Inked Hearts Read online

  More From Lindsay

  Then Comes Love Series

  Then Comes Love

  Where Love Went

  Where Love Went (Holiday Special)

  Lines in the Sand Series

  Inked Hearts

  Wild Hearts

  Standalones

  Remember When

  To Say Goodbye

  Who We Were

  All of You

  Inked Hearts © 2017 by Lindsay Detwiler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Inked Hearts is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: Claire Smith

  ISBN-10: 1-925655-07-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-07-0

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  More from Lindsay

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To all of the women

  looking for themselves

  Chapter One

  Six years, a complex about my freckles, a love for pastrami, and a fear of failure.

  That’s what he gave me before slaughtering my heart and my faith in men.

  To be fair, I’m a bit jaded now, my objectivity overpowered by the vision of him between the sheets with his secretary, Nora. Her perfectly tan body, the blonde hair, him moving on top of her, the look on their faces when I came home early….

  “Focus,” I shout like a crazy person. My mastiff Henry rustles in the back seat, stretched over duffle bags, a few beach towels, and some random household items. I flick on my left turn signal, peering over my shoulder to try to get a clear view of the lane beside me. It’s next to impossible, since my tiny Suzuki’s bogged down by the material contents of my life, or at least those things I deemed worthy enough to carry to the next phase. Always a precarious driver at best, I tell myself to breathe, say a little prayer, and swerve into the lane beside me. Mercifully, it works. We don’t die.

  I adjust my sunglasses on my head, a few flyaway strands of hair sticking to my hot-pink lip gloss and making me wish I opted for plain lips. But a girl changing her life… well, it felt like a pink lip gloss kind of day this morning.

  I drive on, Keith Urban’s songs and Henry’s snoring my only company besides my warped memories and anxiety-ridden thoughts. The sun beats down, a few clouds wispy in the bright sky. It’s a gorgeous day, a day screaming of redemption, of resurrection.

  With nothing but time to think for the last two hours of my drive, my mind wanders to another dark place—the place beyond the bedroom escapades of my ex-husband. It travels to the place of doubt, the place so many family members and friends have played on in the past few weeks.

  “You can start over without moving away,” or, “Are you sure you need to move that far?” or, “Maybe you should just go for a month or something,” seemed to be regular statements. Everyone thinks it’s ludicrous. Women like me don’t do this. Respectable women, introverted women, responsible women. They don’t do this, not even if their husbands cheat on them.

  Sure, they’re on my side. My dad threatened to get out his shotgun and make the bastard pay. My mother droned on and on about how she always knew he was like this—no matter she’d said he was a real keeper on the day of our wedding. Friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, even my garbageman all seemed anxious to jump on the “fuck, you, Chris,” train. They were willing to throw around all types of murderous plots, and I got to see a side of them I didn’t quite know existed.

  But then, the weeks slipped by, and the rage, shock, and hurt of Chris cheating with his secretary faded for everyone else. Then they moved on to urging me to get out of my funk, to forget about him, to move on. I’m only twenty-eight, after all. I’m, in their words, young, vibrant, ready to find love again. Hell, most women don’t even get married until almost thirty these days, they remind me—as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. I could just forget about what happened, pretend he didn’t exist, pretend the marriage didn’t exist. I should stop wallowing in pity and get back to “normal” life, carrying on with my existence here. They think I can just blot him out of my life and continue on like nothing has changed. That I can just substitute in a new man and carry on as “Accountant” Avery as if everything is just peachy.

  Easy for them to say.

  How do you just forget about six years of your life? How do you pretend you aren’t changed, broken by what happened? How do you just slap your heart back together, jolt it, and tell it to forget love hurts? How do you forget about the singed feeling of betrayal, the feeling of not being good enough, the feeling of being deceived? How do you rediscover your belief that love can last forever, when a single moment torched the ideal into dirty ashes? How do you not look at the restaurants and local haunts with a wistful eye, remembering the moments that had built up to a relationship that would only end in scorched hearts?

  In hindsight, there are always warning signs. I’m sure there were at least a few I missed.

  But to hell if I could see them. To hell if I can see them now. Thinking about it, I didn’t see any forlorn looks between Chris and Nora. I didn’t see any distant nights or turned-down passionate evenings. I didn’t see a cold distance growing between us.

  I saw love. Right up until the day I walked in and saw my whole life drown in screams and tears, I was happy with him. I’d thought he’d been happy with me.

  No, it’s not like I can look back and say, “Thank God it’s over. I was tired of it all anyway.” It’s not like our marriage was marked by screaming fights on weeknights and sexless, passionless existences. Our marriage, in retrospect, seemed the thing of fairy tales. Despite the subtle clues I’m sure existed, it all seemed perfect. I felt like our vows were true, like we would remain faithful until death ripped us apart. I thought my marriage would stand the test of time up until the fateful moment when everything fell apart with a single early return home, a single moment, and more than a few “mistakes” on his part.

  As clichéd as it sounds, it felt like the affair fell right out of the sky.

  Now, six years of marriage has disintegrated down to a Suzuki full
of random boxes, a complex for my freckles because he’d always told me it was a sign of sun damage, a love for his favorite food, pastrami, and a broken heart that will never truly be repaired.

  Inhaling, I remind myself to also breathe. Lately, it seems I have to remind myself to do that quite frequently.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, I see the road behind me. The road is paved with love, loss, and quite a few regrets.

  It’s done now, though. Chris moved on, and so will I.

  Not in the way everyone thinks I should, though. I won’t return to my routine, piece back a semblance of the life I had with him. It’s taken me almost a year, but I’ve realized I want something different.

  Everyone’s right. I’m young, although the deepening crow’s feet don’t always make me feel that way. I’m free now, too. I should live it up, be the wild twentysomething I never let myself be as an accountant and as his wife. I’ll let go of the laundry schedule and the dinner by six o’clock ideal. I’ll shake myself out of the pencil skirts and kitten-heeled shoes. I’ll let go of the librarian bun Chris thought was sexy, and the perfect pearl earrings. I’m ready to let that woman go and find a new me, the me I never got a chance to explore.

  I take another breath, almost smelling the salty sea, telling myself I’m ready to make this change, even if it is a little bit crazy.

  “One hundred miles, Henry,” I say as I peer in the rearview mirror. The dog just keeps snoring, his tongue actually hanging out of his loose muzzle and flopping on the seat. I smile.

  Just one hundred more miles until I am no longer Avery, Chris’s wife. One hundred more miles until I am no longer the scorned wife, the poor Avery who never saw it coming. One hundred more miles until I am no longer the fifty-hour work weeks in the office, family dinner on Sunday, laundry on Friday night Avery.

  One hundred more miles until I am the new Avery, the woman I’ve always wanted to be but was too afraid of. One hundred more miles until I’m a brand-new woman without a past to haunt her, without pitying stares and questioning looks. One hundred miles until I break out of the perfect square constructed for my life. One hundred miles until I start fresh with new people, with a new town, with a new life. Only Henry knows my past, and I don’t think he’s telling anyone anything.

  And the first thing I vow to myself in this new version of life?

  I won’t let a man change that again. I won’t let a man control me, own my heart. I’ll live for myself this time, wild and free, a girl of the unpredictable wind.

  Chapter Two

  My car screeches to a halt in the single open parking space behind the building. I check my phone again, ensuring the GPS is correct.

  Yep, this is it. Home sweet home.

  I try not to be too judgy as I stare at the peeling, vomit-green siding and the crooked sign in front of the Oceanview Apartments.

  It’s a small building filled with several living units. The website described it as “seaside sophistication at an affordable price.”

  I’m seeing affordable, but not much sophistication, especially considering the pink flamingo on the front lawn. Still, my new roommate—whom I also found online—insists the place is charming and within walking distance of so many of Ocean City’s great places. She said there are plenty of places to work nearby. Plus, it accepts pets of all sizes, which is a good thing since Henry is over two hundred pounds. Life changers can’t be choosers, I suppose.

  My online search for a roommate was one of the major reasons my parents weren’t so happy with my midtwenties crisis decision. I have a feeling one look at the external aspects of the Oceanview Apartments and they definitely wouldn’t be fans.

  “What if she’s a serial killer?” Mom had shrieked when I told her about Jodie.

  “Mom, look at her. Does she look like the serial-killing type?” I’d asked, showing her the picture of the redhead with an adorable pixie cut and perfectly white teeth.

  “Well, you don’t even know that’s what she’ll look like.”

  “Mom, really. It’s fine. I’ve scoped her out.”

  She’d huffed, then given me nine hundred more reasons why this was a terrible idea. The inner teenager in me just liked it more and more as she kept talking.

  If I’m being honest now, the butterflies in my stomach support my mom’s fears that this is a mistake. Moving a state away, packing up my life into my old car and starting over, seems ridiculous. Finding a roommate online, coming here with no job, with no real plan—what was I thinking? The plan I made two months ago suddenly doesn’t seem like a plan at all.

  I barely know anything about this Jodie other than she needs a new roommate, she’s a writer, and she loves the color purple, since all of her e-mails were in purple fonts.

  Not too much to base a trusting roommate relationship on, I know.

  It’s too late now. I’ve made up my mind. It’s time to see it through, serial killer or not.

  “You ready to see our new home, Henry?” He just keeps snoring.

  I get out of the car, finding Henry’s leash on the passenger side floor beside a crumpled-up empty bag from McDonald’s. I open the back door, a few boxes precariously falling as I do. I leave them, figuring I’ll get them later. Henry sluggishly makes his way out of the car, stretching his stiff joints like an old man, and I hook up his leash.

  I push my sunglasses higher on my nose, breathing in the salty air. We’re a few blocks back from oceanfront, but I can hear the waves above the honking sounds of the cars. The humid air assaults my face and the wind causes my hair to stick to my lip gloss again, but I can’t feel anything but happiness. This might be crazy. This might be a terrible idea. This might be completely out of character for the logical, rational accountant who has sticky notes on every surface of her office to plan out the month.

  But with the beach waves in the background and the sun beaming down on me, I only feel one thing.

  Free.

  Henry pants dramatically already. Never one for the heat, this might not be his first choice of locale to move to. Still, there’s a decent square of yard with each property, something tough to come by in a city dominated by concrete and sand. Plus, Jodie has air conditioners, a true plus.

  We make our way to apartment 104, the one Jodie lives in. Correction—the one I now live in.

  Her old roommate apparently got married and moved away, leaving her in a bind. She was happy to find someone so quickly. I’ll admit, living with a roommate seems odd at this stage in life. I have some money in savings but don’t want to bite into it all at once, especially with my current career status unknown. Plus, I don’t like the idea of living alone. I guess I’ve watched way too many Dateline specials. Of course, if I listen to Mom, I’ll end up on a two-hour special anyway.

  We saunter to the front door and ring the doorbell. I slide my sunglasses to the top of my head, realizing what a momentous few minutes this will be. I’m actually doing it. I’m actually changing my life. Here goes nothing.

  The door flies open, as if on cue.

  “Hi,” a voice squeals with such animation, I instantly feel like I’m royalty.

  Jodie is just as cute as the picture, her red hair framing her petite features. Her smile, though, is bigger than life, and despite her tiny frame, she seems to own the space, to own life with her personality.

  I don’t even have time to respond. She’s wrapping her arms around me, hugging it out. I return the hug, not really expecting this type of welcome.

  “This must be Henry, huh? Hey, big guy.” Jodie crouches down, rubbing Henry’s muzzle. His tail wags methodically, and before I can stop him, he’s putting his paw on her shoulder, knocking her to the ground, and planting a huge, sloppy kiss on her.

  “Oh my God, Henry, stop. I’m so sorry, he’s usually better behaved than this,” I rush to say, feeling like my new roommate is already going to evict us.

  She just giggles loudly. “I love him already,” she says, petting his head as he slurps her cheek, causing her to gigg
le even louder. I quickly pull him back, letting her stand up and brush herself off.

  I’m not really sure what to say, but Jodie doesn’t wait for me to feel awkward. “Well, are you coming in? It’s home now. Better get in here and make it yours.”

  I smile, following her inside, knowing I already like her warmth. No serial killer vibes happening yet, which is a good thing.

  Check one off Mom’s ridiculously long worry list.

  I take in the interior. It’s… artsy. Huge abstract paintings hang everywhere. There’s a really neat log coffee table in the center of the living room area, papers spewing out of every inch of the surface. It’s definitely warm and inviting, just like Jodie, but also a bit disheveled. This girl’s not a clean freak, which is okay by me.

  This looks like the space to let go of some of my type A tendencies. It’ll be good for me, I think, although inside, I do wonder how long until it’s appropriate for me to rearrange the furniture in the room, because the layout isn’t really making sense.

  Before I can think about it too much, though, Henry’s yanking on the leash. I try to assess the situation, to gain control, but before I know it, the leash is out of my hands, and Henry is barking and running inside the apartment.

  “Henry,” I say again, terrified he’s going to break something. Online, I’d told Jodie Henry was super well-behaved. Yeah, not really looking that way.

  “Sebastian! Come here, baby. Stop teasing him.”

  I see a flash of fluffy gray running, Henry chasing after it, his tail and leash knocking down papers and knickknacks.

  I try to stop him, chasing in a pointless, endless circle. It’s hopeless, and I have visions of the entire apartment being destroyed.

  The fluffy gray ball of fur named Sebastian finally perches on a shelf up high in the living room. Henry sits below him, barking. I shush him, and he mercifully obeys, but not before emitting a tiny-dog-style whine.

  “I am so sorry again,” I say, grabbing my head. “I didn’t realize you had a cat. Henry’s never been around them. I’m so sorry.”