Part 1No Blossoms Here

The fifth spring since our divorce.

Julian and I met again in a tattoo studio.

He was there to touch up his lover's name over his heart.

I was there to cover the old scars on my wrist.

Years had passed. We stared at each other, speechless.

After a long silence, Julian opened his mouth to speak, but a small hand tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"Daddy," a little boy said, looking at me with curiosity. "Who is she?"

* * *

The island breeze stirred the wind chimes on the porch, shattering the prolonged quiet.

"I'm a customer," I said. "Just like your dad. Here for a tattoo."

The little boy tilted his head. "Do you know my daddy?"

"Leo," Julian's voice was sharp. The boy pouted and fell silent.

"No," I answered him anyway. "We're strangers."

Julian's expression darkened.

The owner tapped the counter, his gaze shifting between us. "Who's first?"

Julian, who had been leaning against the bar, stood up straight. He looked at me, his eyes fixed. "She is."

He was wearing a white linen shirt and silver-gray trousers, the top buttons undone, revealing a well-defined chest. On his left breast, an English name was tattooed, partially obscured. I couldn't see it clearly, but I knew whose name it was.

Even though, when we divorced, that name had yet to be etched over his heart.

"First come, first served," I said, my tone polite but distant. "You were here first, sir. Please, go ahead."

Before Julian could reply, his phone vibrated. I caught a glimpse of the screen. The caller ID read: "Wife."

He killed the screen and his first instinct was to look at me. I turned and walked to a quiet booth in the lounge area.

Behind me, I heard the little boy's excited voice. "Is that Mommy calling?"