Indy in her robe. Her boyfriend waiting down the hall in her bed.
Fuck. I can’t let my mind get lost in something like that unless I want to drive myself crazy.
“Is this a bad time?”
She shakes her head.
“Have I…” I pause, but I force myself to continue. Force myself to ask the questions that might help me understand why she’s been so distant. “Have I done something to upset you, Indy?”
She scrunches up her nose. “Of course not.”
“Well, I guess that’s good news, huh?” I try to lighten the mood a bit, but the air around us is too heavy and thick with tension and unsaid words.
“Yeah.” Indy forces another smile. “Do you…uh…do you want some coffee?” she asks over her shoulder as she turns on her bare feet and heads into her kitchen.
“Coffee would be great.” Even though it feels like an excuse. A way for you to avoid telling me what’s really going on.
Fuck, this is uncomfortable. We’re basically walking on eggshells around each other, and I don’t understand why.
I want to go back in time. Back to that night. Back to the Indy who was playful and looked at me with her heart in her eyes. But all I can do is follow her lead into the kitchen, where, apparently, avoidance and diversion are being brewed.
I lean my hip against the kitchen island as she fills the coffee machine with water and taps the button to start. But when she’s done, she just stares at the coffeepot and doesn’t turn around to look at me.
It’s a knife to my heart.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” I say quietly. “You can tell me anything, Indy, and I won’t judge or get mad or any of that bullshit. I’ll just listen.”
But, fuck, don’t tell me you regret that night.
Don’t tell me you’re done with me.
Don’t tell me you want to be with him instead of me.
With her back still to me, she stays silent for a long moment, still staring at the coffeepot on the kitchen counter. Or maybe she’s not staring at anything at all. I can’t be sure.
My fingers itch to touch her, my lips crave the taste of her mouth, and my arms vibrate with need to wrap her up in my embrace and fix whatever it is that’s bothering her. But I don’t push. Instead, I just wait. Patiently. Silently. Giving her time.
At least I’m here. With her.
The coffee machine beeps, and she fixes us up two mugs and turns around to meet my eyes, handing me a warm mug. Her eyes search mine for the longest time, and I watch as she forces a deep, heavy breath in and out of her lungs.
“I have something I need to show you,” she whispers so softly, so quietly, that I barely hear the words leave her lips.
“Okay.”
“Just give a minute.” Indy sets down her coffee on the kitchen counter and heads into the living room.
Four, five, six, I don’t know how many minutes go by before she comes back into the kitchen holding something in her hands, but I’m too busy to notice because I’m searching her eyes, her face, her mouth for some kind of answer.
“Here.” She holds out her hand. “Just…here.”
My brow furrows. “What is it?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer. So, I glance down to see a photograph in her hand and take it into mine.
My eyes scan the picture, and instantly, déjà vu and familiarity lift their hands and slap me in the face. Hard.
This photograph is identical to my painting.
And this is her, Indy, with the tiny red heart engraved into her skin. The very tattoo I’ve pictured so many times.
The tattoo is real.
She is real.
“Indy,” I say through a throat full of disbelief and look up to meet her eyes. They are wet with unshed emotion, and her lip quivers. “W-what is this?”
“My fiancé took that photograph of me several years ago,” she whispers. “That was my first tattoo. I covered it with the lotus two years ago.”
“Your fiancé?” I ask, somehow mining the uncomfortable words from the deep recesses of my throat.
“His name was Adam Lane, and he died four years ago,” she says, her voice scratchy with irritation.
“Four years ago?” I ask softly, and she nods.
Indy reaches into the pocket of her robe, and with a shaky hand, she holds out a wrinkled white envelope toward me. “You should read this,” she says quietly, and I watch as one small tear slips past her lid and down her cheek.
Fuck, she’s crying. I want to comfort her. I want to wrap her up in my arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.
“Indy,” I whisper and start to step toward her, but she gently pushes the envelope into my chest. My brow furrows as I watch her step back and put distance between us.