Chapter 14
ELIJAH
“So, tell me about these,” I inquire, turning Alex’s hand over and grazing my fingertips across the lone puzzle piece inked on the inside of his wrist. “The artwork is stunning.”
The waiter tops off our glasses of wine, leaving the bottle within easy reach.
“It’s nothing really. Just a puzzle piece. Do you like puzzles?” He waggles those perfectly sculpted eyebrows, his flirtation easy and warm.
I chuckle. “Not really. My daughter is more of a puzzle person. Gabriel too. But this one…” I glance down again. “This one intrigues me.”
Tattoos were never my thing. I’ve never had the urge to get one, never even considered it. But this particular piece draws me in. There’s so much detail woven within those carefully drawn lines. I can’t imagine how long it must have taken to design—let alone tattoo.
Gabriel would be fascinated.
Ugh. Again, with Gabriel.
I give my head a small shake, trying to clear any and all thoughts of my husband. You’d think that after all these years, my mind would let him go. But nope… it’s like having a permanent tattoo of him imprinted on my brain… and dare I say my heart as well.
Either way, it’s time to let it go.
And for the love of God, I need to set those boundaries.
“They have to mean something,” I press, backing my way out of those wayward thoughts. I bring the glass of wine to my lips and speak over the rim. “You have at least twenty more pieces tattooed on your back.”
“Don’t remind me,” Alex grumbles, taking a long sip and tugging his sleeve back over the ink.
I place my glass down and fold my hands on top of the table. “At least tell me why you decided to have them tattooed on your back. I mean, who the hell does that sort of thing?”
He snorts, leaning back and setting his glass down. “My ex.”
“Emilee’s mom?”
“The one and only.” With the pads of his thumbs, he caresses his temples, as if the subject of his ex brings him pain. I guess in some ways it does. I get it.
“Meera was an artist,” he adds after a beat.
“Was?” It’s the first time he’s ever spoken about her. Emilee never mentions her mom either, and suddenly, I get this sinking feeling.
“Did she… die?”
“God, no.” He snorts and shakes his head. “She didn’t die. At least I don’t think she has. Who the hell knows anymore? One day she was here, the next…” He flicks his hand dismissively in the air, almost knocking into the waiter as he returns with our food.
“Thank you,” we say in unison, distracted for the moment by the rich, savory smell of our lasagna. It’s saucy, steamy, and stacked high with layers of meat and cheese.
I unfold my napkin and place it in my lap, still watching him. “And the tattoos? Did Meera do them?”
Alex blows on his lasagna. “Well, she designed them.”
He digs a knuckle into the corner of his eye, making me wonder if I should back off the subject. But he pushes on.
“She’s a sketch artist, not a tattooist,” he adds, taking a bite. “Wanted to showcase her art, and I was young and dumb and let her use my body to do just that. But I think she was trying to tell me something—so she left her thoughts on my fucking skin.”
He stabs at another piece of lasagna and blows on it again. “Which, by the way, I still have no fucking clue what any of it means.”
“Were you married?” I ask, suddenly realizing he’s never once called her his wife.
He chews, swallows slowly, and then looks up and meets my eyes. “Nope. Never had the chance to ask her.”
A pause.
A beat.
“I was straight then.”
“Pfff—”
Wine sprays from my lips and splatters onto my lasagna. I grab my napkin, blotting my mouth while trying to stifle a laugh. “Good god. I’m sorry. I just… was not expecting you to say that.”
Alex laughs right along with me. He forks a bite-size piece of pasta into his mouth and chases it down with another sip of wine.
“Yeah, well. Marriage was something I planned to do one day, but we weren’t in any rush. Emilee came along, Meera immersed herself in her art, and I was doing some modeling. We were happy. Or at least I thought so.”
He sets his glass down gently. “Then came the tattoo. And after spending two days getting my skin pricked with needles, she up and left. Never heard from her again.”
“Wow. I’m sorry, Alex.” Truly, I am. I can’t image trusting someone so completely—letting them use your body as a canvas—only for them to disappear without a word.
“I’m okay with it now. It’s been eight years.” He shrugs, but his voice carries the weight of it anyway. “My only reminder of her is our daughter… and these goddamn tattoos.”
I reach for a slice of warm bread from the basket and begin spreading butter across the top. “So… and correct me if I’m wrong, but—by assembling the puzzle pieces, you’ll have an answer? Maybe that was her way of explaining why she left? Like… a message hidden in the design?”
“Maybe. Probably.” He exhales, eyes flicking up before rolling with exasperation. “Except— wouldn’t you know—there’s a missing link.” He scoffs lightly, the sound laced with bitter humor. “So typical of Meera.”
He turns his wrist over, revealing the lone puzzle piece.
“And this one? Doesn’t seem to belong anywhere.
Trust me, Emilee and I have racked our brains trying to piece it together.
We’ve got Meera’s original sketches at home, but even with those…
it’s like she left us with an unfinished story.
Or maybe one we weren’t meant to solve.”
“You know.” I eye him skeptically, contemplating whether or not I should make this suggestion.
I decide to go for it. “Gabriel is an artist. Maybe he can take a look. I think there’s a saying…
something along the lines of some things can only be seen through the eyes of an artist. Maybe it needs another look—by a fellow artist. Someone who speaks the same creative language. ”
Alex grins, mid-bite, then points his fork at me.
“Funny you should say that. My daughter suggested the same thing last week.”
“Did she?” I swallow hard, caught off guard, wondering why they’d been talking about Gabriel.
“Well… sort of,” he explains, lifting his wine glass. I don’t miss the slight tremor in his hand. “I asked her how she’d feel about us dating.”
A warmth spreads through my chest, curling around my ribs.
“She actually said she likes you more than her mother.”
“She said that?” I place my fork down and blot the corners of my mouth with the cloth napkin, stunned by this news, but happy all the same.
Alex chuckles. “Don’t get too excited,” he teases, lifting a brow. “She also said you were cool, but that Gabriel was”—he raises both hands and does finger quotes— “much cooler.”
I fall into a fit of laughter, causing a few glances at us from nearby patrons. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Gabriel is like a recycled teenager. The kids love him.”
“Mm,” he replies, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you still love him?” He fidgets with the corner of his napkin, twisting the material through his fingers. I reach across the table to take his hand, but at the last minute, he pulls away, placing it in his lap.
“He’s Ana’s dad,” I offer in lieu of an answer.
Then, feeling the need to be honest, I add, “But, yes. Both Ana and I love him. It’s just that my love has changed over the years, Alex.
It’s different now. I love him because he completes our family, but I’m no longer in love with him. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” he utters, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
“Meera and I met in high school. She was the new girl—almost two years older than me—but we clicked from the onset. Strange, in a way, because she was such an introvert, didn’t have many friends…
actually, no friends. Mostly kept to herself.
But she was insanely talented. Spent most of her time in the local artists community. ”
He pauses for a moment, so I take the opportunity to inject myself into his thoughts. “Ah, Gabriel’s old stomping grounds. Maybe they’ve crossed paths. Was she from the city? There are so many great art schools here in New York. I’m wondering why she chose to attend a public school.”
“You know what, Elijah? I honestly don’t know.
She never talked about her life prior to high school.
It’s like she materialized out of thin air.
No backstory. No family photos. Nothing.
But to answer your question, no, definitely not a city girl.
For what little she shared, her family lived overseas.
She mentioned having a younger brother once or twice.
God—her face would light up when she talked about him.
I wish I could remember his name. But she loved him.
That much was clear. And missed him too, like crazy.
And—oh—she spoke French,” he adds as an afterthought, slumping back in his chair.
I watch as the color suddenly drains from his face, his hand drifting to his temple. I place my fork down and lean in.
“Are you okay?”
“Migraine,” he mutters, grimacing.
Without thinking twice, I stand and reach for his hand. “Come on,” I say softly. “I’m taking you home.”