I turned toward her.
“What am I missing?”
She hesitated.
Then she asked, “Has he ever told you which tattoo is actually his?”
I frowned.
“They’re all his.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
Brad turned away.
I looked over every visible design again.
The sunflower.
The moon.
The geometric lines.
“What does she mean?”
“Nothing,” Brad said.
“Brad.”
Erin refused to answer for him.
She simply waited.
Finally, Brad reached toward the collar of his T-shirt.
He pulled it sideways just enough to reveal part of his shoulder.
I knew the tattoo there.
I had slept beside it for years.
It was a simple black circle, about the size of the bottom of a coffee mug.
Except the line stopped just before the two ends connected.
I had always assumed whoever made it had failed to finish.
“This one?”
Erin nodded.
“That is the only design Brad ever asked for himself.”
