Page 68 of Dirty Ink

“Babe, I’m so glad you called,” Tim answered.

He was breathless. The sounds of New York City surged around him on the line: cars honking, pedestrians chattering as they passed the opposite way on the sidewalk, hot dog venders and ticket scalpers and old rappers still handing out mixed CDs on the corner. A wave of homesickness passed through me.

“Hold on, hold on,” Tim said, making me realise I hadn’t even answered back. I’d just been listening. Taking it all in. Remembering.

“Hold on, yeah, hold on,” Tim said again, and then the noise of the city was gone.

Silence fell over the line like a blanket dousing a fire. Tim was home. I knew this. At the apartment. Taking off his shoes. Putting them properly back in their place.

I realised that the home I felt sick for was not those big bay windows overlooking the park by the grand piano. Wasn’t the wood floors polished to sheen by the cleaning staff morning after morning. Or the crystal chandelier that hung over a deadly silence.

It was the sidewalk. It was the noise. It was JoJo and whatever colour hair she had that day. It was life. It was people trying, struggling to find their way. To do something. To be something. To be seen.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Um, you said you were glad that I called. It’s, um, it’s been a little while, hasn’t it?”

I was grappling for something. Reaching out to catch something that I felt was slipping through my fingers. I wanted Tim to reignite a flame in me I feared had dimmed. Had gone out. Had been snuffed out by a tattooed thumb, callused and rough. I shifted uncomfortably because I needed Tim to remind me why I’d loved him. Why I loved him.

I wasn’t empty, I realised in that moment. I was afraid. Afraid that I’d had something and lost it with Mason. Afraid that I’d never had anything with Tim and was going to give up everything for it. That thing that never was.

“Yes, yes,” Tim said as I held my breath, on the edge of my chair without realising it, biting my nails without realising it. “Yes, I made it work. I got us tickets for opening night!”

“Opening night?” I asked.

Tim went on to say what and when. He went on and on about what connection he’d used. And how. He went on about who would be there. Where they could get him. Each meaningless word seemed to carve more and more out of me. Each word hollowed my chest. Each word dug a little deeper, took a little more.

I don’t know if I interrupted him. I don’t know if he was already finished, breathless like he’d just jerked himself off onto the cashmere rug draped just so over the back of the couch. Frankly, I didn’t fucking care.

“Tim,” I said with an urgency that almost frightened me and almost certainly frightened him, “what if I wasn’t who you thought I was?”

I imagined Tim pausing in the kitchen. Holding a crystal water glass. Purified water falling from the tap. I imagined him turning the tap off. Stepping back to lean against the marble countertops.

He laughed a little. Maybe nervously. Maybe not.

“Rachel, what on earth kind of question is that?”

I stood up because I needed to walk. Needed to pace. To move. To feel like I still could.

“It’s just—I don’t know, it’s just, I mean, do we ever really know someone?”

“I know you,” came Tim’s reply.

I ignored it. Ignored it completely. Because he didn’t.

“And if you were to learn something about me, something more about me.” It sounded incoherent, I know, even though in my heart, in my mind, in my soul it all made perfect sense. “What I’m trying to say is, if you found out something about me and it didn’t fit this image you have of me…would you still love me?”

I wanted to ask him more. Press him further. I wanted to ask if he had room in his heart for more of me. For a bigger image of me. For a messier me. A bolder me. A more complicated me. A me that wanted more from life. A me that stumbled in drunk in the middle of the night, laughing and singing and shedding sequins.

But I found those words didn’t come out. Wouldn’t come out. It wasn’t something I wanted Tim to answer. Because I already knew another’s answer. I already knew Mason’s answer.

“Rachel, darling, you’re perfect just the way you are. Really, I don’t know where this is coming from. You’re the sweetest little thing. An angel really. Something to be protected. Something to be held close and cherished. Something that deserves all the nicest things in life. All the comforts. All the simplicity. All the refinements.”

Tim went on and on. I had stopped walking. Stopped pacing. Stopped moving.

“I know who you are and nothing you can tell me will change that,” he continued. “I know you’re as innocent as the snow. As sweet as candy. I mean, why else do you think I fell for you that day in the cafe where you were waitressing? Why else do you think I kept coming back when that cheap coffee was so horrible? I mean, where were those beans even sourced from?”

Tim laughed, but I was too preoccupied to laugh. I stared at the stage there by the DJ booth. It was a small thing. Kind of charming in how pitiful it was. But I knew it was the audience that would make it grand. Make it magical. The applause. The faces in the dark. Yeah, the fucking booze, too. I knew in a few hours’ time there would be no difference at all between that little makeshift stage and the grandest theatres in the biggest hotels on the Vegas strip.

“Everyone loves you,” Tim said, his voice sounding far away. Very far away. “It’s nice, you know? In my circle, to have someone not from money. Someone real, you know? Someone who never had a chance in life, but now gets everything. It’s a nice story, you know? People like it. Actually, at the opening I’ll have to introduce you to Mr Livingston. He’s the chair of—well, I won’t bore you. But he’ll love you. And your story. Our story. He’s a good person to know if we want to get an invitation to that gala at the end of next year. Did I tell you about that one? It’s really quite exclusive…”

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