Chapter 3: The Real Story at the Table

I ran my fingers over the cracked leather strap, remembering the weight of the camera around my neck, the smell of sunscreen and dust on my skin. I’d buried these memories for so long, afraid of what they might stir up. But now, I wanted to remember who I’d been before Mason—before I started living for someone else.

The first was a Black woman waiting on the street for cholera medicine. The second was a five-year-old child soldier, not even as tall as his gun. The third was refugees in North Kivu living in broken tents…

Each photo hit me like a punch to the gut. Faces I’d never forget, stories etched in the lines around their eyes. I could almost hear the chaos of the camps, the distant rumble of gunfire, the desperate hope in their voices. The world was so much bigger than Mason’s living room, bigger than his parents’ expectations.

The smell of gunpowder and dust seemed to reach across time. My heart clenched. I leaned back in my chair, tried to calm my racing heart, and let out a hollow laugh.

I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. My chest ached with longing—for the past, for the future I might still claim. I laughed again, softer this time, the sound echoing in the empty apartment.

I wondered, if Mason saw these, would he still write well-behaved in my column?

I pictured him flipping through the photos, his neat handwriting at odds with the chaos they captured. Would he see me differently? Or would he just see another task, another box to check? Honestly, I doubted he’d ever really tried to know me at all.

Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from him—a restaurant location. Only then did I remember he’d invited the bridesmaids and groomsmen for a little get-together that night. Most of the guests were Mason’s friends, not mine. But I knew, this was just an excuse for a party—because today, Jordan had come back to town.

My stomach twisted as I read the address. I knew what this was—a parade, a show. Jordan was back, and Mason wanted everyone to see he’d made the right choice. I almost didn’t go, but something in me wanted to face them, to see the truth with my own eyes.

When I arrived at the restaurant, they’d already ordered. Jordan sat next to Mason. There was no seat for me. When she saw me, she looked me up and down, then grinned, “Just grab a chair, sit wherever.”

The room was alive with laughter and inside jokes, the kind that made outsiders feel small. I found a chair in the corner, away from the light, and tried to disappear. Jordan’s voice carried over the clatter of silverware, sharp and bright.

I sat at the far end of the table. Mason just watched everything, saying nothing. Someone asked, “Jordan, we thought you weren’t coming back this time!”

Jordan flashed a dazzling smile, her confidence filling the room. I could see why everyone was drawn to her. She was the kind of woman who made you believe anything was possible, even if it wasn’t.

“What are you talking about? It’s Mason’s wedding! Even if I had to crawl, I’d come back to see who he picked!”

She winked at Mason, and he looked down, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The others chuckled knowingly, trading glances that said more than words ever could.

A couple of people snickered, shooting glances at each other. “That’s true, you two always had a thing.”

The air in the room shifted, charged with something electric and unspoken. I felt like an extra in my own life, watching someone else’s story play out. My chest tightened.

They started asking Jordan about her travels. By the time dinner arrived, she’d finished telling stories about catching yellowfin tuna in the Mediterranean, hiking the Camino in Portugal, and climbing Uluru in Australia. Their eyes shone with admiration.

Her stories were wild, full of adventure and danger. I watched the way everyone leaned in, hanging on her every word. I couldn’t help but wonder if any of it was real—or if she just knew how to spin a good yarn. I felt invisible.

“Jordan, you went to all those places? As a woman?”

A guy across the table raised his glass, toasting her bravery. I sipped my wine, feeling invisible.

“Hmph, I’m not the type to be chained to laundry and groceries, you know?”

The room erupted in laughter, the kind that stings if you’re not in on the joke. I looked down at my hands, the wine glass trembling just a little.

“Brave souls see the world first!”

Someone clapped, and another toasted to adventure. The table felt like a stage, and Jordan was the star. I faded further into the background, wondering if anyone would notice if I left.

Amid the wine and laughter, she was the star. Mason, sitting next to her, barely spoke. He just turned to look at her now and then, his gaze so soft it was syrupy.

I watched the way he looked at her—like she was the only person in the room. My chest tightened, but I kept my face blank. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack.

I quietly finished half a glass of white wine. My tongue burned with bitterness. Everything tasted like ash.

The wine went down sharp, scraping my throat. I stared at the tablecloth, wishing I could disappear. The laughter around me sounded far away, muffled by the pounding in my ears.

Jordan was telling a story about outsmarting scammers in Egypt when she suddenly turned to Mason: “Wanna know how to say ‘dear’ in Arabic?”

She leaned in close, her perfume drifting over the table—something expensive and floral. Mason shifted, looking uncomfortable, but didn’t pull away.

Mason paused, then shook his head. “I’ll teach you!”

Jordan leaned on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Habibi~”

Her voice was low and teasing, the kind of tone that makes everyone else in the room feel like an intruder. Mason’s ears went pink, and he tried to laugh it off.

Mason straightened, his ears pink. “Sit up straight…”

He tried to regain his composure, but the damage was done. The others snickered, nudging each other under the table.

“Come on, say it!”

Unable to resist, he sighed and gave in: “Habibi…”

The word hung in the air, intimate and soft. I felt like I’d just witnessed something private, something meant for someone else’s eyes.

“Bingo! That’s right, you’re my habibi~”

Then her eyes flicked to me. “Ever been to Africa?”

She said it with a smirk, like she already knew the answer. I sat up a little straighter, refusing to shrink away.

Someone sneered, “Does she look like it? Africa? She probably hasn’t even left Ohio!”

The words stung, but I kept my face blank. I’d learned long ago not to let them see me bleed.

Even Mason looked at me with a crooked smile, shaking his head.

His eyes met mine, full of pity and something else—maybe relief that I wasn’t like Jordan, that I wouldn’t upset the balance.

Jordan narrowed her eyes, triumphant. “That’s true, I asked the wrong person! Ask her which grocery store has the cheapest produce, or which brand of toilet cleaner is best!”

The table erupted in laughter. She turned away and started a new topic.

I clenched my fists under the table. Maybe I was a little drunk, or else why would such childish taunts make me so angry?

My nails bit into my palms, the pain grounding me. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. I wouldn’t let her win—not tonight.

“I’ve been there,” I said softly.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. The room fell silent, every head turning my way. I felt the weight of their disbelief pressing down on me.

The table went quiet. Jordan tilted her head. “What?”

She looked at me like I’d grown a second head, her smile faltering for just a moment.

“I’ve been to Africa.”

I met her gaze, unflinching. My voice was steady, clear. I wanted her to know I wasn’t lying, that I had stories of my own.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she quickly put on a look of disdain. “Oh, no need to brag. If you haven’t, you haven’t. Lying is bad—it’s easy to get caught.”

She tried to laugh it off, but her eyes narrowed, searching my face for any sign of weakness.

“I’m not lying.”

I kept my tone even, refusing to back down. I wouldn’t let her turn my life into a punchline.

“Then tell us, where’d you go? Kenya? Morocco? Or South Africa?”

She lifted her chin, sure I’d have nothing to say.

I looked her in the eye. “Congo. The Democratic Republic.”