The Awakening (The Dragon Heart Legacy #1) - Nora Roberts Page 0,17
That comes first. Oh.” Breen wagged her spoon. “She disapproved of the hair, and it hit me as I was walking—and walking—I got my hair from my father. Bright red and curly. So maybe it’s too much of a reminder, but you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s my damn hair, and she’s supposed to love me as I am. So she can just get the hell over it.”
“That’s the way.” His quick grin turned to distress as he grabbed her hand. “What did you do? You hurt yourself.”
“Oh, well, not exactly.” Hastily, she picked up her wine again while Marco shoved up her sleeve to examine the bandage over her wrist.
“What exactly?”
“I was so mad. I walked right by the bus stop, then the next bus stop. I was going over and over the whole argument again in my head. It was so insulting, Marco, on top of it all, just insulting. And I remember how I used to take ballet, and how I loved it.”
“You looked really cute in your leotard and tights.”
“I had such fun with it, and Dad called me his Tiny Dancer, and when he left . . . She said we couldn’t really afford the lessons anymore, but I shouldn’t be sad because I was only average. I’d already gotten all I could get out of the lessons—the poise, the posture. She’d manage the piano lessons for another year, but that was all.”
“You never told me.”
“It hurt so much. It wasn’t as if I had any illusions about becoming a prima ballerina—or not since I was about seven. I knew I was only average, but I loved it—the dancing, practicing with our little troupe, being a part of it. Doesn’t matter now, and not the point. It’s just that I remembered that, and other things. And I remembered I never fought back, never stood up for myself. And it made me mad all over again.”
“So you cut your wrist?”
“I didn’t cut my wrist. I was walking and thinking of all the times I gave in, didn’t fight. And I saw this sign. Express You. And wasn’t that what I needed to do? Express me? So I went in, and . . .”
She puffed out her cheeks, blew out air.
“Jesus my ass, Breen. You got a tattoo!”
“It was impulse. It was temper. It was revenge or something. And by the time I calmed down, it was too late to stop.”
“What’d you get? Lemme see! Why didn’t you text me to come? We would’ve gotten one together. That was the plan.”
“We never had a tattoo plan.”
“We would have if you’d ever said you wanted one. What is it? When can you take the bandage off?”
“It’s not really a bandage, and I can take it off now. I started to get it on my biceps, then I thought no, if I have it on my wrist, I can turn it over and look at it whenever I need it. Which is more stupid.”
She took the protective gauze off, turned up her right wrist.
“It’s beautiful lettering, like what they carved in old stones, and I like the color—dark, dark green that’s almost black but isn’t. But what the hell is misneach?”
“It’s pronounced ‘misnaw.’ It’s Irish for ‘courage’—I looked it up. And it’s your fault I have a tattoo on my wrist.”
He had her hand, turning it this way, that way, his big, beautiful eyes examining each letter. “How’s it my fault?”
“It’s what you texted me just as my mother got home. Courage. It’s what I needed, and it’s what I thought of when I saw that damn sign.”
“I’m taking the credit because this is so cool. Let’s go back tomorrow so I can get one. No, wait. I’ll get one in Ireland—cooler yet. And you can get another.”
“I don’t think I’m up for another. You go right ahead.”
“Did it hurt?”
“I was too mad to notice, then yeah, some when I came back down. By then, too late. Maybe I am irresponsible.”
“You are not. You made a statement. I love it. Why don’t you come into work with me, show it off?”
“I’m going to stay right here, do my lesson plans. And I’m going to start looking for a cottage for rent in County Galway.”
“We’re really doing it.”
“We’re really doing it.” She turned her wrist over, thought: Courage.
Dutifully, as Breen believed in duty, she went to school every morning and did her best. She graded papers, found some satisfaction when she saw some improvement in certain students.