Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“I have a good feeling,” I declare.
“Yeah, me too,” Gage replies as we stop behind the counter together.
I turn to meet his gaze, my eyes finally returning to his ink. “The lotus is for change?”
“Yes,” he says, and I expect him to say he got it after his wife died, but he adds, “I got it after I went to therapy.”
Is it weird that my heart’s skittering that he prioritized his mental health? Maybe. If so, I’ll take weird, thank you very much. “I’ve been pretty much in and out of therapy since college. I have a lot of parent issues,” I say with a shrug, then nod to the ink again, recentering the conversation on him. “I love the lotus. Does it help?”
“I think so.” He studies the ink again. Does it reconnect him with his past? Or his progress? “I got it after the doctor told me I wasn’t going to play baseball again.”
That surprises me too. I’d been so sure it was for Eliza’s mom.
“Well, not immediately. Once I heard my elbow was toast, I drowned my sorrows for a couple months, turned into a shitty dad, then my grandma and mom told me to get my ass to therapy. I did. And worked on how much I was hurting.” He taps the flower authoritatively, like he’s in charge of his past, not the other way around. “I got this a few months later. It was sort of like taking back myself, you know?”
“I’m glad it worked. The tattoo and the therapy.”
“I still go from time to time. As Grams and Eliza tell me, it’s the in thing these days.”
“And you started before it was in. That was ten years ago, right?”
“It was.” He leans against the counter, his back to the door, rubbing a hand over his scruff. For a few seconds, I figure he’s said all he wants to say. That he’s opened the door a sliver and is ready to close it.
“I wasn’t in a good place, Elodie,” he says, his tone stripped bare. “I was struggling with depression. It was after Hailey died too.”
My chest aches for him. “Was her passing part of it? The depression?”
He doesn’t answer right away, then finally gives a resigned, “yes.” He looks to the white blinds covering the glass, like the answer to what to say can be found there. Then, he turns back to me. “That was part of it, but we were struggling. Our marriage was…well. It wasn’t perfect.”
That has to have been so tough for him to reconcile with her death. I wait for him to say more.
“It started out imperfect,” he adds, maybe a little embarrassed as he scratches his jaw. “It was a surprise. The pregnancy. But a good surprise, of course.”
“Of course,” I second.
“And so I married her. In city hall, not the Conservatory of Flowers or Shakespeare Garden, or what have you,” he says, almost apologetic.
“Oh.” I pause. “Was that hard for you, when I was rattling off all those places?”
“No,” he says, at first, then stops himself, reconsiders. “Not hard. Just a reminder, that’s all. But I have no regrets. Not a single one.”
I can tell he doesn’t want me to compliment him for being an upstanding guy and marrying the woman he knocked up so I just give him a warm smile and nod, so he knows I’m listening.
“Anyway, she died unexpectedly. I lost the career of my dreams and the mother of my child at the same time.”
“That’s so hard, Gage,” I say, reaching out to run a hand down his strong arm, my loaned vintage ring gliding over his permanent art.
“It was. But hey, now I’m tattooed. This right here?” he says, pointing to a bird on his flesh. “It’s for new dreams.”
I run my finger along the finely drawn wings. The bird’s not macho like an eagle. It’s not feminine like a dove. It’s simple and a statement—a future, a dream, a new horizon. A slight tremble seems to move through him as I trace it. I should stop. But I don’t. I travel along the bird up to the crook of his elbow, then down as it flies into the moon and the stars, the lotus, and the sky. The guideposts on his body. “They’re beautiful,” I say.
His eyes hold mine, and then he lifts a hand, reaching for my face before he drops his palm with regret in his green eyes. For touching me? Or not touching me? I don’t know.
Gage clears his throat. Checks his watch. “We should get the girls soon. We probably need to leave in ten minutes.”
I try to ignore the disappointment inside me as I hunt around for the broom I was using. He finds the rags and the spray cleaner for the counters. Then we make our way to the little supply closet down a nook at the back of the store.