Only Him

by Melanie Harlow

  “Maybe it’s a biological clock,” Emme said. “Maybe you’re subconsciously thinking about getting married and having kids, and worried about waiting too long.”

  “But I’m not even thirty,” I protested. “I don’t feel any pressure whatsoever to get married. And I could always adopt if I wanted kids.”

  “How about the door?” persisted Stella. “What do you think that means?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “The Internet thought maybe I was feeling confined by something. But I can’t think what.”

  “The door was closed, so maybe you need closure on something.” Emme sipped her Prosecco. “Or someone.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Stella. “Can you think of anything in the past you might have unresolved feelings about? Your ballet career maybe?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that.”

  “Mom and Dad’s divorce?” Emme suggested.

  “No, that never bothered me either. They were obviously unhappy together.”

  “A relationship?” asked Stella.

  Something twisted in my gut.

  “No,” I lied.

  I couldn’t go there. I never went there.

  Emme went there. “What about Dallas Shepherd?”

  My stomach hollowed.

  Dallas Shepherd.

  My first crush, my first kiss, my first everything.

  He’d had the body of an athlete, the hands of an artist, the face of a god, the charm of a fairy tale prince, and the sense of a cinder block.

  Not that he wasn’t smart—he was. He used to amaze me with all the things he could memorize. Random things I said offhand he could repeat back to me almost verbatim. And he was so damn talented—he could draw anything. I never understood why his grades were so terrible, or why he made such bad decisions. He was always getting in trouble at school. Fights. Pranks. Smoking in the bathroom. He didn’t even like cigarettes! It drove me crazy, all the dumb stuff he used to do—but he couldn’t stay out of trouble, and I couldn’t stay away from him. It was like trying to fight gravity.

  “Come on, that was twelve years ago,” I said, attempting to laugh. I’d been seventeen the last time I saw him, not that I had known it was going to be the last time. He’d made sure of that. “I think I’m over him by now.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Emme said. “You haven’t really dated anyone seriously since then, and you were pretty wrecked after he left.”

  I shifted in my chair. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were. Stella, remember that pillowcase she had with his face on it?”

  Stella laughed while I huddled in humiliation, remembering all the tears I’d cried on that pillowcase. “I never saw it, but you told me about it.”

  Emme was delighted. “She would put it on every night and take it off every morning to hide it. I only know because I caught her doing it once. She made me swear not to tell Mom.”

  “Okay, enough,” I snapped.

  “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about your feelings, Maren.” Emme patted my shoulder.

  “I don’t have feelings about Dallas anymore,” I insisted.

  “You never think about him?” Stella pressed.

  I shrugged and took a few swallows of wine. “Not really.” Another lie.

  I thought about him every time a man disappointed me in bed and left me wondering if I’d ever feel that thing I’d had with him again—that insatiable desire between us. I can’t get enough, he used to tell me, his ravenous mouth seeking every inch of my skin.

  I thought about him every time I drove past the house on the lake where he used to live, or the high school we’d both attended, or the dark church parking lot he’d driven to that final night, where he’d gone down on me in the backseat of his Jeep before pulling me onto his lap and whispering that he loved me, that he wanted me, that he needed me, as he slid inside me, slow and deep. He’d been uncharacteristically broody and intense that night, and I’d been so lost in my own feelings I hadn’t thought to ask him why.

  I thought about him every time I saw someone sketching, remembering how he was constantly drawing things—with a pencil on the back of a test he’d failed, with a pen on a paper napkin at a restaurant, with a Sharpie on people’s arms at parties. One time he’d spent all night “tattooing” my left arm in gorgeous, scrolling mandala designs that stretched from my hand almost to my shoulder. My mother had been furious and my ballet teachers appalled, but I’d loved the idea that he’d created something so beautiful on my skin, as if I were his canvas. I’d wished it was a real tattoo, and he’d promised someday it would be. He’d promised a lot of things.

  But it turned out he was better at sex than promises, and his sudden vanishing act had left a bruise on my heart that had never completely healed. To make peace with it, I’d simply come to accept that tender spot as part of me, and I avoided pressing on it.

  Could the dream be about Dallas? But why now, twelve years later, when I’d already moved on? Sure, it had taken me a long time, but I’d gotten there. I dated occasionally. It wasn’t my fault I’d never fallen head over heels for someone again. It wasn’t like you could choose your soulmate—either you felt that thing or you didn’t. And I’d just never felt it for anyone else. What was I supposed to do, fake it? I’d rather be single.

  The three of us were quiet for a moment before Emme spoke again. “Why does it have to mean anything? Maybe it’s just a random bad dream.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe anything is random. But let’s talk about something else, okay? I’ll figure it out. Deciphering messages from my subconscious is not your problem.”

  “Well, what’s your subconscious saying about that dark purple dress?” Emme asked.

  I laughed and shook my head. “Nothing yet, but I’ll let you know if I hear something.”

  “Good. We’re now thinking October or November up at Abelard, and I’m envisioning kind of a soft autumn color palette—eggplant, heather, thistle, sangria, eucalyptus.” She ticked the colors off on her fingers.

  “That’s going to be beautiful, Emme,” I said. Abelard Vineyards was the winery our cousin Mia and her husband Lucas owned up on Old Mission Peninsula. It would be gorgeous that time of year.

  “I agree,” said Stella. “But can you really plan a wedding that fast? That’s only a few months away.”

  Emme rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “I’m a wedding planner, Stella. That’s what I do. We’ll get better prices in the off-season, and besides …” Her cheeks went pink and her shoulders rose. “We don’t want to wait. We want to be married yesterday.”

  Now it was Stella who sighed. “Must be nice to be so in love. How’s it going living together?”

  “Fantastic. I’ve never had so much sex in my life,” Emme whispered excitedly. “And it’s better every time. Nate is just … so generous. And talented. And well-endowed.” She shivered. “It’s mind-blowing.”

  I peered into my empty glass, wondering if a second glass was a horrible idea. I didn’t drink much and had a pretty decent buzz from the first.

  Emme looked across me to Stella. “What about you? Things still strictly platonic with Buzz?”

  I nudged Emme with my foot. Buzz was our nickname for Stella’s psych professor boyfriend, Walter. We called him that because he was so passionate about his beekeeping. What he wasn’t passionate about was Stella—at least not sexually. Emme and I remained perplexed about their year-long relationship, which seemed more like a friendship than anything else, or maybe like a brother and sister hanging out together. But Stella claimed to be fine with that.

  “Yes,” she said. Then she looked around, like she was trying to find something she’d lost. “Is there a menu anywhere? I’m getting kind of hungry.”

  “I’m up for some food,” said Emme. “I’ll flag down the bartender.” But beneath the bar, she nudged me back, and I knew she’d noticed, just as I had, the way Stella had avoided any further discussion about her and Buzz.


  I understood completely. Who’d want to follow up Emme’s dreamy rhapsodizing about Nate’s sexual prowess and their mad rush to the altar with anecdotes about holding hands at the movies and listening to endless stories about pollination on their Sunday morning jogs? I didn’t want to talk about my sex life either. Two-year dry spell aside, it was pretty depressing that I was twenty-nine and the only guy I’d ever experienced mind-blowing sex with was my high school boyfriend.

  Stop thinking about him.

  I put him from my mind and did my best to focus on what Emme was saying about centerpieces and seating arrangements.

  Dallas Shepherd was nothing more than a memory.

  Two

  Dallas

  “I really think you should reconsider, Lisa.” I handed back the picture of Tweety Bird to the eighteen-year-old girl sitting in the chair across from me. “My gut feeling is that you’ll regret getting this tattoo.”

  “How do you know?” Lisa pouted, which made her look even younger.

  I shrugged. “Just a hunch. Let’s talk about another design, okay?”

  “But I love Tweety Bird. And I want it to say ‘You’re my Tweety Pie’ above and then my boyfriend’s name below.”

  “Then I’m definitely not doing it.” I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I have a strict rule about tattooing names on people. I won’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve never known anyone who had that done and wasn’t sorry later on. I’m all about having no regrets in life.”

  “I won’t regret it,” she insisted. “Rocky and I are in love. That’s forever.”

  “A tattoo is forever. Love, not necessarily. Either way, I won’t put your boyfriend’s name on your arm.”

  “How about his face?” She began scrolling through pictures on her phone. “He’s really cute.”

  “No.”

  “His real name is Rockton. Would you put that?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Haven’t you ever been in love?” she demanded.

  “Once,” I told her.

  “What happened?”

  “That’s complicated. And private.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Suffice it to say, I fucked up. I was young.”

  She gave me the side eye. “You don’t look that old.”

  “I just turned thirty. I was seventeen then.”

  “Oh.” She nodded, confirming that thirty was definitely old. “So what did you do?”

  I cocked my head. “Didn’t I just say it was private?”

  “Look, I paid a hundred-dollar deposit to get this appointment with you.”

  “For a tattoo. Not a true confession.”

  “You won’t even give me the tattoo I want. My dad’s a lawyer, you know.”

  “Is he aware that you’re here with a picture of Tweety Bird?”

  She fidgeted in her seat. “Just tell me what you did. Then I’ll pick a different design.”

  I sighed heavily and checked the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even six yet, but this day had been long enough already. I had the same dull ache in my head I’d had for the last four months, and I still had to call my older brother, Finn, at some point. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe if I told her the story, she’d get bored and move on. “Senior year, I was getting in trouble too much and my parents sent me away.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Dumb shit.”

  “Where’d they send you?”

  “To obedience school.”

  My humor was lost on her. “Was the girl upset?”

  “Probably. I left without telling her.”

  She gasped. “Why?”

  “I didn’t want to say goodbye.”

  “She must have been so pissed at you.”

  “She probably was.”

  Lisa’s eyes went wide. “You don’t know? Like, you never talked to her again?”

  I shrugged and checked the clock again. “Told you I fucked up.”

  “But…but why?” Lisa seemed genuinely distressed at my assholery. “If you loved her, why leave her like that?”

  “Because she was better off without me and I knew it. Now let’s talk about another design.”

  She brought out her phone and showed me a Pinterest board she’d created with tattoo ideas. Most of them were pretty terrible, but I got the feeling she liked birds and flowers, so I got out a pencil and sheet of paper and sketched something for her—a small bird standing on a little branch with flowers at both ends. It was feminine but not cutesy, a classic subject with an abstract feel. She loved it.

  I pulled on some gloves and got to work. I wasn’t much for conversation while I was tattooing someone, but I was used to people wanting to talk to me. It always amazed me the way some people treated their tattoo artists like therapists. Maybe it was just that they wanted to talk through the pain. Maybe it was the fact that I was entirely focused on them and they weren’t used to having someone’s full attention. Maybe the fact that they had to trust me with their skin made them feel like they could trust me with their feelings. Whatever. It was fine with me—as long as they didn’t expect me to reply—and if they found something therapeutic about getting a tattoo, well, good. God knows I’d worked through some emotional shit with ink. Sometimes it was all you could do.

  Lisa got queasy about halfway through, so I decided we should take a break. While she relaxed with a bottle of water and a few deep breaths, I peeled off my gloves and checked my messages. My doctor’s office had called to confirm my films had been sent to Boston, as requested, and my brother had called—again—but didn’t leave a message this time.

  My friend Evan, whose station was next to mine, knocked on the half-wall separating us.

  “Yeah.”

  He pulled back the black velvet curtain above the wall. “Hey. Beer after work? Widmer?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “How much longer will you need?”

  “Probably an hour or so.”

  “Okay. I’m done, so I’m gonna run home and eat dinner with Reyna. Text when you’re ready and I’ll meet you.”

  “Will do.”

  An hour and a half later, Lisa was the proud bearer of her first tattoo. Her complexion had lost most of its green tinge, and she was all smiles as she studied it through the protective plastic bandage. “I love it,” she said. “You were right, this is much better than Tweety Bird.”

  “Told you so.”

  “Am I done?”

  “Yes, but sit tight for a minute. It’s not good to get up too fast, and we need to go over aftercare instructions.”

  “Okay.” She was silent as I handed her a sheet explaining when she should remove the bandage, how she should wash and dry it, and what to put on it to help her skin heal.

  “No sun, no swimming, no soaking for two weeks,” I warned. “And after it’s healed, make sure you use sunblock on it.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  I stood up and offered her my hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “Thank you.” She rose and shook my hand. When she let go, I waited for her to leave so I could start cleaning up, but she continued to stand there, looking at me curiously.

  “Something else I can do for you?” I asked.

  “I want to know what happened to the girl. The one you loved.”

  My heart stuttered a little. “I don’t know.”

  “Well …” She fidgeted impatiently. “What was her name?”

  “Maren.” I hadn’t spoken her name out loud in years. Feeling it on my lips again made my chest go tight.

  “Do you ever think about her?”

  Every day. “From time to time.”

  A smile snuck onto her lips. “You still love her.”

  “Goodbye, Lisa. Thanks for coming in.” I turned my back to her and texted Evan that I would be out of here shortly.

  She laughed. “See? Sometimes love is forever. Even if you don’t want it to be. Yo
u should go see her.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  I ignored her and she finally walked away, but as I finished cleaning up, I kept hearing her words in my head. You still love her.

  The vise on my heart contracted. Of course I still loved her. I’d never tried not to love her. No matter what I had done, or how long it had been, or how many other women had tried to take her place in my heart, she was always there, as permanent as any tattoo on my body.

  I’d been thinking about her a lot lately, too. My memories of being with her were so fucking vivid these days. They hit me out of nowhere, as if someone had pushed a button in my brain. The colors were so vibrant, from the sapphire blue of the lake we used to swim in to the golden flecks in her brown eyes. If I took a deep breath, I’d smell the lotion she used to wear that made me want to lick her skin. I could hear her laugh as if she was in the same room with me.

  But it wasn’t just the memories getting to me—it was the thought of her now. I wasn’t on social media, because fuck that shit, but I’d been drunk and curious enough times late at night to look her up. I knew she still lived outside Detroit not far from where we grew up, I knew she had quit ballet and opened up a yoga studio, and I knew she grew more beautiful every single year, so beautiful it hurt.

  You should go see her.

  My stomach muscles tightened. The truth was, I’d been thinking about it. Ever since the test results came back.

  On my way out of the studio, I stopped to talk to Beatriz, the owner of the shop, who was wiping down the glass case of body piercing jewelry in the lobby. Her long, blue-tipped braids swayed in front of her shoulders as she worked.

  “Hey,” I said, “got a second?”

  She looked up at me and smiled. “Sure thing. How did it go with Tweety Bird?”

  “I talked her out of it.”

  “Good man.” She straightened up and set her rag aside. “What can I do for you?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand, wondering how to approach this. I hadn’t told her about my head yet. “Remember when I said I might need some time off for a family thing?”

  Beatriz nodded. “Yeah.”