"I'm trying to remember what it was like with Tom," she said, "if it was that raw, that...explosive. But I can't. I've got bits and pieces, but they're dim, like I'm looking at an old photograph that's aging before my eyes. He's fading, Logan. I can feel it. I've still got the big stuff — his face, his laugh, his voice, the things we did together — but the details are slipping away." Her fingers looped through mine, turning my hand so she could study it. "I can't remember what his hands felt like anymore, what he smelled like, tasted like. All the little things that made him him. Meanwhile you're here and you're so real. I can touch you, I can kiss you. You're filling in those spaces. It terrifies me, the idea that I might lose all of him, but at the same time, a tiny part of me, a little voice swimming in the guilt, is wondering if maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's better if he just fades away. It would make things so much easier."
It sure as hell wasn't healthy, but I understood that compulsion. I'd spent plenty of time myself trying to expunge the past from my head.
"He'll never fade. Not completely. Part of him is going to be with you forever."
"That's what I'm worried about," she replied.
I laced my fingers through hers and gave a gentle squeeze. "I know it hurts, but like anything, the bad stuff has a way of drowning out the good. You obviously had some great times with him. Focus on those. They're what will get you through this."
She didn't seem at the point of tears. Introspective, rather than upset. It was a huge improvement.
"You're right," she replied. "It's just scary."
"Yes, it is."
That seemed to satisfy her. We lay in silence for several minutes. Eventually, her fingers found their way back to my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoos. "You have so many."
I nodded. "I started on my first tour. We had a guy on our base who was a fucking genius with a needle. He runs a tattoo shop somewhere out in LA, now. Originally it was just a way to commemorate people, you know? Kind of got addicted to it though. I've been adding to it ever since."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yeah, it hurts like hell. The ones on my back were the worst. Anywhere that's close to bone." I considered what I was about to say next. It was something I'd never told anyone — part of the long list of shit that probably should have consigned me to the nut house — but she was so open with me, and I felt compelled to be the same way with her. I wanted her to understand me, and that was a compulsion I hadn't had for many years.
"To be honest, the pain is part of the allure. You see a lot of things during war. You do a lot of things. The pain helps. I don't know if that makes sense, but it's true."
"It makes sense," she said. Nothing more to it.
She began studying my skin more intently. At that point, it wasn't really multiple tattoos anymore. Everything had blended together into a single sprawling collage that covered most of my upper body, but there were distinct images within the piece, and her hand began to move between them.
"Ace?" she asked, pausing on the black playing card on my right shoulder.
I nodded.
"What about this?" she asked, fingering a red rose that stretched up the length of my bicep.
"Rosy. Another guy from my platoon."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Rosy?"
"He was young when he started — a nice little Christian boy from a nice little Christian family. He hardened up fast enough, but in the beginning, he wasn't prepared for the sort of shit army guys talk about. It was rare a day went past when something didn't make him blush. And so, Rosy."
She laughed. "That's horrible."
"It's a term of endearment," I replied. I actually found myself smiling too. It had been a long time since I'd thought about that. I needed to follow a little of my own advice. Given all the shit that we'd been through, it was easy to forget that some of my best memories involved those guys. They were gone, but those moments weren't.
I'd never explained my ink to anyone before, not even Fi. She'd remarked on how beautiful it was, but she never asked questions, which meant she didn't really get it. It was more than art. It was personal, intimate. I'd chosen to have these symbols etched onto my body forever, and they were part of who I was. Sharing them was sharing pieces of my soul. I'd have given that to Fi if she'd asked, but the mere fact that she didn't meant that maybe she wasn't worthy. Grace, however, was worthy. She understood the pain behind those symbols. I'd never felt so close to her as I did in that moment.
She continued to explore me, fingers dancing across images of dog tags, sugar skulls, a battlefield cross, before eventually coming to rest on the largest piece, the one that covered both sides of my chest. It was beautiful work; tombstones set in dark soil with a storm brewing behind them on the horizon. "And this?"