He’s got nice hands. They’re big and strong, a little rough, but in that nice way I don’t mind so much. I can’t help but notice the way our fingers lace together perfectly, fitting like a two-piece puzzle—simple and snug. His grip is firm, but not overbearing. In many ways, I really love how safe he makes me feel. Roman never tugs or pulls. Instead, he keeps his pace perfectly matched with mine so our shoulders bump up to one another every now and then.
I wonder if Roman thinks he’s slick with all those sheepish glances he throws my way. I pretend not to notice, but the heat in my cheeks make it hard to deny how boyishly charming he can be. He’s got the butterflies in my stomach fluttering about. And whenever he smiles when he thinks he’s gotten away with it? It’s too adorable for words.
We finally make it to the tattoo parlor Alessandro recommended to us. He’d apparently gotten a number of pieces done here, though his job requires such a modest uniform that prevents him from showing off their work.
“I’ll put in a good word for you,” he insisted when we were in the lobby. “I’m sure Bobby can fit you into his schedule. He’s a good guy. I guarantee it won’t hurt a bit. He’s got the hands of an angel.”
The tattoo parlor is fairly small, a narrow store tucked between a local grocery store with open-air food displays out on the sidewalk and a music store that looks to have been closed for a while. The neon red sign fitted in the parlor’s front window blinks: OPEN. Stuck to the other side of the window are also a number of printed sheets of paper, all of them displaying various tattoo designs ranging from minimalistic to truly ornate pieces. Some of them are simple black and white ink, while others incorporate finer technical details like color, shading, and negative space.
Roman and I pause at the door. Rather, he pauses, and I instinctively take my spot beside him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. There’s something weird about how he says this. I’ve never heard him sound so unsure before.
I giggle. “Yes, I’m sure. Why are you being so weird?”
“Well, tattoos hurt. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I mean, I get that. But I’ve survived being hit over the head by a metal pipe. I think I’ll be able to handle a few needles.” I nudge my elbow into his rib gently. “Unless you’re too chicken.”
Roman chuckles. “I’m no chicken.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
The inside of the tattoo parlor is very clean, well-lit, and rather spacious despite how small it looks from the outside. For some reason, I find myself mentally tallying up points in my head, like I’m subconsciously grading this place. Even though I don’t know what purpose it serves to be so critical, I know deep down they’re passing with flying colors.
“You two must be the lovebirds,” comes a gruff, low voice. “I’m Bobby.”
A large man with buttery tanned skin and a cleanly shaved head stands from his station near the back of the parlor. He’s dressed casually in a pair of white shorts that cut off just below the knee, a loose gray tee, and a bright black and red checkered button-down shirt overtop. He’s got bushy eyebrows of wiry black hair, which just so happens to match the gloriously thick mustache he’s sporting. The exposed skin of his arms, chest, neck, and even his left temple are covered in intricate tattoos, dark ink standing out beautifully against his almost bronze complexion.
“Hello,” I greet, sticking my hand out to shake. I don’t mean to be so formal. It just kind of happens, my body’s muscle memory kicking in before my brain does. I suppose it makes sense if I’m a CEO shaking hands all day long. “I’m Charlie. And this is my husband, Roman.”
“Ah, yes. Pleasure to meet you both. Why don’t we take a seat and begin a consultation? That way we’ll all be on the same page before we actually get to the inking.”
Bobby sits us next to the big chair that looks kind of like the one you’d find at the dentist. The only exception is it isn’t made of that mute green color, and there’s a hole in the head rest like a masseuse’s table. Bobby retrieves a large blue binder full of laminated pages, a host of different designs on display.
“So, my friends, what are we thinkin’?”
I glance at Roman and smile, giddiness bubbling up into my chest. “We just got married,” I explain. “And instead of wedding rings, I thought it would be cool to get something tattooed on our ring fingers instead.”
“I can definitely do that for you. Did you have a pattern or anything in mind? Just keep in mind that the more detailed you want it, the more it costs.”
“Money won’t be an issue,” I insist. I take Roman’s hand and give his fingers a squeeze. “What were you thinking of getting?”
The tips of Roman’s ears turn red. It’s hard not to find it adorable. He squeezes my hand like he’s trying to respond with Morse code or something.
“One of the boys I look after,” he starts slowly. “Patrick. He once told me this old Chinese story about the red string of fate.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, curious. “Red string of fate? What’s that?”
Roman shrugs a shoulder. It’s stupidly sweet how cute and handsome he is as he shyly avoids my gaze.
“It’s said that soulmates are connected by this invisible red string. It can tangle and get knotted, but it will never break. I was thinking we could get matching red bands around our fingers. If you want, of course. It’s going to be on your body, so you have to be happy with it.”
I lean in and kiss Roman on the cheek. “I really love that, actually. Let’s do it.”
Bobby helps us pick a shade of red that Roman and I both like. He also helps us determine how thick we want these red bands to be drawn on. I settle on the thinnest setting Bobby can handle, while Roman gets something slightly bigger to accommodate for his larger fingers.
Bobby does my tattoo first.
It stings at first, even with the numbing cream, but it isn’t too bad. The whir of the tattoo machine can be quite intimidating, but it quickly fades into the background, an afterthought mixing with the sound of traffic outside, and the hum of the tattoo parlor’s AC unit tucked into the opposite corner.
I watch Bobby work with immense fascination. There’s something really thrilling about getting this. I don’t think I was the type of woman in my past life to do something this daring. Maybe it’s a good thing Roman and I are together. He brings out a different side to me, one that feels more open and braver and free. Even though I’ve only been getting snippets of my past, hardly enough to stitch together a concrete understanding of myself, I know without a doubt that I’m happy. And if I’m happy now with only fragments of memory, maybe I’ll be even happier when I finally remember Roman and all the things I loved about him.
Short of that, I can always learn to love him again, and that actually delights me.
Bobby’s finished with both our tattoos in under twenty minutes. He goes over the details of aftercare and urges us to come back to him for any touch-ups if we notice that the ink hasn’t quite taken. He definitely deserves the massive tip considering how smooth he made the whole process. Before leaving, Bobby wraps a thin layer of sterile Saran wrap around our new tattoos to keep them clean while in the initial stages of healing.
“Have a good day now,” Bobby says to us as we leave through the front door. “You lovebirds better behave yourselves.”
Charlie, behave yourself!
I wince as a man’s voice reprimands me, his deep voice shattering my thoughts. The voice is low and commanding and sharp, words dripping with disappointment. I briefly wonder if it’s something I made up, but the pang of frustration that comes with the familiar voice is very real. I’m unable to identify the time and place, but I know in an instant whose voice it belongs to.
“Uncle Charles,” I mumble under my breath. He always used to say that to me.
Roman looks instantly concerned. “Charlie? Are you feeling okay?”
“Um, y-yeah,” I say as I nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m alri
ght.”
“Do you want to go back to the hotel? Maybe get some rest?”
“No, that’s okay. You said there was some place you wanted to show me, right?” I take Roman’s hand and sidle up close to him. “Lead the way.”
Roman’s brows remain knitted together, but after a few seconds of silent contemplation, he nods. We continue our walk, hand in hand, neither one of us technically leading nor following.
We end up catching a cab part way through to the Queen Elizabeth II Botanic Park. According to the big green sign out front, it’s open seven days a week from nine in the morning to half past five.
I take a moment to marvel at our surroundings. I haven’t even stepped foot inside, and I’m already blown away by its natural beauty. Towering green palm trees reach overhead, providing just the right amount of shade over the white gravel walkways. Gorgeous flowers I can’t even name flourish in red, purple, white, blue, and pink as they line the paths. The call of tropical birds mix with the soft breeze that passes us by, rustling through palm fronds and coconuts and ripe mangos.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I tell Roman as we walk up the path toward a white gazebo overlooking the park’s lake. Vines snake their way up the sides of the gazebo’s bannister, making themselves at home tangled up in the rafters. The lake itself looks green from all the algae and lily pads that thrive off the temperate waters.
There are even two wooden deck chairs for us to sit on. And in between is a tiny bistro table with a wicker picnic basket waiting patiently on top.
“I thought you might enjoy having lunch out here,” Roman says softly.
The corners of my lips tug into a wide smile. “That’s so sweet of you.”
He gestures to the deck chairs. “Shall we?”
Lunch consists of ham sandwiches. But these aren’t just any ham sandwiches. They’re made on fresh French baguettes that have been toasted to just the right crunchiness-level, golden brown on the inside thanks to a generous spread of butter. Thin slices of ham are held together by delectable layers of melted swiss cheese, garnished with a bit of fresh lettuce and a light pass of honey Dijon mustard.
I can suddenly see myself, clear as day, in the kitchen of my childhood home. I recall the red step stool I had to use so I could properly reach the kitchen counter, standing by the side of a tall, regal looking woman. Her face is blurry in my memory, but I can tell by the soft way she talks and the general feeling of comfort she gives me that she’s my mother. She’s showing me how to make the sandwich, which I somehow know is my father’s preferred snack.
“These are my favorite,” I realize aloud.
“I know,” Roman says. “We used to make them together all the time. Well, you’d give me the money you’d earn from chores to make you one.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He laughs fondly. “You were always looking for ways to outsource work. ‘I’ll give you two dollars if you sweep the floors.’ Or sometimes you’d be like, ‘I’ll give you a ten dollar bill if you do the laundry for a whole week.’ It was the inner entrepreneur in you, I think.”
“And you actually did it?”
“Who doesn’t want to make a little extra cash? Plus, I didn’t really mind.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I guess you could say I was smitten. You could have told me to carry you around on my back, and I probably would’ve done it.”
I grimace. “I wasn’t that much of a tyrant, was I?”
“No. No, you weren’t. I’m just saying that’s how much I liked you.”
“You had a crush on me,” I tease. “How embarrassing. I guess it’s just as well you put a ring on it.”
“A tattoo ring,” he emphasizes. And then in a slightly quieter voice, “That’s never coming off.”
I snort. “Why do you sound like you regret it?”
“I don’t regret it, Charlie. Not one bit.”
I beam at him. “Good. Neither do I.”
We eat and enjoy the scenery, a perfect combination. Other tourists occasionally pass by, but it’s significantly less crowded than the beaches, which I really appreciate. I get the feeling Roman chose this place on purpose just so I wouldn’t have to deal with too many people.
“Oh, look!” he exclaims, pointing to a tree branch on the other side of the shallow lake. “It’s an iguana.”
I lean forward in my seat. “Where?”
“Right there. Beneath that leaf.”
I laugh. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Roman moves closer to me so that he can match our line of sight. He points more specifically to give me a general idea of where the little critter is.
But I’m not paying attention. I’m too distracted by how close Roman is. His cologne is somehow more delicious than the sandwich he’s prepared, and the fact that he’s gone to all this trouble for me warms my heart. Up close, I can admire the dimples in his cheeks I didn’t notice he had. I can see the creases at the corners of his eyes from constant smiling. His stubble is coming in, gracing his hard jawline with what will soon be a very full, very sexy beard.
I want to run my fingers through it.
Instead, I settle for cupping his face and tilting mine up so I can kiss him. It’s soft and sweet, really a ‘thank you’ for the day he’s planned for us. He blinks, a little stunned, but he melts into the kiss quickly.
The way he brings his hand up to trace a delicate line up my neck, settling on my jaw with his thumb on my chin is so tender I could cry. I don’t know what I did to deserve a man as thoughtful, considerate, and gentle as Roman. Every passing second with him by my side feels more and more magical, almost too good to be true. But I’m happy that it is. I’m happy that out of all the people in the world, I get to have Roman.
I don’t even want to think about what I’d do if he isn’t with me. What if I’d lost my memories and had no one at all? I’d probably be a mess. Who would care enough to take care of me like he does? Who would bother to be this patient and understanding and kind like he is?
Seriously. Who?
I can’t remember if I have friends that I’m close to. And it doesn’t look like I have any other family members I can turn to. I literally have Roman, and that’s it.
The sting of mild panic eats away at my guts.
Thank God I have him.
If I didn’t, I don’t know what I’d do.
We break apart from our kiss and fall into bubbly giggles. I’m really growing to adore the way he looks at me. There’s such focus and concentration in his eyes that Roman really makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world. Like I’m treasured, someone to venerate and revere. And if that isn’t love in his eyes, then that metal pipe must have hit me harder than I thought.
“Let’s finish our lunch,” he suggests after a moment. “I’ve got one more thing planned for us back at the hotel.”
I smirk at him. “Oh, you do, do you? Can I get a hint?”
“No. No hints.”
“Well, that isn’t fai–”
That just isn’t fair!
A voice pierces my thoughts. It’s a young girl. It’s me. A version of myself from a long, long time ago. The memory hits me hard. Harder than any of the others. I can clearly see myself, standing in the doorway to Uncle Charles’ private study at the estate. It smells of dust and sunlight. I’m dressed in my school uniform. I remember my knees aching, covered in scrapes and crusted in blood and dirt.
That just isn’t fair! Why does Roman get to play out in the woods and I don’t?
Charlie, behave yourself! You’re a young lady now. You can’t be playing out there.
I hate him. I hate him so much! You only care about Roman because he’s your favorite!
I pull away from Roman and suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
He frowns, placing a careful hand on my shoulder. “Charlie?”
“I just… I think I had a flashback.”
“Really? Of what?”
; I set my jaw. “I think… I was yelling at Uncle Charles. I was … I was frustrated about…” I look at Roman. The concern in his expression is almost palpable in the air. I can’t stand seeing him look like this. I want nothing more than to wipe that look right off his face.
“Charlie? What is it?”
I shake my head and force a smile. “N-nothing. I only remember a little bit. It’s still very foggy. I think I was just frustrated about homework or something. It’s silly.”
“No,” he says firmly. “No, this is … this is great, Charlie. You’re getting your memories back. Isn’t that awesome?”
I swallow at the sticky lump that’s lodged itself in my throat. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Yeah, it’s awesome.”
But why doesn’t it feel awesome?
We finish the rest of lunch in relative silence.
Roman looks worried the entire time, and I mentally kick myself for spoiling the mood.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Roman
This isn’t great. This isn’t great at all.
I’m fairly certain I’m losing my mind. The guilt is eating me from the inside out, and I know that one wrong move, one wrong word could possibly be the trigger for all of Charlie’s memories to come flooding back. And when it does, I’m in such huge fucking shit I’ll probably prefer death over the hell Charlie will put me through.
I can already hear her screaming at me. Calling me terrible things, every single one of them true. She’ll probably call up Mister Maloney and stick him on me. That man is so good at his job and so wickedly cold that he could probably pin a murder on me somehow and the charges would stick. Realistically, he could come after me for fraud. He could drag my name through the mud, and Phoenix House along with it. Those poor kids under my care will probably end up on the streets.
And for what?
Because I love Charlie too much to be honest with her.
I know it’s shitty of me. I know I’m the scum of the earth. I deserve to burn, but I can’t leave her. I won’t. I’m lying, but it’s for her sake. She just seems so fucking happy now. Happy and carefree and renewed. That’s the only way I can truly describe it. What am I supposed to do? Shatter Charlie’s hopes and dreams by revealing that only a couple of weeks ago she was a heartless career woman with a heart made of ice who didn’t care who she stepped on in those Louboutins sharp like daggers? That she’s so hell-bent on success that she literally has no one to call a true, honest to God friend because nobody can tolerate her?
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