Ryan stared at me, almost surprised, as if he had forgotten that was the original question. Then he gave a small, broken smile.
“The tattoo came later.”
I froze.
“What?”
“It wasn’t before.”
For twelve years I had assumed the tattoo represented a relationship that existed before me. A former love. An obsession. Something he could never release.
Ryan shook his head.
“I got it after I learned the truth.”
Nothing I had imagined came close to that answer.
“Why?”
His eyes wandered toward the living room, toward the hallway, anywhere except me. Finally, he spoke.
The words hit me harder than I expected.
Ryan swallowed.
“I wanted to remember.”
“Remember what?”
His answer came immediately.
“Her.”
I frowned. Ryan looked down at the tattoo.
“I chose her face because I never wanted to forget who paid the price for being right.”
“Or what happens when people choose the easy story instead of the true one.”
Silence.
Then he said, “I didn’t get the tattoo because I loved her.” His voice cracked. “I got it because I couldn’t forgive myself.”
“I should’ve told you years ago.”
I looked at him.
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because every time you asked, I imagined having to explain what I’d done.”
