“Ivy. No.” She pulls my hand away from the apple. “Stop touching the fruit and l
isten to me. I know you miss him and this whole thing sucks. You’re the sweetest, most devoted person I’ve ever met. Don’t you dare let him come back after doing this to you. You have to focus on you now. You’ve never done that.” Her wedding ring digs into my fingers as she squeezes my hand. “You always put him first, and the kids first. Hell, you even put me first. You have to put you first now. You have to be Ivy without Paul, and I know that’s scary, but you have to find out who you are. Do the things you’ve always wanted to do. Color your hair, get your nails done, buy some funky clothes, get a puppy, get a tattoo. Get all the things you’ve always wanted but he didn’t like. Go out and let yourself meet new men. Let the real Ivy out. ”
“You don’t think I’m real?”
“Of course you are, but how many things have you not done because he didn’t like it, like not coloring your hair because he thought it was a waste of money? I want you to let the real you out now that you don’t have to worry about him censoring you.”
I smile weakly at her. “I’ve always wanted to color my hair that pretty red color, or ombre, or whatever it’s called. And I’ve wanted a tattoo forever. And a puppy . . . I always thought the kids should grow up with a dog.”
She grabs her purse and starts rifling through it, piling things onto the table as she rummages. “Go to the salon next week and get your hair and nails done. And . . . I have the perfect tattoo artist for you. I won this gift certificate, actually, for a tattoo with him. He’s a friend of a friend. His work is amazing. He mostly works on musicians and models and people like that, and I am now giving you my gift certificate.” She hands me a postcard with a gift card design on it. “I want you to do this. For you.”
I bite my lip as I stare at the card. “I don’t know, Lindsay. A tattoo . . . at my age?”
“For the love of fuck, you’re thirty-six, not a hundred. Everyone has a tattoo.”
“Who’s getting a tattoo?” Macy walks into the room and heads straight for the fridge, a beautiful blur of long light brown hair and big blue innocent eyes.
“I’m trying to tell your mom she’s not too old for a tattoo,” Lindsay replies while stuffing her belongings back into her purse.
Macy stares at me with her mouth open. “Mom! You’re getting a tattoo? That’s so cool. Can I get one too?”
“Not until you’re eighteen.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Whatever. Can I go with you and watch?”
“I’ll think about it. Do me a favor and go check your brother. Make sure he’s okay with his homework.”
“Don’t bring her with you,” Lindsay says when Macy leaves the room. “You need to do some things as you and not as Mom.”
“Anything else? When did you become my life coach?” I tease, knowing she is right. I need to learn to do things on my own as a single woman, and not as a wife or mother, which will be way easier said than done since I’ve been both since I was eighteen. I don’t know anything else.
She stands and comes around the table to give me a hug. “I don’t want you in a rut, that’s all.” She pulls away and smooths my hair. “You’re so cute, Ivy. Please do the things we talked about. Now, I better head home and feed my family.”
“Okay. I love you. Say hi to Sam and the kids for me.”
“I will, and think about getting on top of someone else, too. A good sexy fling could really cheer you up.”
“Go.” I point to the door, laughing at her.
IVY
YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU CAN do this. With each step from the parking lot to the sidewalk, I flip flop back and forth between forcing myself forward to the studio and running back to my car, driving home, and spending the rest of the night eating ice cream while curled up in bed with a book.
Just as Lindsay described, the building is very unique. It appears to have been a chapel or church at one point in its life, with grey stone exterior, stained glass windows, and a steeple on the roof. A stone sign on the front lawn has Hearts & Arrows Tattoo Studio engraved in large flourishy lettering. My heels click on the slate walkway as I approach a huge red wooden door with metal gothic accents. Taking a deep breath, I push the heavy door open, a cowbell announcing my entrance. I wince at the sound. No turning back now.
“I’ll be right there!” The words bellow from another part of the building beyond the foyer.
The interior of the studio is nothing like I expected. Actually, I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess I assumed it would be like the cold, dirty looking tattoo places I’ve seen in movies—large men with long scraggly beards smoking cigars and hanging around looking sketchy. Hearts & Arrows is a mixture of luxurious Gothic and Victorian decor, with dark hardwood floors, and a red velvet antique couch with matching chairs in the waiting area. Artwork in ornate vintage gold frames hang on the walls. Picking up one of the aged leather bound photo albums from the mahogany coffee table, I realize it’s a portfolio of the artist’s tattoos and slowly flip the pages, impressed with his designs. The detail and shading is intricate and very realistic, especially the portrait tattoos of people and pets, which look like real photographs. Lindsay was right—this guy is truly gifted. My nervousness starts to ease up a little, knowing that at least the tattoo will be beautiful if I don’t pass out and make an idiot of myself.
“Okay . . .” He comes out from behind the large thick curtain divider and stands behind the glass counter in the waiting area. “You must be Ivy, my six-thirty? You’re my gift card winner.”
“That’s me.” I put the book down and turn fully toward him, and the moment our eyes meet, an odd sensation comes over me. A warmth sparks deep in my core and seeps to my heart, creating a flutter that spreads throughout my body.
Deep chocolate truffle eyes lock on to mine, while a crooked smile and curious tilt of his head tells me he feels it, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure he feels exactly what I’m feeling, judging by the inquisitive expression on his face.
He clears his throat nervously and extends his tattoo-covered arm and hand to me. “I’m Lukas. Have we met before?” Slipping my hand into his, that strange feeling buzzes through me, stronger now that we’re touching. Grounding myself, I take in the sight of him. He’s young, I’d guess early twenties, and he’s covered in tattoos. A faded grey t-shirt stretches over his broad chest and toned muscular shoulders, revealing full-sleeved artwork. His hair is long, a bit past his shoulders, and jet black with razored edges. Silver piercings decorate his eyebrow and lower lip. His eyes are dark with amber flecks—what we gals would describe as bedroom eyes. Way too sexy to be looking into for long periods of time. He holds on to my hand for a few moments longer than what would be the norm, then slowly lets go.
“No,” I answer softly, unable to pull my eyes from his.
Although something about him feels familiar, I know for a fact I’ve never seen him before. I would definitely remember him. Even though I’ve never been attracted to someone like him before, he definitely has something going on about him that’s warming my insides in a very foreign way and throwing me off my inner axis.
An adorable boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You look so familiar.” He shakes his head, sending his shaggy hair flying around like a black halo. “So, you ready?” His voice is raspy, kinda like when you’ve been at a concert all night screaming.
“I think so,” I reply, smiling back. “This is my first . . . I’m a little nervous.” I clutch the bag I brought with me that has a pair of shorts and socks for me to change into, which he suggested when we emailed earlier this week.
He gestures with his hand for me to follow him behind the dark heavy curtain. “I love virgins. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ll go nice and gentle. If you want to change into shorts, there’s a bathroom right through that curtain there. Just make a left.”
I quickly change my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and pap
er towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.
“I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”
He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.
Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.
Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means that I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”
“Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.
Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”
Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”
“Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”