The words lingered in the car. For some reason, they made me emotional.
Perhaps because forgiveness is rarer than people realize.
Perhaps because I had spent twelve years believing the tattoo represented love, when all along it represented regret.
Ryan smiled.
A real smile.
“The first thing?”
I nodded.
His smile widened slightly.
“She asked to see the tattoo.”
I blinked.
“And?”
“She said I should’ve found a less permanent way to learn a lesson.”
I actually laughed.
The sound surprised both of us.
Then Ryan shook his head.
“The last thing she said was worse.”
“What?”
For several seconds he stared through the windshield.
Then he quietly said,
“Ryan, I forgave you years ago. You’re the one who’s still carrying it.”
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the drive.
A month later, Ryan finally scheduled an appointment with a tattoo artist. For years I had wanted him to cover the portrait. For years he had found reasons not to.
This time, he made the appointment himself.
The night before, we sat together on the couch. I found myself looking at the tattoo again. The same face. The same sad eyes. The same woman who had haunted our marriage.
Only now, I understood.
Ryan looked down at it.
For a long moment he remained silent.
Then he surprised me.
“No.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
His thumb brushed the edge of the tattoo.
“I don’t think I need to anymore.”
