once and for all. Never again would I be able to post whatever my wicked heart desired for him to read and then coquettishly dance around the subject like we both didn’t know exactly what was going on. The jig was up.
Fucking asshole. I had a good thing going!
But you know what pissed me off even more, Journal? Realizing that I’d been beating my head against a wall for years trying to get this man to express his feelings for me, throwing every behavior mod tactic in the book at him, when all I needed to do that whole time was tell him not to get a tattoo!
Ken really does have oppositional defiant disorder!
Why didn’t I think to use reverse psychology sooner?
That shit works every time, God damnit!
I wanted to honor the breakthrough I had earlier by announcing that I didn’t need him to get a tattoo or compliment me or give me a pet name anymore because that’s not who he was and I was going to venerate that. I wanted to prove that I really had grown and was no longer seeking validation that I was lovable or attractive from him or anyone else.
But I couldn’t do it. Seeing the sexiest, most infuriating man I’d ever laid eyes on standing before me, offering me the only thing I’d ever wanted—visible permanent proof of his love—was simply too irresistible.
Like a recovering addict to a crack pipe, all the progress I’d made during my spell of soul-searching went up in a puff of smoke. Giddy effervescence exploded through my veins. The sour, churning acid in my stomach was replaced by delightful little butterflies, and the seal of my tight, angry lips broke open to reveal a stupid shit-eating grin that I could no longer suppress.
I wanted to do the right thing, I really did, but I was so high on the prospect of finally getting my way that I let my worst character flaw—the Selfish Only Child—take over.
Salivating over the smooth, warm fleshy canvas of Ken’s right hand, I pulled the cap off the calligraphy pen with my teeth and set to work. I didn’t glance up at him even once, for fear of what I might find, of what I knew was already there—disapproval and obligation.
Instead, I let my second worst character flaw—perfectionism—take the wheel. My attention was fixed solely on the placement and precision of every swoop and halt. Time ceased to exist. It was just me and the ink and the rapture of watching a fantasy eleven years in the making coming true before my very eyes.
An errant tear landed on the back of Ken’s hand, missing my masterpiece by a hair’s breadth. It was done. It was glorious. It was everything.
In my mind, I’d always fantasized about seeing my name broadcast to the world in an old school heart and banner, but in a moment of inspiration, I’d decided to go with a traditional compass rose, the only tattoo motif Ken had ever admitted to liking. Only, on this compass, instead of the letters N, S, E, and W, every direction was labeled with a tiny B.
Because where Ken goes, I go.
It was exquisite. It was masculine. It was Ken. And most importantly, it was me.
Peeking up at Ken through my lashes, I held my breath, crossed my fingers, and waited, every muscle tensed, for his reaction. Ken removed his hand from mine just long enough to turn it toward himself and assess the damage.
Oh God, please like it. Please, please like it. Look! I didn’t even draw a heart! It’s a compass, just like you wanted! See how selfless I am? It’s like I was channeling Gandhi!
Ken raised one eyebrow, followed by the opposite corner of his beautifully chiseled mouth. I couldn’t tell for sure if he actually liked what he saw or was simply amused by it.
Without saying a word, Ken gently placed his hand back in mine and let his default mask of detachment slide back into place. With his left hand, he picked my phone up from the nightstand and offered it to me, finally looking me in the eyes but giving nothing away.
Hypnotized by Ken’s guarded stare, I slowly accepted the phone.
Confused, I asked, “Wh-what’s this for? Do you want me to call the tattoo parlor?”
Ken’s face softened a bit, but there was a smart-ass twinkle in his eye that told me I wasn’t going to like what came next.
“No. I just thought you might want to take a picture of