From the first day I met Ryan, I noticed the tattoo. It wasn’t a name, or a rose, or one of those abstract symbols that people said had a deep meaning.
It was the face of a woman, a detailed portrait. She looked young, perhaps a little over twenty, with dark hair, thoughtful eyes, and a sadness in her expression that never seemed to disappear.
At first, I didn’t say anything. We had just started dating, and I wanted to be the kind of girlfriend who wasn’t threatened by things that existed before she came along.
Every time Ryan wore a tank top, there she was. Every time we went to the beach, she was there. Every time he turned over in bed, there she was.
