“I don’t know,” she says.
Then comes the all-too-familiar silence.
I want to say something, but I’m honestly a little afraid at what she might tell me. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with me, but whatever it is, it’s hijacked the last week of our relationship.
The spread is mostly made up of the standard picnic fare, or at least what the internet says is standard picnic fare. There are peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, dip and soda. The most interesting addition to the meal is the bar of raspberry German chocolate Ash brought for dessert.
We sit and eat, hardly talking more than to ask each other to pass something. Eventually, the awkwardness gets to be too much and I put down my sandwich.
No, that’s it. I don’t say anything or do anything else. I just put down my sandwich to indicate that I’m done eating and I leave it at that.
It’s not clear whether Ash knows what I’m doing and why or not, but she puts her sandwich down, too, and we start clearing up the food. We’re hardly speaking to each other.
We get the food put away and we start carrying everything toward the car, waiting a moment for a jogger to pass before crossing the paved walkway. Only, the jogger doesn’t pass. She stops about five feet away from Ash and I. She peers at us.
I squint through the evening sun toward the woman walking toward us. She looks really familiar.
“I’m sorry, I know this is going to sound weird, but do we know each other?” the woman asks.
“A friend of yours?” Ash asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer quietly, before looking back to the woman. “You do look really familiar.”
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Heather.”
“I’m Mason,” I answer, looking to Ash for a moment for any kind of advice on what to do here.
“That name sounds really familiar, too,” she says. “Do we know each other?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” I answer.
“I’m sorry,” Heather says, extending a hand toward Ash. “I’m Heather. I would tell you how I know your husband, but—”
“Oh, we’re not married,” Ash interrupts.
“Oh, well, I’m really sorry to bother both of you, but you just look so familiar,” Heather says.
This is more than a little weird until it clicks and I remember who she is. Now it’s a lot weirder. I’m just hoping she either really doesn’t remember me, or that she knows better than to let it slip.
“That’s right,” she says, her voice sounding remarkably like the mockery of the universe at my expense. “It was at the mall here in town.”
“Oh yeah,” I respond, hoping that’s as far as she goes. “I remember you.”
She starts giggling.
Oh please, for the love of god…
“Yeah,” she says. “I was just hanging out in the food court, waiting for some friends to show up when you came over and started talking to me.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” I tell her. “Well, it’s been great to see you, but we should really—”
Heather giggles again.
Oh, just make this stop.
I glance back at Ash to try to gauge her mood, but her expression is inscrutable.
“You were pretty convincing,” she says. “Not that I didn’t flirt right back.”
“Oh, really?” Ash asks. I cannot, for the life of me, tell whether hers is a teasing tone or an “I’m about to gut you right here and now” tone.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to catch up, but we’ve got to get this stuff in a refrigerator before it spoils,” I tell Heather.
She just giggles at me again.
This is exactly what I don’t need right now.
“Was the office behind a Sbarro or an Orange Julius?” she asks. “I don’t remember.”
“Pretzel Maker,” I answer, hoping I’ve sated her curiosity.
“I thought you two said you were in the food court,” Ash says. “What were you doing in an office behind a Pretzel Maker?”
Someone kill me.
Heather giggles again, and although I’m positive Ash pretty well has the basic idea down, she doesn’t say anything. Apparently, Heather isn’t so shy.
“I had just gotten out of a bad relationship,” Heather tells Ash. “The guy was a real jerk, but I could just never quite seem to put an end to it. Then, of course, he slept with my mom and my sister, and—”
“You slept with this woman’s mom and sister?” Ash interrupts.
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, absolutely not.”
“I’m talking about the guy I was with before I met Mason,” Heather explains.
How can she not get that she really needs to stop talking? She knows where this story goes and how she thinks it’s an appropriate conversational topic is beyond me. Still, she continues.
“Mason and I never really got to know each other that well,” Heather says, staving off my nervous breakdown for at least a few seconds. Of course, then she immediately undoes all the good that statement could have done. “I really needed a good lay with a stranger, and I don’t know how he knew, but he knew.”
“We’re talking about Mason now?” Ash says.
“Oh yeah,” Heather responds. The way she says it would be very flattering if I wasn’t standing right next to Ash. “He did things in that little room I can’t even begin to describe. I’ve got to thank you for that,” she says. “Before then, I didn’t know I was particularly flexible. Now, I do yoga.”
Seriously, take a knife and stab me. Take a gun and shoot me. Take a rope and hang me. Hire a hitman. I’ll pay for it.
Unfortunately, the only two people here that might be able to help me with any of the above are the person telling a story I really don’t want told and my girlfriend who seems determined to hear all of it. I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.
“You two used to date?” Ash asks.
“Briefly,” I answer.
“I don’t know if I’d call it dating as much as I would a sweaty romp in an empty office,” Heather laughs. I don’t laugh. Ash doesn’t laugh. Heather just keeps on going, “He was very smooth,” Heather says. “I didn’t even realize you were flirting with me at first, and by the time I did, I’d already started flirting back, myself. It was inevitable, once he sat down and we started talking.”
“Well, I really think we should get this food put away,” I say just a little bit too loudly, hoping to communicate to Heather that she needs to put an end to this.
She doesn’t pick up the cue.
“The way I was screaming in there, I’m still surprised security didn’t come in and bust us,” she says. “He’s really got a nice touch. You know,” she says, STILL TALKING, “up until that day, I always thought I was going to have a quiet life and if I ever did get married, it’d be to some jerk who never really fulfilled me, but after you bent me over that desk—”
“Okay, seriously?” I ask. “I’ve tried to keep quiet because I didn’t want to make this any worse than it already is, but do you honestly think this is appropriate?”