I look at Wyatt. “Fuck, man. I’m toast. She is it. There will never be another, so I will have to tell her and hope she holds on for the ride.”
Wyatt winces. “I hate to tell you, but Brittany is scheduled to come in for another tat today.”
Fuck. How can one sentence ruin a perfect morning? Fucking Brittany, my should-be ex-wife and mother of my daughter, Lola. I look at my schedule, see that it is packed, and push all thoughts of her aside. She doesn’t matter in my life, only Leire and Lola do. I start setting up for my first appointment of the day and go from there.
Right before I have to deal with Brittany, I decide to order Leire cherry blossoms to be delivered to her at work this afternoon. I pay dearly for them, being both out of season and same day delivery, but they are worth every cent. I add a note about her softening out my hard edges, then send them off for delivery. I am hoping we will stay together and that I know her enough to trust her and know she won’t leave or judge me. I am going out on a limb with the trust, but I feel Leire is worth it. The thought quiets my heart. Brittany is going to hear about it, I will tell Leire, and we will go from there. That is the best I can do.
I can smell her before I can see her, her overwhelming perfume announcing her arrival. This is another reason I like Leire. She doesn’t wear any scents besides lotion. She doesn’t need them. She is beautiful on her own. Just thinking about her has me starting to get hard, and Brittany is going to think it’s for her. I shove my dick down hard enough to hurt, thinking of the nuns at the schools I was forced to attend. That does the trick. Brittany comes in wearing some completely indecent, ridiculously expensive designer clothing just because she has seen some actress on a magazine in it. It makes me want to gag.
“Ander, my love!” she coos, her wedding ring still on her hand. I have a sneaking suspicion she only wears it when she sees me, and she only visits when she wants something from me. Most of the time, its money. That terrible perfume I smell is something like $450 for a few ounces. I also know the money I send for Lola never actually makes it to her. For that reason, I set up a trust, hidden from Brittany, that only Lola would have access to when she turns 18. Lola may not know me because of her crazy mom, but that does not mean I love her any less. Her account was already in the six figures. I really hope she uses it for school one day soon. From what little information I can gather, Lola is nothing like her mother. She is quick-witted, smart, kind, and a talented artist. I know that probably drives her mother crazy.
“Ander, baby, I want a butterfly between my breasts,” she exclaims.
Brittany has the hardest fake boobs I have ever had the horror of looking at and touching. She rips her shirt off right in the front of the store, virtually preening like a peacock while stating what she wants. Because her boobs are so high and hard, the area under them will actually be a pretty easy area to tattoo since gravity would have a hard time intervening. The problem is that I don’t want to tattoo her chest. I want nothing to do with her chest…or her. But here she is, standing shirtless and puffed up in the front of the shop, when my sun walks in. She stops to talk with Cora so she hasn’t noticed us yet, but she will. I need to give that girl a raise for running interference for me. But Brittany is smart. She notices the change in the atmosphere of the store and the change in my face. She grabs my hand and places it on her fake boobs. “Baby, you know these do it for you. Now you can see your work every time we fuck.” She giggles and I try even harder not to gag.
When I meet Leire’s eyes, I see her face has paled. However, it is not scared. Since we’ve only known each other for a short period of time, I don’t quite know what this face means. We’d only been together for one night, a situation I intend to solve as soon as possible. I had called her mine and she, in her quiet way, had called me hers. I don’t know what is coming, but it sure isn’t what I expected.
LEIRE
When I walk into the store, Cora’s eyes grow huge. Something’s up. I stop to chat with her a bit about the new tattoo and how it’s healing. I step closer to tell her I don’t have Ander’s phone number and I will need it for this evening if things run late at the school. I don’t want to interrupt him if he is with a client, but she says she’ll be happy to have Ander give it to me himself after he finishes what he’s doing. It’s then that I see them…a bitch with fake boobs, out in the open for the world to see, all over my man. At first, I’m upset because he has his hands on her chest. Then I really see his face. He actually looks as though he may puke. I don’t have any idea what’s going on, but he doesn’t like it. He is my man and I need to help.
So, grabbing the trash can, I waltz over to the whore. Since he had called me his, he is mine in return, and I am about to stake my claim. We will discuss this later, but now, we are a team. If cancer doesn’t scare me anymore, neither does some Botoxed bitch with fake boobs. Cora’s face has a concerned look as she looks at me. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I can handle this.” Her face changes from concerned to excited in one second.
Wyatt steps out of his room to say hello and sees where I’m heading. From the look on his face, he has paled about ten shades and is in current need of new boxers. He looks torn between turning around and heading back into his room, or watching whatever is happening play out. He seems to choose and stays put for the time being.
I walk over to Ander and hand him the trash can. “By the look on your face, you’re going to lose your amazing brunch.” I wink at him. “Here is the can. I will treat you to lunch later if you need it. Don’t worry. I am sure you’re not the first person to lose their lunch upon seeing those.” I hear a snort from Wyatt and see a small smile appear. What she says makes me need the garbage can.
“I’m Brittany, Ander’s wife. He bought me these boobs, so he is quite partial to them, unlike your small, saggy ones.” I look up at Ander and see that his face is pained, as he knows her words have the effect she was aiming for, yet he doesn’t step up to defend me.
I look back at her, motioning up and down her body. “Well, Brittany, seeing as those tattoos you have are some of the ‘best’ examples of his work, I think maybe I am better off finishing my tattoo elsewhere. I wouldn’t want to have to walk around knowing people were snickering not only about my face and boobs, but the terrible work on display.”
I can hear Ander choking behind me, and I see Wyatt turn and slam the door to his office. What the fuck? Why is everyone mad at me? I am not the married one here. I have done nothing wrong. I raise my head. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. Then I turn to leave.
“Wait!” Ander screams from behind me and I stop momentarily, inches from the door.
Then I hear Brittany say, “Lola wants you to come to the father/daughter dance at her high school this weekend.” At the door, I ask Cora for some recommendations to finish the tattoo, then I hear, “Baby, the idea of you tattooing between my breasts makes me so hot, maybe we can fuck like we did after you tattooed the one low on my hip.”
I barely manage to grab the list from Cora and walk out the door. I make it down the sidewalk and around the corner before I begin to heave. Over and over, I lose it until there is nothing but bile and dry heaves left. I breathe deep and finally slow down the puking enough to hear my phone ringing. I turn it off and head back to finish my classes for the day. It’s not cancer, I tell myself, as if that will help.
LEIRE
I head home with a few bottles of wine and get out one of those pre-made tubes of cookie dough. You know, the kind they supposedly make to market to children and families, but it’s secretly for the women who are constantly hurt and using food for comfort. I undress from work, toss on a shirt and take the cookie dough and bottle of wine to bed, no glass needed, and throw the blankets over my head. I take drinks of the wine, still contemplating the cookies. Cancer is always not that far from my mind or my life. I have a check-up in three months.
Deciding to just stick with the wine, I get up and put the cookie dough back in the fridge. I immediately return to bed
and am in the exact same position, two empty bottles of wine next to me, singing to really bad 80’s music, when I suddenly stop. I am listening to Boys to Men sing “I’ll Make Love To You” when I lose it. Despite his declaration of being mine and me being his, I know he will not be there for me. He is a cheating bastard with a wife and child.
Sometime during the song, I manage to pass out. My final, spinning thoughts are that I was right. I had opened myself up and put myself out there, but I should have known that no one, especially not someone like Ander, would want a simple, scarred, broken, and ruined cancer patient. It is why I have no friends. It’s too hard to be friends with someone who is constantly sick. People want to focus on themselves. I have been told “Your illness is too much to take and we can no longer be friends” by a woman I thought was a great friend. I’m done. I am better off alone. That way, when I die, no one is hurt. Like the aspens in the forest, life goes on. I won’t leave anyone in pain.
For the next three days, my life goes on. The only word I get from Ander is some stupid bouquets of flowers that I promptly throw in the trash when they arrive. I wouldn’t have read the notes attached if Molly, my TA, didn’t make me. They are parts of a whole; three days of apologies with no explanations.
I know I am not a perfect man. I’ve broken your heart and you’re trying to mend. I made you hurt, made you cry. Please, please don’t say goodbye.
Maybe I should say goodbye? Would that be better for you? I would ask you if I could, but I can’t. I know I hurt you so badly, but you are not the only one hurting. I promise you that.
Ni mar shittear a bhitear. Ez zaitut inoiz ahazruko. Behar doudan guztra zara. Fzin dut zu gabe bizil. Marte zartut, neska polita.
These are just pretty words. When we initially met, I told him I live one day at a time and I intend to have no regrets. I’m not going to let him continue to play me. He’s married with a child. That means he’s off-limits. With a cancer check coming in a few months, I may eventually give him a chance to explain, but it won’t change anything. The only thing it will do is ease the suffering and give me closure. Days drag on, life looping one hellish day after another. I am not sleeping or eating. I am barely functioning. Maybe, for my own sake, I need to give him his chance. I feel so foolish that I let one night, a few days, with a man affect me so much. I am ill to the point of losing weight and looking frail. I finally respond and tell him we can meet. He quickly invites me to his house the next afternoon.
When I meet Ander the next day, the smell when he opens the door is heavenly. At least I will get a good meal out of it. “Come in,” he quietly says, as if not sure I actually will.
I step inside. The only thing I know for sure is that I am completely unsure of how this evening is going to go or how I should handle it. Guiding me to the table, he says, “I figure we would start with some food, and finish with a much needed conversation. Okay?” I nod. He releases a huge sigh of relief, pulling out a chair for me.
ANDER
I’ve spent the last god knows how long in hell. My body literally hurt without her near me. The daily flowers and notes have been ignored (I made friends with her TA, which was the only reason she even opened the letters at all). I spent so long going over every part of my life and coming to one conclusion…I can’t lose Leire. So I have this evening planned perfectly. Dinner is easy. It is the words that are hard. I know what I need to say, and I also know she has to listen. I need to clear the air to not feel this pain for hurting her.
“Niska polita, my beautiful girl, there are so many things I should have told you. Unlike most, you understand every tattoo means something to me. You’ve given me ample chances to tell you about mine, as you told me about yours. I know your story is not done yet, because your tattoo isn’t, but I don’t fault you for that. How do you completely open up to someone you’ve known for just a week when they won’t tell you a single thing in return? So here it is. Here is the reason I do not deserve someone as lovely and perfect as you.”
I stop to breathe and steady my heart. This hurts, but it has to be done for things to have any chance of moving forward. “When I was eighteen, I met and married Brittany. In the beginning, she wasn’t like that. She was real and kind. She had spunk and character. She cared deeply for others. We were great together. I was apprenticing at a local tattoo shop, and she was finishing school to become a nurse. I apprenticed when I could, usually at night, while she went to classes and then began her internship. It was then that I should have known something was off.
“I would come home in the morning just as she would be heading off to work and she wanted nothing to do with me. She said she didn’t want her hair or makeup messed up. She always had some excuse about needing and wanting to look professional. Looking back, I can see it for what it was. She was hiding me from her lover, wanting no trace of my existence on her at work. I was not worth showing off. After all, apprentices don’t make very much.
“After two years of very little sex, Brittany announced she was pregnant. I was so excited. I was about to be my own artist and was starting a family. In my mind, things couldn’t get any better. And, for a while, they were perfect. I was working the shop on my own, and Brittany was preparing to be a mom. Life was good. When she had the baby, we named her Lola. Lola Goravita, a beautiful name for a beautiful little girl. After the baby, I expected Brittany would want to stay home and be a mom. But she returned to work. This was no problem. I wanted to support her in her goals.
“Then, one day, she came home and announced she wanted a divorce. We had been married for five years, but she had spent four of them in the arms of another man, a doctor at her hospital. Someone more respectable than a tattoo artist. I refused to give her the divorce, so she refused to let me see Lola. I worked my ass off to become one of the best tattoo artists in the area. Now she wants me, just like I had planned. But then I met you and saw what a real woman was like. A woman who was beautiful, calm, and accepting. You are no drama and all life. I saw that I shouldn’t have to do all of that to try and see my daughter. When you looked at me, I saw it way okay to just be me.
“I haven’t seen Lola in ten years because of her mother and I would do anything to see her, even tattoo her mother’s nasty tits…which were paid for by Dr. Douche, by the way. Brittany thinks she can use our daughter to manipulate me to get the things she wants. I am so sorry you had to witness that. I should have told you about this when we first met. Before we even began our relationship, you deserved to know this.”
I stop and hand her a packet of papers. “If you will look at these, we are finally divorced. I hope you will allow me into your life. Lola is the tattoo of the portrait and the skull. It is beauty and horror in one because I love and cannot see her. It’s not a girlfriend, like most people assume. The playing cards are my life, one chance after the next, all ruled by the evil queen and her hold over me. The rest are really just fun designs by good buddies looking to ink someone. Someday, if you will let me, I intend to have you covering my body, and I intend to finish your tattoo, as well. My beautiful girl, maite zaitut. Exk ontzeko me, mesedez.”
I stop there. That is my story. I married young and stupidly, and didn’t give in out of spite. I am now paying the price. I have tears streaming down my face knowing I have failed somebody else. I look up at Leire and she grabs my face and pulls me in for a soft kiss. At that moment, I know I have her back, but I need to know her secrets, as well. “Tell me about Mother’s Day,” I whisper.
LEIRE
I have tears streaming down my face by the time he finishes. I ask him what the note he sent in his native language said. He says that, in a roundabout way, it means I am special and he is falling deeply for me. I do forgive him; that is an awful lot of information to entrust to a new relationship, especially when previous experience has trained him so well not to trust. I am still hurt by it, but I find my heart doesn’t care all that much, it still wants him. Also, I am determined to do everything in my power to help him get Lola back in
to his life. But first, I need to open up and tell him about me, starting with Mother’s Day. I still hate it, but he deserves the whole story.
“Mother’s Day, Sunday morning… It was supposed to be something special. I had no night sweats or vomiting. I had played the entire soccer tournament the day before with no problems. Things were looking fine. The only noticeable change was a constant ache in my abdomen that we attributed to my two-a-day workouts and intense lifestyle, as well as the onset of puberty.
“When I went to get ready for the day, I knew something was off. Most teenage girls have a morning routine. Well, mine was completely gone. I couldn’t go to the bathroom at all, and the pain was so intense. I sat on the toilet, trying and crying, until my mother came in. At that point, I think even she was worried. So, instead of high tea for Mother’s Day, we went to the local ER. I don’t remember too much, but I do distinctly remember having to fill out a pink card for an ultrasound, swearing I could not be pregnant. They promised that no matter my answer, they would not tell my mother. I kept telling them I wasn’t, but they kept telling me they needed the truth. I was telling the truth. I had never even had sex. Finally, they left me alone.
“It was dark by now. Some other nurse came in and explained how an ultrasound worked. She spread the cool gel over my belly, and I did my best to tune everything out. When she gasped, I looked at her. I don’t think ultrasound technicians are supposed to react to anything they see, but this one did. She turned the monitor toward her, printed something, and ran out of the room, leaving me there exposed and all alone. I was a scared and alone fourteen-year-old girl, naked on a hard table with machines beeping all around me.”
One More Breath Page 5