“Like what?” I asked, suspicious.
Travis laughed. “Calm down, Pidge. It’s nothing bad.”
“What happened to your wrist?” I said, pulling his hand up by his fingers.
A thunderous diesel motor pulled up outside and Travis hopped up from the couch, opening the door. “It’s about fucking time! I’ve been home for at least five minutes!” he said with a smile.
One man walked in backward, carrying a plastic-covered gray sofa, followed by another man bringing in the rear. Shepley and Travis moved the couch—with me and Toto still on it—forward, and then the men sat the new one in its place. Travis pulled off the plastic and then lifted me in his arms, setting me on the soft cushions.
“You got a new one?” I asked, grinning from ear to ear.
“Yep, and a couple of other things, too. Thanks, guys,” he said as the movers lifted the old couch and left the way they came.
“There goes a lot of memories,” I smirked.
“None that I want to hold on to.” He sat beside me and sighed, watching me for a moment before he pulled off the tape that held the gauze on his arm. “Don’t freak out.”
My mind raced with what could be under that bandage. I imagined a burn or stitches or something equally gruesome.
He pulled the bandage back and I gasped at the simple black script tattooed across the underside of his wrist, the skin around it red and shiny from the antibiotic he had smeared on. I shook my head in disbelief as I read the word.
Pigeon
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“You had my name tattooed on your wrist?” I said the words, but it didn’t sound like my voice. My mind stretched in every direction, and yet I managed to speak in a calm, even tone.
“Yeah.” He kissed my cheek as I stared in disbelief at the permanent ink in his skin.
“I tried to talk him out of it, Abby. He hasn’t done anything crazy in a while. I think he was having withdrawal,” Shepley said, shaking his head.
“What do you think?” Travis prompted.
“I don’t know what to think,” I said.
“You should have asked her first, Trav,” America said, shaking her head and covering her mouth with her fingers.
“Asked her what? If I could get a tattoo?” he frowned, turning to me. “I love you. I want everyone to know I’m yours.”
I shifted nervously. “That’s permanent, Travis.”
“So are we,” he said, touching my cheek.
“Show her the rest,” Shepley said.
“The rest?” I said, looking down to his other wrist.
Travis stood, pulling up his shirt. His impressive six-pack stretched and tightened with the movement. Travis turned, and on his side was another fresh tattoo spanning the length of his ribs.
“What is that?” I asked, squinting at the vertical symbols.
“It’s Hebrew,” Travis said with a nervous grin.
“What does it mean?”
“It says, ‘I belong to my beloved, and my beloved is mine.”
My eyes darted to his. “You weren’t happy with just one tattoo, you had to get two?’”