Chapter 29
twenty-nine
. . .
Violet
As an incredibly type-A, lives-and-breathes-by-their-calendar person, I am a bit nervous about letting Mason take the reins on planning our evening. It’s not that I don’t trust him or think he will pick something I won’t want to do, I just hate things out of my control. But learning to trust people again is the key to my healing (or so my therapist says), so here I am, Stephanie, trusting people.
Mason and I have hung out several days in the last few weeks. While our “hangs” usually take place at the Beanery or eating lunch together in his office, I always leave wanting more time with him.
Despite my initial hesitance to ever look in his direction, I had managed to fall for him. Again. However, in my defense, I probably never stopped loving him. I just shoved those feelings down and tucked them away. In hindsight, I should have shredded the feelings. Because they have now untucked themselves and are residing in the pit of my stomach, threatening to climb up my sternum and squeeze my heart like a vice. But this isn’t entirely my fault. Between that longing look in his eyes and the several flirty comments that found their way into our conversations, I knew Mason was fighting his own pesky feelings.
Tonight is the first time we are hanging out outside of campus. I was an absolute mess of nerves; resisting the urge to text Mason and demand he tell me everything he has planned for us tonight. I know he would immediately tell me too, especially if he knew how anxious this was making me.
I rummage through my closet, throwing a few different sweaters on the bed. The one detail Mason did share was that I should bundle up. I decide on my trusty winter coat that’s managed to keep me warm through several Nor’easters. I finish lacing up my boots when my mom calls.
“Hey honey, I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.”
I almost remind her that we spoke less than a week ago, but I knew she just misses me. Maybe I should get her a cat for Christmas.
“Hey Mom. Things are going. I’m heading out with Mason soon so I can’t talk for too long.”
“Oh, is tonight the night you’ll finally tell him how you’ve been feeling?” The question is innocent enough, but judging from the giddiness in her voice I can tell she’s really hoping I finally bite the bullet.
I instantly regret spilling the beans to her last week. Such was the struggle of your mom being one of your best friends. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to rush things.” I mumble.
“Rush things? You’ve known the man since you were 6! Life’s too short for you to second-guess every move you make. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut and take a leap.”
“That’s never been easy for me.”
“I know aziz , but if you’re going to take a leap of faith for anyone, I’d be willing to bet Mason would be there to catch you.”
“Yeah, I think he would too. Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime…I do have a favor to ask you.”
“What’s up?”
“Melissa really wants Mason home for Christmas.”
Oof. “Mason’s views on going back to Castle Harbor really haven’t changed.”
“I know, but maybe he’d reconsider if he knew you’d be there too?”
“Mom, I don’t know…”
“Just for Christmas dinner. Melissa’s already talked to Joe about being on his best behavior.”
“I really think you’re underestimating how much Mason doesn’t want to be in a room with his dad.”
“Can you just ask him? The worst thing he can do is say no.”
I really would love to have Mason back home, but I won’t betray his trust by manipulating him into going back to Castle Harbor. Daddy issues run deep, and if he isn’t ready then he isn’t ready. “I will tell him I’m going, and if that entices him then so be it. But if he doesn't want to see his dad, I’m not going to ask him to do that. It’s not fair to him.”
“Honey, I didn’t mean to imply —” Her response is cut off by a knock on my door.
“Alright Mom, Mason’s here so I gotta go. Love you, bye.” I hang up the phone, spritz my curls with hairspray one final time, and grab my purse.
I slide on my coat as I open the door. Mason is leaning against the wall, a black beanie covering his locks, and the sleeves of his wool-lined jacket rolled up to reveal a sliver of his tattoo. Under this puffer jacket I look like the Michelin Man, while GQ over here is rocking the hell out of a beanie. So unfair.
The power of the beanie possesses me and I extend my arms out for a hug. Just like how the old Mason and Violet would greet each other. He responds as such, scooping me into his arms as he rests his cheek on my head.
“Hey.” I can hear the smile.
“Hi.” I’m sure he can hear mine as well. “Sorry, I was on the phone with my mom.” We break apart, and he steps back to allow me to the close the door.
“‘S’all good. How’s Elaine doing?”
“She’s fine. Meddlesome as always. It is her, not me, that is insanely out of their mind curious about what we are doing tonight.”
His face breaks out into a smile as we walk away from my building. “I’m finally teaching you how to ice skate.”
The Boston Common is one of my favorite places in December. In addition to the annual Christmas Tree lighting that attracts all the locals, the normal trees in the park are also decorated with festive string lights. Even in below-freezing temperature, everything about this place felt cozy. Growing up, I would always beg my mom to bring me into the Common so I could pretend I was the main character in my own Christmas movie, but there was always one part of the park I was too scared to go. During the summer, the Frog Pond was the perfect place for little kids to splash around and cool off, but during the winter was when it came to life. With the pond frozen over, everyone from kids to grandparents brought out their ice skates and flooded into the small outdoor rink. I was always too scared to go. Too scared of getting hurt. The Hayeses would bring me, and I would watch Mason and Monroe skate around for hours. Never moving from the bench. Mason always swore he’d get me out there.
“I can’t believe I’m finally doing this.” I'm unbelievably nervous about falling, busting my tailbone, and spending my days sitting on a donut, but I’m also excited. I’m buzzing with energy as we stand in line at the skate rental booth. Mason brought his own obviously. A gust of wind blows through, and while my energy is keeping me warm, the wind cuts down to my bones, causing me to wince and I rub my gloved hands up and down my arms. Perhaps it was time for a new winter coat…
Mason wraps an arm around my waist and tucks me into his side, his warmth surrounding me. “You’re gonna love it. It’s always such a rush every time I get on the ice.”
“How many times do you think I’m going to fall on my ass?”
With my head pressed against him, I can feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “Honestly, it’s a rite of passage. I still eat shit sometimes too.”
“Okay I’ll ignore the obvious joke about the pro hockey player who can’t skate and jump to…that seems dangerous considering your history. Should you be doing this?”
“I’ll be fine. My doctors cleared me for skating a while ago. It’s just the contact aspect of hockey, ya know, the fact that pucks and 200-pound men are flying around the ice, that made them nervous.”
“But falling on your ass on a hard surface rattles your brain too. I would know; I tried rollerblading once.”
“I’ll hold on to you the whole time if you want.”
“Says the guy who just admitted to eating shit sometimes. But sure, at least you’ll break my fall when we both go down.”
“Making sure you’re comfortable is my top priority.” He winks, and I feel it in my frozen bones.
After we collect my skates, we head to the bench to put them on. Unsurprisingly, Mason has both of them laced and ready to go before I can even take off one of my boots. He kneels to start helping, and I hear the petulant child in me start an argument about how I can do it myself. Before I can open my mouth, he grabs my foot and lightly squeezes, almost as if reassuring me that it is okay to accept his help. I continue to watch as he slides on the skate and adjusts it into place, tugging on the laces and tying them nice and snug. He repeats the same actions with my other skate, and by the time we’re both set to go my third sweater no longer feels necessary. Was that some sort of hockey player foreplay I just discovered? Or am I so touch-deprived that even a small gesture like helping me get my shoes on feels intimate?
He stands up and extends a hand to me, which I gladly take to hoist myself up. I walk— well, really waddle— over to the rink clutching his hand. Mason takes the first step onto the ice and my legs refuse to move. “You coming, Vi?”
I nod my head but can’t make my feet move an inch. So much for not letting my fears get in the way of trying new things.
Mason steps back over the border and puts his hand out to me. “Hey it’s okay to be scared, but I promise I won’t let you get hurt. Do you trust me?”
That is usually what parents say to their kids before they let go of the back of the bicycle. And the kid falls anyway. I will probably fall too. But Mason will be there to catch me, and that’s enough to get me to take his hand and step over the border.
“Yes. Let’s do this.”