I go home, since the only thing I can do right now is be pissed off.
I sit in my kitchen, waiting for some frozen garlic bread to heat up in the toaster oven. It’s a crummy alternative to those fries, but at this point I’ll eat anything. Whatever I eat isn’t going to get rid of the sick feeling in my stomach, though. O’Connor made it worse. I don’t know why he thinks he can bully me. And I don’t know what was going on between him and Mason.
And I don’t know what’s going on between Mason and me. It’s no wonder Susan’s friendly introduction threw me for a loop. I’d never met her. In fact, I’d never even seen her until today. People think that cops are in this tight-knit group and they always hang out together. That’s true. But not when it comes to spouses. Not around here, anyway. Most of the wives don’t understand women cops, or they don’t trust us. That’s how it was with Deb. I shared a bond with Fred that she could never grasp, so I was a threat. Bet she never thought I’d take him away like this. The irony is awful.
I was never after Fred anyway; I was just looking out for him. I didn’t want him to get screwed because his heart was bigger than his head. Mason, on the other hand, was already married. He was already screwed, and trying to find his heart again. And he’s still married. “Technically,” he always tells me. They’ve been in the process of divorce for over a year, but they reconciled when he thought Susan was pregnant. She wasn’t.
While they were separated he transferred to my district, working Property Crime. That was just about the time I was getting fed up with politics at work, during what Sarge called “patrol restructuring” and what I called getting the shaft, because Fred wasn’t going to ride with me anymore and it had nothing to do with work. I was even thinking about quitting, and nobody seemed to care. I felt slighted. I felt like they were waiting for me to give up.
Then Mason came along. We met last summer when I did temporary duty on a task force for the first case he was in charge of. I was assigned surveillance with him. We spent a week of overnights checking into a parking garage, pretending to leave, and then hiding in the car, waiting to catch a thief. With nothing to do but sit and watch the entrance, we got to know each other pretty quickly. I felt like a teenager, talking into the morning hours. Mason listened. He understood. He gave a shit. And he gave me the perspective I needed. I did the same for him, since he was going through his own funk with his separation from Susan. We were both heartbroken, and took comfort in knowing we weren’t alone. We fell in love in that garage.
We also connected professionally, or, I should say, in our frustration with the profession. Though Mason had years of police experience on me, I was feeling the same burnout he was. We knew putting away criminals was just a temporary fix. Like nuns with straight rulers, we knew as soon as we turned our backs, the bad boys would be up to something else. And we had no way to stop them. We could only arrest them again when we caught them, and wait for them to slip through the system. Again. It made Mason mad; it made me feel useless.
One night we talked for hours about how we’d escape. We’d just pack a bag, get on a plane, and start over. Mason mentioned Longboat Key, a place in Florida where he used to go with his parents when he was a kid. The only part I liked about Florida was Margaritaville, which was nowhere near his childhood vacation spot. I suggested Arizona. My ex-fiancé had an aunt who lived close to the border, south of Tucson. I’ve never seen more peaceful, humbling scenery. The only part Mason liked about Arizona was the Indian casinos. We settled on California, since neither of us had ever been there. What would we do for money? Mason had always liked the idea of becoming a professional golfer. I said I’d become a contestant on a reality show. Like two kids, we made up the rest as we went along.
And like two kids, our relationship was briefly innocent. But we couldn’t help ourselves. Every time we’d talk after he broke the case (he caught the thief impersonating a valet attendant), we both knew there was so much more to say. Our conversations were so intense, so important, that the next step was inevitable. We had to keep it quiet, though, at work especially, because Mason was still in his probationary period and he didn’t want to start off at the district on the wrong foot. I didn’t care, because my feet weren’t even touching the ground.
The first month of our affair turned me around completely. I didn’t sleep, but I wasn’t tired. I didn’t eat, but I wasn’t hungry. Time was like a wrench between our encounters, but otherwise life tumbled by me, pleasantly, for the first time in years.
And then, abruptly, it stopped. It was a Tuesday. There had been a mid-autumn cold snap, so I turned on the heat, and I’d just had my down comforter drycleaned. It was the first time Mason and I had the same day off in a month, and we’d planned an afternoon under the covers. I was putting clean sheets on the bed when I heard the front door open, and I was certain I wouldn’t finish making the bed before we were in it. I was so happy; I felt as though Mason was coming home. I remember thinking things couldn’t get any better.
I was right about that. Mason came in and sat down in the middle of the bed while I was trying to tuck in the top sheet. He was so somber I thought he was going to tell me someone had died. I prepared myself for the worst. I got it. Susan had contacted him: She was pregnant.
I insisted Mason go back to her. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I loved him, but I couldn’t pretend I was more important than his real life. He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong with Susan; he didn’t know how the love was lost. But he had invested so much of himself in this woman and carried such a huge sense of guilt for not being able to make their marriage work that he had to give it another chance. He owed it to himself. He owed it to his child.
I couldn’t stand in the way of the life he spent years creating, no matter how I felt. I called it off. He went back to his wife, and I went into a major depression. For weeks I hid under those covers—the same ones I thought we’d share. Our affair had been an escape for both of us, but I had nothing to return to.
Less than a month later, Mason showed up unannounced. It was Halloween. “Trick or treat,” he said. I didn’t have any candy. I was still trying to absorb the break-up; I had hardly left the house. I could tell by the look on Mason’s face that he missed me. I was afraid I’d have to convince him we were doing the right thing, because I wasn’t so sure myself.
Then he shocked me again: Susan wasn’t pregnant. Mason thought he could make it work with a child on the way, and when she miscarried, he was determined to see things through. Then he found out she’d lied to him. She had never been pregnant at all. She’d baited him with a missed period, because she wanted him to come back and work on their marriage.
I admit, even though he came back to me, I felt betrayed. How could he have changed his mind about us so quickly? What could Susan have done to make him stay so long? I had to wonder whom he truly loved. Me? Or himself?
Maybe I’d been fooling myself, thinking his feelings were as strong as mine. And after all the drama, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be with him at all. But something about him, or maybe about me, made me want to hang on.
So here we are, nearly six months later. Ever since Mason came back, he’s been even more adamant about getting out of here. And even more insistent that we’ll be together when the time is right. Yeah, we still keep it a secret. And yes, I know I should stop seeing him. How much do you love someone when you can’t share it? I guess I love him that much. There are times when I know that I do. Times that remind me of the nights in that garage.
I have been holding back, though, and it’s been to my advantage. I’ve made the rules. I’ve called the shots. Until today, that is.
I guess I should have known Susan would be at the reception. I wasn’t thinking when I stormed into Fred’s. Mason should have warned me, though. He could have at least warned me.
I’ve finished off the garlic bread and fixed myself a nightcap when I hear the front door open. I can tell by Mason’s careful footsteps that he’s going to apologize, but I’m not going to make it easy.
He stands in the doorway. I don’t get up from the couch.
“I’m sorry about Susan,” he announces.
“You’re always sorry,” I say. “I saw you guys feeding each other—God! It was repulsive! Then I try my best to get out of there, and you go out of your way to hurt me.”
“Sam, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You showed up there and backed me into a corner. What was I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” I say, “fuck it.” I motion him to sit down on the couch but I make my displeasure evident by moving to the other end, lighting a cigarette, and sighing. Twice.
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem? Everyone thinks I killed Fred is my problem! I’m a mess, I’m alone, and I’m starting to think they’re right. You’re supposed to be in charge of this case and all I’m hearing is ‘friendly fire.’ ” I take a gulp of my drink to stress my point.
“You think whiskey’s gonna make it all go away?”
“Whiskey is here.”
“You wonder why you’re lonely.”
I’m thinking of a comeback when a cell phone chimes a generic version of “Little Red Corvette.” It’s not mine, and I know it’s not Mason’s.
“Is that you?” Mason asks.
“Yep—” I say and I can’t find that damn phone fast enough. I jump off the couch and grab my bag, hanging over one of the kitchen chairs. I whip out the phone and answer it.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam with the lead foot?” the guy with the Jaguar asks.
“Yeah, can I call you back?” I say, suppressing a nervous laugh.
“How are you going to do that?” he asks. “You have my phone. Are you in the middle of something?”
“Yeah. Middle of the night,” I say. I can’t look at Mason.
“Right. I’ll call you tomorrow, would that be okay?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Great. Talk to you soon.” He hangs up. I flip the phone shut and try to act natural.
I sit back down on the couch, this time closer to Mason.
“Who the hell was that?” he asks. I couldn’t tell him if I wanted to—I still don’t know the guy’s name—and even if I did, Mason wouldn’t exactly embrace the idea of me taking some stranger’s phone.
“It was Wade. Checking on me,” I lie.
“Wade. At this time of night,” he says without a question. He doesn’t buy it. He knows I only use my cell phone for emergencies, if I even remember to charge it and carry it with me, and turn it on and answer it. Right now it’s in my bag, but it’s dead because I can’t find the charger. Mason makes fun of my aversion to technology; he calls it my “resistance to availability.”
“I thought I should be available,” I tell him. Then I put my feet up and poke my toes between his butt and the couch cushion and change the subject. “Look, I don’t want to fight. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see Susan. I wasn’t ready.” I hope he’ll feel guilty too.
“I didn’t think you’d show up today,” he says, adjusting his posture to accommodate my feet.
“Why? Because everyone hates me?”
“Because I saw you drive past the church. Come on, Sam. Don’t be so selfish. Today wasn’t about you, and it wasn’t set up for you to get your feelings hurt.”
I know he’s right, but I still feel like I was an outsider.
“I tried to go.”
“You went to the bar.”
“I was afraid.”
“So you got up your nerve with a couple of stiff ones and showed up at Fred’s like a lost dog?”
“You think it was easy for me? I heard on the news—”
“You heard that we’re calling it an accident. You knew that. I told you, the press needed a story. I’m working on finding Trovic. You don’t trust me.”
“I do trust you. I do.”
I reach for him. He takes my hand and pulls me toward him and I use my feet underneath him for leverage as I pull myself up and straddle him on the couch. I hug him, feeling his arms around me, and I smell familiar soap on the skin of his neck. He caresses my cheek, then takes my face gently, with both hands, and kisses me for a long time. He pulls away, and with my eyes closed I wait for more. He pulls me toward him and whispers in my ear, “I love you.”
I turn and kiss him hard to let him know I love him, too. We hold each other so tight that it hurts my head, but it’s worth it. There are tears slipping from my eyes but I will not stop, this is what I’ve needed, sting and all. His breath and his hands are everywhere, and there is nothing I want more.
I undo his belt and he pulls at my jeans and we can’t even wait to get his clothes off or my shirt before I feel him, and I’m relieved to finally be somewhere besides in my head. He is rough but I am thankful to feel pain instead of hurt. I am grateful that this man has the strength to take us both far from this grim world. He guides my hips through his every move and I let him; I am here and in this moment and I can feel what he must be feeling, too. I hold on to him, my arms around his neck; I press myself against him, as though it’s possible for me to get inside of him this way, to crawl inside and hide until the world is right again. He kisses me and I know we are connected. I know he can make my troubles go away. I have to believe in something. And I want to stay in this moment for as long as I can.