Chapter 17
Truth or Dare?
Mark yanks his hand from mine as if I’ve burned him.
Our server, perhaps noticing the change in Mark’s body language and sensing the sudden tension at our table, makes a hasty retreat.
I can’t say I blame him. Running away sounds awesome right now.
I slide the neat bourbon I ordered for Mark toward him, and pull the other toward me, picking it up and downing half of it.
It burns going down. Whatever bourbon they brought to the table, it’s not Pappy Van Winkle.
Mark still hasn’t said a word, but the skin around his eyes has tightened, his jaw is clenched, and his knuckles have blanched. His hands appear to be so tightly clasped together that it looks like he may be forcibly restraining himself. So I start talking. It’s the only thing I can do.
“I saw you that morning, and I recognized you. Not because I cared about hockey or you.” His eyes have narrowed more—they’re practically slits now—and his brows have drawn together.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I know it’s nothing good.
So I keep talking. “But because of my cousin. You should ask me who my cousin is.” I stop and wait.
This needs to be a conversation. He needs to talk to me, even if it’s in monosyllabic, one-word sentences, or we’ll get nowhere.
“You lied to me,” he spits out in a tone I haven’t heard from him before. It sounds brittle and angry and hurt and mean. The closest I’ve heard him come to sounding like this was that day in the arena when he was talking to Garret Fischer.
“Yes. I lied to you. Ask me who my cousin is, Mark.”
He picks up his glass of bourbon and downs the contents in one long swallow before pressing his palms flat to the table, shoving his chair back and moving to stand.
I grab his right hand with my left, pinning it to the red and white checkered tablecloth.
He has six inches and at least seventy pounds on me.
I’m under no delusion that I’m stopping him.
He could leave if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t.
He freezes in place instead. And I repeat my words again, hoping the third time is the charm.
“Ask me who my cousin is, Mark.”
“Fine. Who is your cousin, Alyssa?” he asks, biting the words out flippantly, like he doesn’t expect my answer to mean anything. Like he’s already stopped caring.
I keep my hand on his, pinning it to the table, ensuring he can’t leave without me noticing as I pull my phone from my pocket, glance at it to unlock it, and then scroll through my photos until I find one of Katie and me at her birthday party last year.
I tap the image, zoom in on our faces, and spin my phone to face Mark as I say, “Katie Stanton.”
Our server, with the timing of a vaudeville comedian, chooses that moment to appear and set our orders on the table without saying a word. He glances back and forth between us and disappears again. At least he can read the room.
The barest hint of tension leaves Mark’s body as he mutters, “Katie Stanton. Katie fucking Stanton is your cousin?” His eyes are locked on my phone screen, and I withdraw my hand from his now that he doesn’t seem like he’s on the verge of walking out of the restaurant and away from me.
“Yes. The one I grew up with after my dad went to prison.”
His eyes rise to mine. He still looks pissed. “Tell me what happened that day. What actually happened that day.”
I take a deep breath, feeling like I’m playing the most important game of Two Truths and a Lie ever.
“I was already at the bookstore, and I saw you. I recognized you, not because I knew anything about you specifically, but because I’d seen you in the background of pictures throughout Katie’s trial—pictures they showed in the courtroom and in the news reports about the trial.
I wasn’t sure if it was you at first. I mean, I was pretty sure, but not positive, not at first. So I was following you, trying to decide if it was really you, and what I would do if it was.
Only then I got distracted by that stupid book, and you snuck up on me.
Then you insisted I go to the hospital and, well. You know the rest.”
“You just happened to see me in Powell’s?” He sounds skeptical, and there’s a frown marring his face. He hasn’t touched the plate of food sitting in front of him. I haven’t touched mine either.
“Yes. It’s a big bookstore. Lots of people go there.” I shrug.
“And you knew who I was right away?”
“Not right away, but close enough.”
“Why did you pretend you didn’t?” His eyes are burning into me, and I wish I could read his mind instead of guessing what he needs to hear to not hate me.
“What the hell was I supposed to say, Mark? ‘Hi, I’m Alyssa Reed. Five players on your team raped my cousin, Katie Stanton, and got away with it. What are you going to do about it?’ Where would that have gotten me?
You would’ve run in the other direction.
Besides, it’s not like I was planning on being here with you then. It’s not like—”
“You’ve had weeks to mention this, Alyssa,” he bites out, cutting me off.
“So, why didn’t you? You could’ve said something after the first night we spent together.
You knew then that I wanted this to go somewhere.
You could’ve told me after we had dinner with Vaughn.
” Mark closes his eyes and lets out a long breath before opening them, and the recrimination in his stare feels like it’s burning a hole through me.
“Jesus. He must have realized. You must’ve explained something to him about our relationship.
Why the fuck am I only hearing about this now?
Why am I—the first person you should’ve talked to about this—the last to know? ”
“You’re not the last to know,” I state softly.
“But you’re right. I should’ve found some time before now to tell you.
It’s just… I never thought we’d be here.
I didn’t expect that we would get to this point and we’d both still be interested in the other.
I told you that first day that I’m not great at being in relationships.
That I’ve never been in love. I honestly never figured that there might be some future in which I would actually want to introduce you to Katie.
Even if I have no fucking idea how I’m going to do it.
How I’m going to tell her about you,” I mutter darkly as I pick up my drink to wash down the bitter taste this moment is leaving in my mouth.
“She doesn’t know you’ve been dating me?” he questions incredulously.
“No. She knows I’m dating someone. She knows that someone’s name is Mark.
She knows that I’m… more serious about you than I’ve pretty much ever been about anyone, which is why she wants to meet you.
But that’s it. I have no idea how I’m going to tell her, and I wanted to talk to you before I did, because if you’re going to break up with me now that you know, I don’t want to bring it up at all. ”
“She’s the reason you haven’t invited me back to your place.”
It’s a statement, and not a question, but I confirm it anyway.
“Yes. If my feelings for you were any less strong—if I were any less certain—we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
If I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep seeing you, I would’ve never brought this up.
I would’ve just ended things with you. Telling Katie I’m dating you is probably going to go over about as well as…
this,” I say, gesturing to the space between us.
“I mean, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell her, and she’ll no longer want to meet you at all.
Then telling you who she is won’t have mattered anyway, and you’ll still dump me, and she’ll feel like I betrayed her…
My life is in shambles because I like you and I want to keep seeing you, but I can’t keep doing that if you don’t know who I actually am.
So yeah. It makes me want to throw up.” I’m babbling again.
I pick up what’s left of my drink and slam it.
“When was this picture taken?” he asks, inclining his head toward my phone on the table.
“Last year. On her birthday in July. We didn’t really celebrate this year. For obvious reasons.”
“When did you dye your hair?” My hair was still light brown in the picture.
“This year. I felt like a change, and then I ended up liking it and deciding to keep it black.”
Mark glances at me. “That’s what Marjorie was talking about,” he says, seemingly to himself, and he’s no longer clenching his jaw or scowling at me. “It looks good both ways,” he murmurs.
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly.
“Why did you let me take you to the hospital that day? Why didn’t you just tell me to get lost?”
“I did, remember? More than once. You were pretty insistent.”
“You told me to get over myself,” he growls.
“Yeah. Well. You surprised me. But I told you to leave me alone at least three times.”
“And then you got in the car with me anyway.”
I shrug. “I was interested. You weren’t what I was expecting. Are you going to stay?” I ask, and I’m not sure if I mean here with me right now, to finish this conversation, or with me generally.
“I haven’t decided yet.” I’m not sure which he means, and I’m unwilling to ask. I’m not sure if he knows either.
“Great,” I say dejectedly. “I’m going to order another drink. Do you want one? Please say yes.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” I look for our server, catching his eye immediately. Evidently, he’s been watching us from a distance. “I think he might recognize you,” I tell Mark, inclining my head toward the server so he knows who I’m talking about.
Mark follows my gaze. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Okay.” I lift my empty glass, point to it, and then put up two fingers. The guy nods and types the order in.
“What were you expecting?”
“Hmm. What?” I ask, my eyes snapping back to Mark.
“You said I wasn’t what you were expecting. What were you expecting?”