When I’m ready, Lenox returns. “I’m going to stencil what we came up with on your skin, and after you give me the final approval, we’ll get started. It might be uncomfortable and even painful at times. You can’t move, so if you need a break, just let me know. I’m also going to put some glide gel on to help reduce friction. Does all that sound okay?”
“Let’s do it.”
He has me lying flat on my stomach on the table and Roman is in a chair by the head of it. He’s holding the pinky of the hand on the side that’s not being tattooed and when the machine buzzes, I close my eyes, bite my lip, and squeeze his pinky. The needle burns, but it’s not intolerable. It’s not pleasant either, don’t get me wrong. I can’t wait till it’s done.
“How have you done this a bazillion times?” I ask Roman, but it makes Lenox chuckle. “That question goes to you, too.”
“I’m a sadist and a masochist,” Lenox answers, and I start to laugh, only to have him give me a reprimanding look.
“Right. Sorry. No moving. Then don’t be funny.”
“I’m rarely funny. Just ask my wife.”
“I think I met your wife once. She was lovely.”
“She is,” he agrees.
“Now you answer,” I prompt Roman.
“You already know I like pain. It’s awakening in a way.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “It reminds you you’re alive and fighting.”
“I experience pain differently than that,” I say in a soft voice. “When I see pain, it’s typically someone’s worst day. My job is to try to take that pain away or make it better for them.”
Only it doesn’t always work out that way.
Way too many hours later, I have Nash’s name on my back, a rapid heartbeat with a heart on my wrist, and a promise of forever on the inside of Roman’s left ring finger. It’s late and we’re exhausted by the time we get back to Boston. Roman doesn’t like eating in his restaurants. He says it makes him feel weird, but the thought of going out to a regular restaurant isn’t high on my list right now.
I convince him to take me to Roundhouse because I’m craving a bacon cheeseburger and duck fat truffle fries—they sound gross, but they’re so freaking good. We sit at the bar, sipping martinis and chowing down on grease. There are people taking pictures of us. I know it. I don’t look, but I know it and so does Roman.
I’m married to a Fritz in Boston. I might as well have a sign on my head that says take my picture. I can only hope it doesn’t stay this way and things return to normal for us. Roman’s phone buzzes and after he checks it and replies, he orders us both another round.
“What’s up?” I ask because I wasn’t going to have a second martini tonight, but here it is in front of me.
“I think we’ll need this. Trust the process.”
I tilt my head. “Who were you texting?”
“If I tell you, you’ll run.”
I give him a very distinct arched eyebrow. “Roman…” I trail off because a flash of black catches my eye a second before I’m fiercely hugged by a squealing woman.
“Ah! I’m so happy to be hugging you right now!”
“Oh my god!” I fly out of my chair and practically tackle Raven Fritz, Roman’s mother. “I can’t believe you’re here.” We both jump up and down as we hug.
“We flew home when we saw the press stuff,” Luca, Roman’s dad, tells us as he peels his wife off me and gives me a hug. And yeah, if I thought we were getting photographed before, damn. But it’s all good because these people are like my second parents.
I hug Luca, who gives me a squeeze for the ages. Then I smack Roman’s shoulder. “You said I’d run if you told me who was texting you.”
“Did I say you’d run? I meant that more for myself.”
“Ha. You’re so funny.” His mother looks at me. “He’s making jokes now. That’s all you, you know.”
They sit down with us, ordering their own drinks and telling us all about their overseas travel.
“So you married my son,” Luca quips after their food is delivered.
“I’m a Fritz. At least for now.”