Lukas

IVY

IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME A few months ago that my husband was going to leave me for another woman, I would have laughed in their face. To say I was completely blindsided would be an understatement. While Paul got to move in to a nice new condo, buy new furniture, date a pretty young woman, and start a new exciting life of fun with the bubbly younger-me clone, my life turned into a mess of stress and confusion. It seems unfair to me, that he’s the one who did something wrong here, but I am the one suffering. Having to tell our seven year old son and seventeen year old daughter that their father moved out was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. How convenient that Paul didn’t have to see the shock and devastation on their faces or answer their endless questions.

Having Paul in the house again a few weeks after he officially moved out to pack his things was another slam to my heart. He left almost everything that I mistakenly thought held meaning to us, or might hold some kind of sentimental value to him—wedding pictures and vacation pictures of us with the kids, and souvenirs from trips we took. He left paintings and decor items that we picked out together, even silly things we had from our first dates when we were in high school. I can’t understand why he wouldn’t want anything from our life together, as if he intends to just forget we were ever a couple.

My best friend Lindsay has been coming over almost every day after work to check on me. I’ve never been depressed before, or had any reason to worry about my life and my future, but now, I’m consumed with it. Paul ripped everything away from me, and I’m feeling stuck in a sort of odd hazy limbo, unsure what I’m supposed to do next.

“Sam has this really good looking friend that just separated.” Lindsay gives me a sly grin while we sip coffee in my kitchen.

I roll my eyes at her. “Lindsay, please. I do not want to be set up on any dates, especially with someone who also just got separated, because he’s either been screwed over and is in a slump like me, or he’s the evil-doer. I don’t want any part of it.”

“Live a little. You can’t sit in this house forever. You’re just getting more depressed and gaining weight. Don’t let that asshole win.”

Her words hurt, even though I know she doesn’t mean them to be offensive. “Thanks, Lin. I gained ten pounds, not fifty. I’ll lose it.”

“I know you will, hon. I’m just worried about you. I want you to be happy. The best way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else. You’re so pretty. Lots of men would love to hook up with you.”

“Mommy, what’s hook up?” I look down at Tommy, who has quietly materialized next to me.

I shoot daggers at Lindsay and stroke his head. “It means go to dinner, honey. Why don’t you go start your homework?”

He makes a face and trudges off to the living room. As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Lindsay again. “Please watch what you say around him. He’s really confused about what’s going on. And I’m not getting on top of someone else!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even see him come in. Why can’t your kids be noisy like mine?”

“Trust me, they make noise. They’ve both been a little crazy since Paul moved out.”

“They’ll adjust. That’s what kids do.”

I rearrange the fruit in the bowl at the center of the table. “They want him to come back. They ask me all the time when he’s coming back home.”

“And you? Do you want him to come back too?”

I focus on an apple and shrug. “I don’t know . . . maybe. I miss him.”

“Ivy. No.” She pulls my hand away from the apple. “Stop touching the fruit and listen 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.