“You said you were going to stop trying to hide your past,” I say. “So, what have you been hiding that I should know about?”
“What do you wanna know?” he asks. “From here on, I’m an open book. I want to make this work.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “When did Chris start with the whole con man business?”
“I’ve tried to figure that out,” he says. “I really can’t remember a time when he wasn’t pulling some kind of confidence game. When it started out, it was hardly ever about money; I think he did it as a survival instinct. There was a certain way to talk to mom, and if you couldn’t figure out what to say in any situation with her beforehand, chances were, things were going to go bad.”
“Where was your father?” I ask. This is the most he’s ever told me about his family. He’s never even mentioned his mother before.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think my mom knew, or if she did, she didn’t want him around. I never really met the guy.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Not much anyone can do about it,” he says. “That’s just the way it is. I hope you can forgive me for being so distant when we’ve been trying to get closer.”
“I wish I could be mad at you,” I tell him, “but I can’t. I haven’t really gone into my past, either. I’ve been telling myself it doesn’t really matter, that where I come from isn’t who I am, but I can’t sit here and judge you when I’m doing the same thing.”
“Okay,” he says. “What have you got?”
“Do you know that rich couple, they’re always in the news,” I tell him.
“There are a lot of rich couples in the news on a pretty constant basis,” he says.
“Chuck Butcher and May Weese,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, nodding. “They’re the kind of people who are rich because they’re rich, right? What about them?”
“Well,” I say, fidgeting with my hands, “I don’t call them Chuck Butcher and May Weese.”
Mason turns his head a little to one side and peers at me, asking, “Why not?”
“I call them dad and mom,” I tell him. “Well, they prefer ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ but you know what I mean.”
“So when you see all those commercials about the one percent that’s destroying the world and everything in, on, and around it, they’re talking about your parents?” he asks.
My mouth comes open and I take in a breath, not sure how to begin to respond to a question like that.
“I’m not…” I stammer. “That’s not…”
“Whoa,” he says, putting his palms up toward me, “I was just messing with you. So, you’re a rich girl, huh?”
“My parents are rich,” I tell him. “I’m going to college and studying to be a nurse.”
“On your parents’ dime?” he asks.
“I don’t think that’s relevant to—” I start.
He puts his hands up again, saying, “Another joke.” He says, “I’m sorry, this is bringing out the comedian in me.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I tell him. “They’re not in my life that much anymore.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem if they were,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m done with the walls and all that.”
I’m not used to this kind of forthrightness. I almost don’t know what to say.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m glad it wasn’t the other thing.”
“Oh hell no,” he says. “You’re way too high on the sexability scale to break up with like that.”
I half-scoff, half laugh. “Charming,” I smirk.
“You wanna go out and do something?” he asks. “Or, if you want, we can stay in. I don’t think we have to worry about getting interrupted.”
“Let’s stay in,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
“Hey, Mason?” I say.
“Yeah?” he answers.
“I’m in, too,” I tell him. “Should we make this an official thing?”
“That’s kind of what I was hoping for,” he says.
We’re still different and some elements of his past and present continue to make me a little nervous about what may be to come, but I feel better having talked to him. Whatever that means.
What it means for the two of us right now is that we’re going to have dinner together and we’re going to talk and we’re going to stop worrying about all the whys and why nots.
That sounds pretty good to me.
Chapter Nine
Spoons
Mason
The first night of the championship and I don’t know where my newly-official girlfriend is, apart from the fact that she’s not here.
This isn’t her scene, and I get that. I really do. Still, I’d kind of hoped the tournament aspect might catch her interest.
No time to think about that, though, as it looks like my fight’s about to start.
The two guys in the ring are superheavyweights. They’re actually the only two in that weight class who I’ve ever seen show up.
The one with his hair up in a man bun is local and, at about three hundred pounds, I think he first came here in hopes he could stay the only super in the group and never have to actually jump in the ring.
A few months later, the one with the bald head and the Dick Cheney look of contempt showed up. He’s from out of town and he’s pretty solid at his game.
Man bun doesn’t stand a chance.
Soon enough, angry bald guy wins the fight to the boos of the local crowd and Logan pats me hard on my bare back, saying, “All right, do you know anything about this guy?”
“I was hoping you did,” I tell him.
“Well, they wouldn’t have put him in the match if he wasn’t tough,” Logan says uselessly.
“If you’re not going to offer any decent advice, would you mind leaving me alone so I can get my head in the game?” I ask.
He pats me on the back again, hard enough that the sting pulls me out of my thoughts a moment while I consider slapping Logan right here in front of everyone.
Mitch, the only guy here who actually wanted to announce the bouts, walks to the center of the group while they drag man bun out to wallow in his shame.
“Next up,” Mitch calls out above the volume of the crowd, “we’ve got two guys in the featherweight division.”
I don’t know if he says anything more than that or not. I don’t know if he says my name, but when he points to me, I raise my hand. When he points to the other guy, he raises his hand.
We’re touching gloves now, and I try to catch him off-guard with a quick right, but he dodges it.
He counters with a knee meant for my gut that I manage to block with my forearms, and I kick his stationary leg. His foot comes down and he quickly catches any balance he may have lost.
The guy’s not bad, but he’s leaving himself open.