“When did you get it?”
“Six months ago.” His voice was flat. “I should’ve told you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
I finally lowered myself into a chair.
“When did you get it?”
“Ashamed of what? Of missing him? Harold, he was your best friend for over 20 years.”
“That’s what I told myself.”
“What does that mean?”
He sat across from me, placing both hands flat on the table as though preparing himself for something.
“It means I got the tattoo because I loved him. He asked me to get it when we were teens, and I refused because I was a coward. And then he was gone, and I wanted to give him the yes I owed him.”
“Ashamed of what?”
My boss’s voice broke, and I looked away.
“That’s why Mia thought it was him. She used to trace Mike’s tattoo every night before bed.”
