“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.”
His eyes dropped to the table.
“And every time, I chose the coward’s way out.”
For a long while, neither of us spoke. I kept looking at Ryan, trying to reconcile the man sitting across from me with the story he had just shared.
Twelve years of marriage, and somehow I had never come close to the truth.
Finally, I asked the question that had bothered me ever since the bakery.
Ryan’s expression immediately darkened. He already knew the answer.
“She thought I still blamed her.”
