He nodded. He wasn’t sure what to think. He couldn’t square his emotions for his dad with his mom’s harsh criticisms of the man, whom he idealized for the same reasons she divorced him: a daydreamer with more ideas than finished projects, a cosmic view of life that didn’t lend itself to the practical needs of a family. But a good heart. A better heart than hers.

He took her hand and led it to a smaller tattoo of an umbrella inside his elbow. “This is for my sister,” he said. “She’s my half-sister. Her name’s Angela. She’s seven. She’s back home with my mom.” The umbrella was a symbol of what he wanted to be for her. He didn’t bother explaining the arm band because he couldn’t remember why he got it. It was one of those impulse decisions when he was drinking and the tattoo artist didn’t care as long as he got paid.

“How’d you get this one?” he asked, indicating a fading slash of pink near the underside of her breast. Brian wondered if the nerve endings were numb. He ran his thumb up and down the mark. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he lowered his mouth and softly kissed the swell of her breast above the cloth.

The backs of his fingers slipped slow and easy from Valerie's ribs to the curve of her hip, where he clutched her through the jeans. His fingers squeezed her belt to expend energy without subjecting her to it.