Page 88 of Dirty Ink

“Yeah,” Mason said, squeezing my hand. Gently not murderously. “We had a nice long talk and really worked some stuff out.”

Also a lie. We worked out some stress, sure. Going at it all night, I’m sure we worked out some calories, too. But the closest we got to a nice long talk was the nice long groans we purred into each other’s ears as we rocked together on the bed. Me on top. Mason on top. Both on our sides. Him behind me. Me flipped over on top of him…it was a nice long list. Did that count?

Mason and I smiled at each other like we believed everything we said to be true. I guess we’d been doing that from the start, though. Believing we’d spend the rest of our lives together when we said it within an hour of meeting. Believing we were meant for each other when all we were meant for was a killer, brutal hangover. Believing that anything would last past the week like we ourselves could stop the dying of a star.

“So my party was a good idea after all,” Aurnia said, more to Conor than to us.

Conor rolled his eyes. “They were all over other people the whole night,” he said. “I wouldn’t exactly call that a success, baby.”

“But it forced them to see what they really wanted,” Aurnia insisted. “I mean, who they really wanted.”

Her beaming smile was so charming as her sparkling eyes danced between the two of us. She lifted her glass of wine and proposed a toast.

“To talking it out!”

The clinking of glasses masked the obvious lie in Mason’s and my voice. Or maybe there was nothing to conceal, nothing to hide.

I raised my glass to my lips. Maybe Mason and I just “talked” in a different way. Maybe our bodies could communicate what words couldn’t. Maybe we didn’t need to open our mouths except to claim lips, to wrap around cocks, to sink our teeth into that sensitive skin at the crook of the neck.

Maybe things swept under the carpet could stay under the carpet.

Because the truth was I was enjoying myself. The truth was my role as wife was feeling less and less like a role. With each passing day I felt less like a travelling stranger in this town and more and more like someone who belonged.

I knew how to get around the neighbourhood not like an actor knows how to get around a stage (stage left, stage right, exit left, exit right), but like someone who doesn’t even think. Who just finds themselves where they meant to be. Who doesn’t even realise they’d left the loft till they were putting away the groceries in the kitchen, black liquorice for the husband, peanut M&Ms for the wife.

Aurnia was chattering on about plans for a group vacation, and I found myself nodding along like it was actually something that could be in my future.

“And in August there’s a gallery opening in Marseilles,” she said, eagerly slurping up her spaghetti. “The artist is incredible, like really incredible, right, Conor? And I mean, we can get like a little beach house and bicycle to the gallery, don’t you think? And Rachel, you and I can check out the shops. Doesn’t that sound lovely. I mean, we’ll have to take Rian, of course. He’ll be a bit of a fifth wheel, but I’m fairly certain that girl he keeps drawing is his imaginary friend anyway, so we’ll just count it as six!”

August. August! The plan was to leave in a week. There I was nodding along to plans in August. With the Dublin Ink family. With Mason. What was worse was that I could imagine it all. I saw a whitewashed stone villa with a view of the sea. I saw ripe tomatoes sliced atop thick slabs of buffalo mozzarella. I saw painting Aurnia’s toes on the balcony. I saw fucking Mason on the sand beneath the moonlight, quick because the dawn was coming. I saw getting high with Rian. Getting drunk with Conor. I saw my tongue at the corner of my mouth, eyebrows furled in concentration, as Aurnia tried to teach me how to draw. I even saw the balled-up paper of my thousandth failure soaring out the window onto the avenue below. I heard Mason’s amused chuckle.

And I liked it. I liked it all.

“I’m going to get ice cream every single day,” I said, sipping my wine. “Chocolate churros for breakfast every morning. A shit ton of tapas for lunch. And paella. And for dinner, dinner every day, ice cream. And I’m going to get fat and you’re going to have to roll me back to Dublin at the end.”

I felt Mason’s eyes on me. I could sense his hesitation. His uncertainty. I could practically hear his inner thoughts: what the fuck is she on about? Day 30 is just around the corner. But then Mason was slinging his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him in a warm embrace.

“Or we’ll just stay forever in Marseilles,” he said, smiling along with everyone (yes, even Conor cracked the teeniest, tiniest smile for our gratification). “The five of us.”

“Six of us!” Aurnia interjected, laughing.

It was ridiculous really. We started mentioning dates. We went over budgets. We discussed what we would do with the shop. Close for a week? Find someone to cover the place? Oh, someone named Tommy could come over and do some tattoos while we were gone. He was fantastic. No, no, really good. Our clients would love him.

I mean, I should have laughed at it all. Because this wasn’t my life. Dublin Ink. The boys. Little Aurnia. Mason. My life was back in New York. Those were the streets I knew. I had JoJo’s toes to paint. If I wanted to learn to draw, I was certain she could teach me. I didn’t need an amused chuckle from my husband when I chucked a balled-up piece of paper out the window. Besides, it was littering. That’s what Tim would say. And he would be right, of course. He was always right. He was good for me. I behaved myself around him. I kept myself in line. I didn’t order another bottle of wine for the table when we all clearly didn’t need it just because I wanted the good times to keep going.

Because I wanted to hear more about the life I could have in Dublin. Because I wanted to dream Aurnia’s dreams. Because I wanted to believe it could all be real, if just for a little longer.

“And listen, Rachel, if you need work over here, I’m sure we can find a place for you at Dublin Ink,” Conor said. “Or Noah at The Jar is always looking for good staff. You’ve already met Candace…”

I don’t know if it was the whiskey that warmed him to me or Mason’s arm still around my shoulders, but I liked that, too.

“Oh, well,” Mason said, “Rachel actually has a new role back in—”

I interrupted him with a hand on his knee.

“A new role in Dublin,” I said ridiculously, stupidly. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the fantasy. I added, knowing Mason’s eyes were on me, “I mean, that’s what I’d want. Is to find a role here. As a dancer maybe. Or a singer. And I act. I mean, I—”

“She can do everything,” Mason said. “She’s intoxicating on any stage.”

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