Patty bought a case of beer and lugged it home. She was tiny but a lot stronger than she looked. Even so, her muscles ached by the time she unlocked the door and staggered out of the storm.
The iPad was singing to her when she came in, though Patty didn’t remember turning it on before she left. Didn’t matter. It was good stuff, and with all those singers it meant that she didn’t have to drink alone. The beer was cold and the first sip was better than any kiss she’d ever had. Adele was singing “Set Fire to the Rain,” which always killed her.
Patty raised her bottle to the storm outside. “You can kiss my ass.”
And sang along with the brokenhearted lyrics.
As she lowered the bottle, Patty saw the tattoo on the back of her left hand. Where he’d touched her. The spot she had rubbed and rubbed and rubbed with her thumb until it was so red the image looked faded. The image—the tattoo—which she’d inked there herself years ago in a conspicuous spot so she could not get through a day, not an hour, without catching a glimpse.
Of her.
Of Tuyet.
Sometimes seeing the sweet little face made her smile.
Sometimes it drove a spike of ice into her heart.
Now…?
She raised the bottle and took a very long pull.
“Mommy loves you,” she said softly.