Page 38 of Dirty Rotten Love

I clock it.

I look back at the table and pick up my mug and take a long drink of terrible coffee and feel, underneath everything, quietly and completely extraordinary.

The briefing passes. I pay attention, mostly, except for the parts where my brain wanders back to yesterday with the enthusiasm of someone returning to their favorite place in the world. Mac runs the briefing exactly as he always does, precise and efficient, and his voice does the thing it always does where it cuts through everything else and I hear it clearly regardless of where I am in the room. He assigns the morning tasks. When he gets to my name, I sit up straighter and say, Aye boss in a completely normal voice, and he moves on, and I am very proud of myself.

After the briefing, Tam falls into step beside me with the unhurried patience of a man who has all day.

“So,” says Tam.

“So,” I agree.

“Where were you yesterday?”

And there it is. I knew it was coming. I have been knowing it was coming since approximately six this morning when I woke up giddy and humming and completely unable to account for an entire rest day during which nobody saw me at all.

“Around,” I say.

Tam gives me a look. “Around.”

“Here and there.”

“Rory. It’s an oil rig. There is not that much around to be.”

Dazza has materialized on my other side because of course he has, Dazza has a sixth sense for conversations he wants to be part of. “We looked for you,” he says. “After lunch. Couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I was…” I pause. My brain, which is usually extremely reliable in these situations, offers me absolutely nothing useful. “I was doing a thing.”

“A thing,” says Tam.

“A personal thing.”

“On an oil rig.”

“Yes.”

They both look at me. I look back at them with the serene confidence of a man who has this completely under control.

“I was reorganizing,” I say.

Dazza blinks. “Reorganizing what?”

Excellent question. “My bunk area,” I say. “Completely reorganized it. Top to bottom. Very time-consuming.”

Tam looks at me for a long moment. Then he looks at Dazza. Then he looks back at me.

“You reorganized your bunk area,” he says slowly. “For an entire day?”

“I’m very thorough.”

“Rory, your bunk area is the size of a napkin.”

“A disorganized napkin,” I say firmly. “You’d be amazed what you find when you really get into it. Very meditative. I lost track of time completely.”

Tam opens his mouth. Closes it again. Something crosses his face that suggests he is running through everything he knows about me and finding this explanation wanting in several significant ways.

“I looked in the cabin,” he says. “Around three o’clock. You weren’t there.”

I don’t miss a beat. “That’ll have been when I took a break and went for a walk.”