Page 20 of Dirty Ink

I slurped at the coffee like it could sober me up. Like sobering up would give me clarity. Like I wasn’t already ready to leave that burger joint and find another bar. Another drink. Another shot of whiskey. Another chance to go back. To be back.

“Tell you what?” I said, probably slurring. Definitely not caring.

It was kind of nice actually. With Tim I had to watch what I said. How I said it. When I said it. Decorum was important, not feeling. I had my role to play. Innocent. Sweet. Someone, something to be saved. It was kind of nice to curse at Mason. To grumble and complain and annoy Mason. To be hurt and confused and loud and filthy. To be honest.

“Look, does this place sell beer?” I asked before Mason could answer, craning over my shoulder to spy the waitress and her “don’t fuck with me” eyes. “Or something stronger? Anything stronger?”

“Tell me something,” Mason repeated, still playing with the mess on the table.

“You already said that.”

“Tell me how you found out,” he said.

I was sober enough to realise that I’d walked into a trap. And drunk enough to not really know how in the hell to get out of it.

Mason’s eyes darted up to mine and I saw: he knew there was an answer there. Maybe an answer he’d been avoiding since the very moment I told him that we’d been married this whole time. Maybe an answer he feared. Maybe an answer he didn’t really want to hear. An answer the whiskey made him want to hear. Or stupid enough to hear.

A trap, a trap, my mind was shouting. No way out, no way out, my heart was pounding.

“How did I…?” I asked stupidly, buying time even though it was pointless.

There was only one reason why someone would find out that they were secretly and unexpectedly married. It was, of course, the only reason I found out: I was trying to marry someone else.

I knew this. But did Mason? Was that why he’d waited so long to ask? Was that why he’d asked it with just a dart of the eyes at me? Was that why he wasn’t looking at me any longer, but circling his finger round and round in the spilled coffee which was dripping now off the edge of the table?

“How did you find out that we were married,” Mason answered. Softly. Almost sadly.

His eyes darted again to mine when I remained silent. Silent too long. The answer hanging there between us. The answer I didn’t want to speak. The answer it seemed Mason didn’t want to hear.

But it was stupid, wasn’t it? It was silly. I should just come out and say it: I’m engaged to someone else, Mason. He provides for me. He’s there for me. He wants to marry me. His name is Tim. JoJo’s voice came into my head as I stared across the booth at Mason, And you love him…right? Why didn’t I just say it? Why couldn’t I just say it? I love Tim, Mason. I love the man I am engaged to be married to. I love him and I want to marry him and that is how I found out that we were, all this time, all this long time, tied to one another.

The dripping coffee marked out the passing seconds which grew longer and slower.

Shit. I didn’t want to tell Mason the truth. I didn’t want him to know that I was engaged. That this was how I found out, in the process of marrying someone else.

“That’s a stupid question,” I said, because I was angry. Angry at myself. Angry at the situation. Angry that I didn’t have a way out. “That’s a really fucking stupid question, Mason.”

This made him laugh. Angrily. Bitterly. Drunkenly. I wasn’t sure. He laughed and he looked up at me and he crossed his own arms petulantly across his chest.

“Yeah?” he said in that Irish accent that undid me. “Yeah, and why is that, Rachel?”

“Because it is,” I said.

I sounded stupid. Didn’t we all when we were desperate? When we were cornered?

“Were you always this immature?” Mason asked, laughing again, which made me want to lunge across the table and throttle him.

“Did you always ask such stupid questions?” I answered.

“Tell me why it’s a stupid question,” Mason said. “How about you do that, Rachel? Tell me why it’s a stupid question. Prove to me it’s a stupid question.”

He knew. I was sure of it. From the way he was looking at me. The diner was silent except for the drip, drip, drip of the coffee.

I could hear him over the silence. I could hear his accusations. His indignation. His stupid hurt which wasn’t fair at all. At fucking all. He destroyed what we had. Not me. So why did I fucking care? Why did I care if he knew?

Why did I want so fucking much for him not to know?

My voice was raised as I said, “Because it’s obvious.”

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