house, half of them still in boxes waiting to be unpacked. I couldn’t go through Connor’s things yet. The wounds were too fresh. I was just finding my footing; if I went back, I’d be at ground zero.
“Well, set aside some time, Tenley. There’s no point in prolonging this.”
“I’ll try and look at it this week.”
“You’ll need to do better than that. I expect a signed copy of the document on my lawyer’s desk early next week. That property is rightfully mine.”
His patience with me was wearing thin, and I had none for him. “Not according to the will.”
“Watch your tone,” he warned. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing in Chicago, playing at being a big girl. Why Connor insisted on indulging your silly ambitions at some second-tier college, I’ll never understand. Tell me, what else did you manipulate him into beside that and the wedding?”
“I didn’t manipulate Connor into anything. He was supportive.”
“Well, he’s not here to pander to you anymore and I don’t have his level of tolerance. Get the paperwork signed and send it back to me.”
A knock at the door saved me from saying something I would regret. I opened it, half-expecting Trey to be on the other side, and almost burst into tears of relief when he wasn’t.
“Howdy, neighbor, I thought you might want a drink.” Sarah stood in her blond, leggy glory, holding a magnum of red wine. The smile on her glossed lips fell, as she processed my distressed expression.
“I have to go. I have company,” I said into the phone, hanging up before Trey had a chance to say anything else.
When it rang again almost immediately, I shut it off, unwilling to provide Trey with another opportunity to tear me down.
“You must be psychic.” I gave Sarah a shaky smile and stepped aside to invite her in.
“I prefer intuitive. You okay?”
“I’m fine, just some legal stuff.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, I’m happy to listen.”
“Thanks.”
She walked past me and deposited the wine on the counter. While I rooted around in the silverware drawer for the bottle opener I never used, she checked out the contents of my living room.
“You have a lot of books,” she noted, trailing the spines with a manicured nail. She lifted a work of fiction from the shelf, scanned the cover and put it back, then picked up another.
“I like to read,” I offered by way of explanation.
“Kind of figured that.” She gave me a wry smile. “So . . . no boyfriend?”
I shook my head, popped the cork, and poured two glasses of red.
“Girlfriend?”
That got my attention. “Uh, no. Why?”
“Just curious, you never know.” She pursed her lips in thought as I handed her a glass of wine. “Fuck buddy?”