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“It’s the best one I have right now.”

He nods as if he understands, but I have come to realize that with Vero it probably only means he understands how he has interpreted the answer.

“That one.” He points to a flower on the inside of my forearm. “What does that mean?”

I remember when I got it, and why flowers mean nothing to me as an apology.

“Someone once gave me flowers, and I thought it meant something, but it didn’t. I got this to remind myself not to read into things.”

“That’s really sad.”

“It was a life lesson.”

“Still sad.” He doesn’t push anymore; instead, he moves to where the colors get brighter around my elbow. “This one?”

“I just liked it.”

“So it has no meaning?”

“Not everything has a story.”

“Everything has a story,” he says with complete seriousness. “Even when people say it doesn’t.”

I look up at the ceiling. He isn’t wrong, and I hate being called out. “My mom hated it when I started getting them,” I say. It’s not the full story, but it’s a piece. “She thought it meant that I was throwing my life away. Every new one was an argument until eventually I stopped telling her and got them anyway.”

“Did that make it better or worse?”

“Easier,” I tell him. “Not better.”

He nods, but doesn’t ask questions about my mom, and I appreciate that. My family is not a subject I am ready to talk about.

“What about this one?” He taps my shoulder.

“That took three sessions and hurt like hell.”

“But why did you get it?”

I turn my head to look at him, finding he is watching me with those big brown eyes that make me want to spill all my trauma. “Because I wanted something that I couldn’t hide,” I say, which is a half-truth. The reality is I got it the week I finally left Aaron, and I wanted it somewhere I could always see it. A reminder that I had done something that scared me and survived. But that’s way more than I am ready to reveal about myself.

He seems to understand and doesn’t push for more. He lies beside me and traces the lines of my tattoos without saying anything else.

The door opens and Brawley walks into the room. He takes us in, and his eyes move to me and stay there.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Brawley replies, still staring at me.

I hold his gaze.

He is quiet for so long that Vero tilts his head to look at him, and Brawley looks his way. Something silent passes between them, and Brawley glances back at me and sighs.

“When it comes to him, I don’t think clearly. I haven’t been able to since the day we met, and that isn’t going to change.” I get it; this is not new information. “I know what you mean to him, and I’ve watched what it does to him when you are around and when you aren’t. Especially in this last week. And I don’t actually hate having you around.”

Vero sniffles, and Brawley rolls his eyes.

“There is food downstairs,” he says, ignoring Vero. Then he turns and walks back out the door, and I listen to his footsteps as they disappear down the hall.

“Are you crying?” I ask as Vero buries his head in my shoulder.