Chapter Three Mason
Chapter Three
Mason
“I appreciate what you do here, Gray.”
I blink out of my daze, eyes lifting from the shoulder pads I’ve been disinfecting, palm crinkled under the dampness of the cloth. “Huh?”
Mr. Barnett, who’s been counting helmets on the nearby rack, turns to me with his tablet tucked under his arm.
Now that the other players (Cameron Morelli) are gone, his strict coaching expression has softened to its tired-dad state.
“You’ve been a huge help,” he says, swinging his keys around his finger.
His “time to go” signal. “Keeping those hooligans in check.”
I smirk. “Never heard someone use that word before.”
“It’s an adequate description of these players.”
I hike my backpack over my shoulder and follow him out the locker room door.
It’s a crisp late-September day, a welcome contrast to the hair-frizzing mugginess that’s been assaulting the town.
My fingers tingle at the thought of October on the horizon—cozy sweaters, pumpkin spice lattes, scary movies, bonfires.
“So, this situation with Morelli,” he says as I climb into the passenger seat of his maroon minivan. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug, which encompasses my feelings about the situation. “It’s fine.”
I’m not sure it is, but it’s another excuse to be out of my house and it’s a distraction from my unruly thoughts, so I’ll take what I can get at this point. Even if it means having to spend my time around a sleazy jock who apparently prefers to punch his way through his problems.
Mr. Barnett gives me a skeptical look.
“I’m not excited about it,” I admit as he pulls out of the parking lot. “But the team needs Cameron, even if he’s…like that.”
Mr. Barnett nods solemnly, clearly wishing this weren’t the case. “I know he’s a lot, but once you get to know him, I think you’ll find something more complex hiding beneath the surface.”
Complexity in a single-brain-celled organism like Cameron Morelli? An enticing thought, though I’m keeping my hopes low. “Mm,” I acknowledge, leaning against the window and watching headlights roar to life on passing cars as evening rolls over Elwood.
Mr. Barnett chuckles at my cynicism. “He’s ditzy and arrogant, but try to be polite.”
“Obviously,” I grumble. Being polite, neutral, and boring is my entire personality.
It’s why I knew Cameron only wanted to date me because he liked my face.
Nobody but one person has ever been attracted to me beyond my appearance, has ever gotten to know me through more than just small talk before asking me out.
I’ve been told I have one of those universally nice, androgynous faces.
Long lashes and big doe eyes and thin brows and smooth skin that apparently doesn’t harbor the right conditions for body hair to adequately grow.
A straight nose, slender lips, and an angular face that probably looks sharper than usual because I lost so much weight last year.
People are more likely to call me pretty than handsome.
But I’ve never been addressed as anything other than “sir” and “mister.” I’m just feminine enough that I’ve heard my name passed around at parties by straight guys when they inevitably got asked who they would fuck if they had to choose a guy in the school.
Yet I’m masculine enough that some girls seem comedically astonished (even offended) when I tell them I’m mostly attracted to men, except on a blue moon.
As if every queer guy in the world needs to have some kind of physical or verbal indicator that exposes their fruitiness, and if they don’t, it’s misleading.
It sounds like a silly problem to have. I’m not sure it is a problem, considering everything else I’ve been dealing with.
But it’s precisely because of what I’m dealing with that it’s becoming more disconcerting. The way people look at me. Having to wonder who’s genuine and who’s not makes it all the harder to move on.
We had problems. Plenty. Authenticity wasn’t one of them.
Basically, I’m not surprised Cameron Morelli asked me out, despite most of his former interests being girls. At least I didn’t have to drag the truth out of him. He willingly admitted he asked me out for my face, unlike others who dance around their reasoning when I ask point-blank.
You’re just really interesting.
It’s easy to talk to you.
You seem like a warm, fun person.
Lies. I’m not interesting. I can’t hold a conversation. And I’m certainly not warm and fun. It’s why I haven’t made any friends in the seventeen years I’ve been living in this town.
But that’s not something I need to spiral about right now.
We snake through the town’s varying hubs of activity—the strip mall, a cluster of business buildings, the local gallery (my favorite place), Annie’s Brews (my second favorite place).
We drive along Lake Evergreen, where people lounge around in sweats along the sandy, twig-laden beach, before branching off into a subdivision.
Tension prickles under my skin. My garage lights are on, shedding warm gold over the beige house.
Instinctively, my eyes fan the area—the sidewalks, street, porch, roof.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, scooping up my backpack.
“I’ll start the study sessions with Cameron right away. ”
“Take care of yourself, Gray,” he says, offering a friendly wave.
I jog up to the porch and push inside. The interior of my house is no brighter than the exterior, save for the chandelier over the kitchen table on its dimmest setting.
My father is on the edge of a chair, mindlessly scrolling on his laptop, the light overhead casting lengthy shadows across his worn, tired face.
His skin seems more sallow than usual, and the bags under his dark brown eyes sag further.
He unglues his attention from his screen to look up. “Mason,” he says, relief flashing across his face. He probably thought I was Mom. “Been missing you around here.”
His words scrape my chest just deep enough to unearth some guilt I’ve been burying.
I don’t intentionally avoid my father, but it’s a side effect of staying out of this house as frequently as possible.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Been busy with games and practices. And the gallery. It’s easier to study at the coffee shop, too, so…
” I glance at the digital clock above the stove. “Where’s Mom?”
“Out.”
“What was she upset about this time?”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment, like he’s carefully considering his words.
He doesn’t have to, since it’s just the two of us, but he’s used to it.
Weighing every syllable is something I’m familiar with, so I won’t chide him for it.
“I didn’t buy organic yogurt when I went grocery shopping earlier,” he says.
She’s blown up over more menial things. The other day, I was running late for a shift at the gallery and tossed a spoon from a pudding cup into the sink on my way out.
When I got home, I had to spend the next two hours hand-washing every single dish in the kitchen while she breathed heatedly over my shoulder.
I amble into the kitchen, hands working through the darkness as I pry a glass from an overhead cabinet and fill it with water, then nudge it toward him. Wordlessly, he scoops it up and drains it. “You never hydrate,” I say quietly.
A smile lifts his lips, but it’s the fake kind I learned from him. The one that functions as an aesthetic. “Good thing I have such an attentive kid. I might shrivel up otherwise.”
I want to press him about…something. Everything. Why is he sitting in the dark, browsing article headlines? Has he looked over those brochures I sent him? He never responded to my last few texts about them.
I know better than to press, because he’ll probably shut down. So I leave him and head down the hall. I don’t have anywhere to be, so I take a shower to scrub the pungent macho energy of the football field off my body, then disappear into my bedroom.
The pastel paintings on the walls relax my shoulders.
They’re smaller ones gifted by the gallery, painted by local artists with my favorite colors.
Soft lilac purples, peachy pinks, baby blues.
Vibrant horizons and frosty mountains and radiant skies.
I trail past the dusty guitar in the corner of my room, as well as the dried-out paint set and canvas I abandoned not long ago.
The bookshelf filled with novels, which have makeshift bookmarks trapped in the middle.
A pricey camera I received as a gift, which I used to take pictures of things I found lovely.
Until I was informed that my definition of lovely could use some work.
It’s not wintry cold, but I fish out my fuzzy flannel pajamas anyway, check to make sure the window is locked, and crawl into my bed.
I guess I’ll do homework so I can help Cameron focus on his.
As I prop open my notebook, though, the sight of my screen lighting with a message locks my muscles tight.
I won’t look. I don’t need to look.
I should probably eat something.
I climb off the bed and start down the hall toward the kitchen but slide to a stop when I realize Mom is home.
She’s sitting across the table from my father, arms knotted over her cardigan, her blue eyes frigid enough to send ice crawling up the walls.
They’re having a tight, irritable conversation, her fingers trembling with anger.
At least they aren’t yelling. Yet. Quietly, I go back to my bedroom to avoid getting close enough that Mom will notice me and demand I take her side about something.
I retrieve an emergency peanut butter snack bar from my desk drawer, then sink into my bedsheets.
As my glazed eyes rove the textbook section we’re supposed to read before Monday, I nibble my snack.
But I can’t ignore it. I know who the text is from, because there’s nobody else who would want to talk to me on a Friday night. If I don’t look now, I might do it during a time when I’m less stable. So I should get it out of the way.
I pick the phone up.
Hope you’re well. I understand if you don’t want to talk. But I’m always here for you :)
A lump expands against the walls of my throat. My fingers fumble along the screen, typing and retyping messages, the words blurring more with each attempt.
Don’t text me.
Please don’t text me, but thank you.
I’m fine. Good night.
I’m okay, how about you?
I miss you. We can talk for a bit if you want to call?
Are you in the area? I don’t want to be home.
I pause above the send arrow. When I blink, the crooks of my eyes are moist, and my vision blurs.
My heart stops beating and instead begins to throb.
Ache. I delete my message, then his, and wrestle under my sheets.
Somewhere in my shallow breaths and dazed thoughts, I find myself pulling up a number I’ve never used, because Cameron should know that we’re studying tomorrow.
I’m not looking forward to it. Tutoring a notorious flirt of a blockhead who measures his worth in muscle.
He generally dates more popular people clinging to his peripherals, so I’m not sure how I ended up in his hunting grounds.
Especially considering our interactions have been limited to me twisting open his water bottle and handing him towels.
Your face. I fuck with it.
How does that guy attract so many people with such a pompous personality?
He’s attractive, sure, and maybe I’ve caught myself watching him from afar whenever I drag myself to parties.
But not because I’m lusting after him. It’s more like I’m envious.
What does it take to accumulate that much confidence?
I gulp in a breath, annoyance tingling in my skin. At least mentally whining about Cameron Morelli is masking my previous lamentations about…him.
Until one more text lights my screen, right as I’m about to send Cameron a message. Even though I never responded, it’s like he knows I’m looking at my phone. It’s the kind of message that freezes the blood in my veins.
See you soon <3