Fear.
My heartbeat pounded. “Are you okay?” I asked.
For several long seconds, she said nothing. Then she looked past me toward the bakery entrance, as though checking to see if someone was watching.
When she finally answered, her voice was barely audible.
I nodded. Somehow her expression grew even worse. The fear remained, but now another emotion appeared.
Sadness.
“Is he okay?”
The question caught me completely off guard. I had expected denial. Maybe embarrassment. I had never expected concern.
“He’s fine.”
The woman briefly closed her eyes. Relief crossed her face. Then she looked at me again.
I swallowed because suddenly this conversation felt far more complicated than I had imagined.
“Because my husband has your face tattooed on his shoulder.”
For several seconds she simply stared at me. Then she slowly lowered herself into the nearest chair.
“Ryan did what?”
My heart skipped a beat.
She slowly shook her head.
“No.”
Neither of us spoke for several moments. Then she looked down at her coffee.
“If Ryan still hates me,” she said quietly, “I understand.”
The sentence fit none of the scenarios I had imagined. Hates her? If she had been an ex, maybe. If she had broken his heart, perhaps. But then why tattoo her face onto his shoulder?
“How do you know him?” I asked.
A sad smile crossed her face. “I knew him a long time ago.”
That was not an answer. Before I could ask more, she stood.
“I should go.”
“Wait.”
“Who are you?”
For a moment I thought she might finally explain. Instead, she shook her head.
“That’s a conversation you need to have with your husband.”
Then she turned and walked away.
The entire drive home, my thoughts spiraled. Ex-girlfriend. Childhood friend. The daughter of family friends.
Because none of those explanations fit all the pieces. Not the tattoo. Not the lies. And certainly not the fear I had seen in her eyes.
By the time I reached our driveway, I was worked up. Ryan was sitting on the porch. The moment he saw me, he smiled.
I did not smile back.
His expression changed immediately. “What happened?”
I walked directly toward him.
“I met her.”
For a second, Ryan simply stared at me. Then all the color drained from his face. It was not guilt. It was not panic over being discovered.
It was fear.
The exact same fear I had seen in the bakery.
“Who?” he asked.
“You know who.”
Ryan looked as though I had struck him. For several seconds he remained silent.
Then, “You talked to her?”
I folded my arms.
“Interesting choice of words.”
He ignored the comment.
“Did she seem okay?”
The question hit me like a slap. Not “What did she say?” Not “How did you find her?” Not “What happened?”
“Did she seem okay?”
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face. He looked exhausted, defeated, almost resigned.
“Her name is Sloane.”
At least now she had a name.
“Who is she?”
