Page 23 of Dirty Ink
But Mason heard.
“What?” he asked.
Was it hope I heard? Or was it hope that I wished to hear?
I looked up at Mason like I was coming out of a daze. The answer was so obvious. So simple. I’d almost missed it. Almost completely missed it.
“It’s a stupid question,” I said, all my confidence and bravado surging back, “because I never ‘found out’.”
Mason stared at me warily. Mistrustfully maybe. I was sure he wanted to trust me. Almost sure.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
I flipped my hair over my shoulder and raised my chin. “Are you telling me that you don’t remember our wedding?”
Mason hesitated a moment. Then he scoffed.
“Are you telling me you do?” he asked.
Again mistrust. Again hope. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe.
“Of course I remember getting married,” I said. I lied. “How could I forget?”
The truth was I remembered nothing of any marriage ceremony, any marriage license or certificate or dress, any marriage vows or kiss or walk down the aisle. I remembered the sex. And I remembered the tattoo. One I was able to hide. The other still haunted me. And my dreams. And my happiness.
Mason stared at me a moment longer and then threw some bills on the messy table.
“I guess I owe you another round then,” he said, eyeing me quickly over his shoulder. “Nobody should have to remember that.”
I laughed because he was laughing.
“Yeah,” I said as we left. “It was a real shit show alright.”
Mason held the door for me. But as I went to step through, he blocked me. It meant I was close. Too close.
“You remember?” he whispered, his lips close. Too close.
I nodded. Throat too dry to speak. I had to lie. No, I didn’t have to lie. I wanted to lie.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I didn’t dare breathe.
“Yes.”
