The Moon Chose Me Twice
This is what we do. We fight, we fuck, and we pretend it's fixed. He rips his shirt over his head, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the silence. And I freeze. My hands, which were reaching for him, stop. There. Coiling over his ribs, wrapping around his side, crawling up toward his heart, is an identical replica of Madilyn’s tattoo. "Charlie," he breathes, but it doesn't sound like his voice. His hands are rough, grabbing my hips. One hand slides, pressing hard against my stomach. No. The baby. My baby.