Page 74 of Dirty Ink

Rachel said, “Good God.”

Conor groaned. “I knew I should have had more whiskey.”

Aurnia whimpered, “No one answered.”

The mood of the room plummeted as the four of us remained frozen in the entryway. All of us stared at the big banner hung on the opposite wall that declared in big bold letters that Aurnia had obviously painted herself: Happy Engagement/Marriage/Wedding Party Rachel and Mason! Balloons bounced round our feet and then stilled. Hands extended up into the air in excitement lowered awkwardly. A few people cleared their throats.

I suppose it was obvious on Rachel’s face and mine that this was not a time for celebration.

“The whole cab ride back I tried to get ahold of someone to tell them to cancel it,” Aurnia explained in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I really thought I could convince you two. To, I don’t know, try again… You know, because of me and Conor and… I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I glanced at Rachel, who was staring at her feet. She lifted her eyes to mine and there wasn’t the anger that had been there just a few seconds earlier. I drew Aurnia to me and ruffled her hair.

“Squirt, you wanted to throw a party and that is never something that should be apologised for,” I said, holding her cheeks, squishing them together. “I assume you have booze?”

From the kitchen I heard Declan shout, “Enough to tranquillise a zoo.”

“And a drug or two?” I asked Aurnia next.

Her response was to shift her eyes to Rian hunched over his canvas in the corner of the room. That was answer enough.

For the past two weeks Rian had been obsessively drawing the same mysterious young woman with that thick, dark hair and eyes that wouldn’t leave you. He drew her on every conceivable surface: paper, canvas, the margins of the magazines littered about for waiting customers. I even found her face in the tattoos he did. He insisted she was real. But he also insisted that she visited him in his dreams. And that her soul tasted like autumn on the tip of his tongue, so…

“Music?” I asked.

Diarmuid, Aurnia’s JLO, said, “I brought some records.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Good music,” I clarified.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Danny, lead guitarist of The Untouchables and reliable source of good music, said.

I drew Aurnia into my side, one arm over her shoulder. “Now all we need is someone to tear that sign down.”

A pair of hands reached up to yank down the sign. I extended my hand to Rachel, who took it reluctantly.

In a loud voice, I said, “Hello everyone, thank you for coming to this wonderful party arranged by Aurnia here.”

A couple cheers went up, Conor’s the loudest of them.

“Rachel and I are so happy to see you all, as you could probably tell by our tears and big, big smiles.”

Some laughter.

“We’re really looking forward to celebrating with you all our big ol’ wonderful, life-changing, fantastic, best-thing-that-will-ever-happen-to-us…divorce!”

This declaration was met, perhaps unsurprisingly, with a resounding awkward silence. Everyone looked from neighbour to neighbour. It was clear that some thought it was a joke. They were waiting for the punchline. Well, me fucking too!

Just when the silence was getting too much to bear, Rachel stepped forward and said, “So who’s getting me a shot?”

An arm extended from the semicircle of friends with an open bottle of Jameson. Rachel took it, turned, and lifted it up as she smiled at me.

“To our divorce, baby.”

Everyone watched, still stunned and confused, as Rachel tipped the bottle back, guzzled it, and then wiped her hand across her shimmering mouth. Her eyes sparked as she glared across the parlour at me. She dared me to challenge her. Dared me to say something.

I gritted my teeth and lifted my arms.

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