Dana checked another.
“Where did you put them?”
“I think up there.”
I pointed to the small storage cabinet above the refrigerator.
Dana looked at me.
“You’re taller than I am.”
“My shoulder’s been bothering me all morning.”
It was a stupid excuse.
She didn’t question it.
Dana stepped closer to the refrigerator and reached upward.
Her blouse rose.
Two inches.
Three.
Then higher.
And I saw the entire tattoo.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
It was a portrait.
A man’s face drawn in thin black ink along her rib cage.
A familiar crooked smile.
The slight crease beside the mouth.
The narrow scar near the right eyebrow from a college basketball injury.
Mark.
My husband.
There was no possibility of coincidence.
No misunderstanding.
No childish confusion.
My best friend had my husband’s face tattooed on her body.
Dana found the candles.
“Got them.”
She turned around.
I looked away one second too late.
Our eyes met.
Something changed in her expression.
Not guilt exactly.
Recognition.
She knew.
She knew that I had seen it.
“Rachel?”
Before I could answer, Mark opened the sliding door.
“Are you two hiding from my party?”
His smile disappeared almost instantly.
He looked at me.
Then at Dana.
Then at the candles in her hand.
Dana’s face had gone pale.
And Mark understood.
I watched the realization pass across his face.
That was the moment I stopped wondering whether there was an innocent explanation.
Because innocent husbands don’t look terrified when their wives discover another woman has their face tattooed on her ribs.
“Rach,” Mark said carefully.
I smiled.
It frightened even me how easily the expression appeared.
“The cake’s ready.”
