Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

After giving Trevor a cold glance, I brush one of Ben’s curls. “I really can’t, but you and Dad will have fun together.” He gives me a pout, but I say, “Go get your coat and shoes so you can get going.”

His little hands reluctantly let go of my shirt, and he takes off down the hall toward his bedroom at the end. Since the apartment is just one big room with a galley kitchen, Holly and I gave him the biggest of the three bedrooms, so he’d have space to play.

As soon as Ben goes through the doorway, I say in a low voice, “Call first next time.”

Trevor steps closer to me. “Quit being uptight and come with us.”

He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his body and smell his scent. A mixture of ink and spice. I try not to breathe in the familiar scent that brings sadness. Not like Justin’s, which makes me a horny slut. “Don’t. And I really can’t.”

He stares at me, then leans even closer. “You know why I didn’t tell you I was coming home? Because I knew you’d be like this. I thought if I caught you by surprise maybe you wouldn’t overthink it.”

Trying to get away from the sudden lurch of my heart, I step back and lean on the dining room table, my hands clenching the edge. “Are you telling me you came back for me?” He nods gently and my stupid heart lurches again. No. No. No. “What about Ben?”

“Come on, Al, you know I care about him. Don’t paint me to be the dick.”

“If it’s about me, why were you out with Jazz? Are you staying with her?”

He lets out a deep sigh. “You know Jazz is a good friend. We grew up together. How many times do I have to tell you if I wanted to be with her, I would’ve taken her to California?” He gives me an imploring, soft look I remember. In response, I harden my heart.

I cross my arms as my mouth twists into a scowl. “Maybe if you hadn’t been sleeping with her through half of our marriage, I would believe you.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Maybe if I hadn’t walked in on you two in our bed, the memory wouldn’t be tattooed on my retinas.”

“Al—”

“Got my shoes on!” Ben says, rushing into the living room. “Tied them all by myself.”

“Awesome,” I say, letting go of my Trevor anger for the moment and holding up my hand for a high five, then reaching for the zipper of Ben’s jacket. We’ve been working on the tying thing forever.

“We could bring back dinner,” Trevor says casually.

I almost roll my eyes at his attempt to weasel his way into time with me. “That’s okay. I have leftovers.”

He rubs the dark scruff on his chin. “Your mom’s Sunday dinner after church?”

“Yup,” I say, moving toward the door, jerking it open, and ignoring his hint at an invitation. “He needs to be home by seven. Bed time is nine on school nights.”

Walking by me, Trevor says, “It’s just kindergarten.”

“No later than seven,” I repeat, and lean down for a kiss from my son. “Be good,” I say after our quick peck.

“Then we’ll see you at seven,” Trevor says as I stand upright.

My reply is to close the door in his sly face.

Once they’re gone, I lean against the back of the door. My semi-mended heart suddenly feels vulnerable. I draw in deep breaths, but my eyes still water. One tear escapes while I hold in a sob.

Sliding down the door, I sink, falling back into the emotional black hole Trevor left me in.

Though a constant lingering ache, the pain of the divorce lessened over time. I thought I was living with a tiny ache in my heart, but right now sorrow is tearing through me.

My hands in fists again, I pound on the floor underneath me. Damn Trevor and his bull crap about coming back for me. Though the sight of him brings back a fierce longing for us to be a family, I will never go down that road again. I might always have feelings for Trevor, but because he broke my heart twice, I will never trust him again.

With steely resolve, I unclench my hands, wipe the wetness from my cheek, and push myself up from the floor. I’m so pissed that after two years he can get a rise out of me. I march to the freezer and search for ice cream. Nothing but orange cream swirl, which is Ben’s favorite. I’d prefer something with chocolate, caramel, and nuts, but the orange will have to do.

Standing at the kitchen island, I eat a third of the ice cream straight from the carton until my stomach starts to hurt. But it’s a better hurt than the emotions my ex-hole induced. After putting the ice cream away, the blare of Nick Jr., Ben’s favorite channel, has me searching for the remote. With the apartment now silent, I retreat to the corner by the living room window where my easel sits and begin mixing paints.

Though my Advanced Watercolors class has a grueling pace, with a painting due every other week, I don’t mind all the deadlines. I’ve always found painting therapeutic. I like to make my watercolors unpredictable. Instead of flowers, lakes, and skies, I paint urban scenes of wet cement at night or derelict storefronts or an unfortunate bum sleeping in an alleyway.

My head clears as I focus on capturing the way neon light reflects onto cement and add the shadow of a streetlamp. After deepening other shadows, I clean my paint tray and brushes before picking up the toys strewn all over the living room. Then I sit at the dining room table and read about business fundamentals.

It’s both boring and mind numbing, which is exactly what I need after Trevor’s appearance.

Yet now that I’m not concentrating on painting, the apartment is quiet and lonely without Ben. The hum of the refrigerator and the sounds from the apartment next door echo in the empty space around me. I turn the page and the sound intensifies my sense of desolation.

When an incoming text beeps on my phone, the ding is a welcome distraction.

I go to the counter, between the main room and galley kitchen, where my phone is charging to read the text.

So when we having coffee?

Huh? I study the number. I’ve never seen it. I text back, Sorry but I think you have the wrong number.

Before I make it to the table, my phone is dinging again.

Oh, this is the right number. Holly wasn’t that drunk.

I stare in dread at the text. I’m going to tattoo bitch on Holly’s forehead. Memories from last night, most of which involve my tongue in Justin’s mouth, flash through my brain. At last, I faintly recall suggesting coffee. I’d like to reach into the past and slap my shit-faced ass.

My phone dings.

You there?

Why does he want to have coffee with me but not sex? Maybe he really did need to get the truck back. But I wanted—past tense again important here—mindless sex. I don’t want coffee. Coffee implies…something. Mindless sex implies nothing.

My phone beeps again.

You standing me up?

My fingers drum on the countertop. With a sigh, I type in a response.

11. Tuesday. Coffee shop next to campus bookstore.

After acting like an idiot twice with Justin, I don’t have the heart to stand him up.

Though given the way I attacked him last night, I really, really should. I don’t want to be Trevor’s booty call. Justin shouldn’t be mine. But booty call about sums up our possible future. There’s no way either of us could ever be serious about the other.

A few minutes before eleven, I walk into the coffee shop next to the bookstore. It’s packed with students working on laptops. In Michigan, when it hits fifty degrees, the people come out in droves. Though I’m early—Romeo was shocked when I got out of bed before ten—I notice Allie already sitting in a corner. Her head is bent over a computer. Her auburn hair shines under the sunlight streaming through the window. My eyes narrow on the cup on her table. I’m kind of pissed she didn’t let me buy her a coffee. Like she’s stating this isn’t a date. Because it’s morning? Because it’s coffee? As far as I’m concerned, it is a date. I’ve never met a chick for coffee. I don’t even like coffee.