Chapter Eight Mason
Chapter Eight
Mason
Cameron is picking our next study location, which probably means we’re going to be reading textbooks over the glossy waxed floors of a gym called Masculine Man. But he refuses to confirm anything as we take the twisty roads through Elwood.
It’s Tuesday afternoon. Mr. Barnett ordered us to forgo practice today, because Cameron’s grades are of the utmost importance—getting him back out there apparently takes priority over me helping keep the boys quenched or cleaning and storing equipment.
The last couple of days have been uneventful.
Thankfully, I haven’t received any texts since Saturday, which means my mental health is on the climb.
Anytime I see that jumble of numbers flash across my screen, it drags my “moving on” progress back.
It should be simple to block him, but I need to know what he’s saying.
These sporadic texts allow me to keep an eye on him in my periphery.
I don’t want to, but if he shows up, I prefer the heads-up text to no warning at all.
Cameron pulls into a decrepit parking lot outside of what looks like the jankiest, sketchiest bar in the region.
The windows are fogged and gray, and there’s a cracked wooden sign reading Hole in the Wall.
The beige paint is stained from water damage and the cement between the bricks is coated in grime.
Cameron gives me this pleased, self-satisfied smirk. He’s in a scoop-neck T-shirt and pale jeans, both items a size too small to fit his bulky figure. He’s always wearing things that hug him to show off how trimmed and godly he thinks he is.
Though, just because I’m scowling doesn’t mean it isn’t working.
“Welcome to the best burger joint in town,” he says, kicking open his driver’s door.
“Is this environment conducive for…studying?” For anything?
“No, but it has food. Not coffee shop pastries—real-ass greasy American slop for growing young men.” He grabs his backpack and tromps toward the entrance. It’s a beaten-down place on the edge of town, and all the businesses nearby are in a similar state of disrepair.
But it’s too late for me to suggest elsewhere or remind him that I’m a vegetarian, so I follow after.
I wasn’t planning on buying food anyway, so whether or not it’s a burger joint doesn’t make a difference.
Aside from the fact that the smell of sizzling meat and oil will probably send my stomach into a sobbing frenzy.
We walk inside, and it’s not as scary as I figured. It’s got that old-fashioned black-and-white-checkered floor, shiny and pristine, alongside bubbled crimson booths and a neon jukebox.
Cameron grabs my wrist and heaves me toward the counter, where a college-aged girl sits on a rounded stool in a vintage red-and-gold waitress uniform, scrolling her phone.
Just as I’m about to remind him about the meat thing, he points at the menu and says, “We get these burgers once a month but never the vegan ones. So I forced my parents to come here yesterday so we could try them. They’re fucking incredible. ”
I follow his gaze to the menu and blanch when I see they do have vegetarian options. “If you came yesterday, why come back today?” I ask, furrowing my brows.
Cameron wrinkles his nose, like my question offends him. “I told you, I had to try the vegan burgers to make sure they were good.”
“But why?” I’m having difficulty comprehending the implication.
“How can I study if I’m worried about whether you’re going to starve to death?” he demands, striking me with an accusatory glare.
He says it in his usual Cameron Morelli way, like I’m to blame for his woes, but…I don’t know. Against my better judgment, the ice crackling along my connection to him thaws, just a little. “I appreciate your commitment to studying distraction-free,” I say seriously.
Cameron squints at me, trying to determine whether I’m being sarcastic.
While his precious brain catches up, I decide to place my order for a mushroom Swiss veggie burger, because I’ll feel guilty if I don’t get something after he came here yesterday just to taste test for my sake.
He forfeits his suspicions, leaping up to the counter to order the triple-patty Monster Special.
We find a rounded booth in the corner. I pull my beanie lower over my forehead, watching his arms at work as they hoist textbooks out of his backpack.
“If you can eat burgers frequently and look like that, you must have a decent workout routine,” I hear myself say before I can deliberate over whether I want to put up with his ego.
“I mean, you’re at the practices,” Cameron says, smirking. “You don’t pay attention when Barnett sends us around the track doing high knee jogging?”
“I do, it’s just…that’s cardio, right? And stretches? So you probably lift weights.” I clear the waver from my throat and squeak out, “Any tips for beginners?”
Cameron’s eyebrows soar up to his hairline. “You want to start working out?”
“Want” is a strong, wholly inaccurate word. I want to look like you, I nearly say, but I chomp on the words. I go with “Just looking to get bigger.”
Cameron sips the soft drink he purchased with smug nonchalance. “What, and ruin your cutesy soft-boy aesthetic?”
Leave it to Cameron Morelli to ruin a nice moment with his personality. Though, I’m not sure why I brought the subject up. It’s not like I’m getting a gym membership, and I don’t have workout equipment to put his tips to use. “Forget it,” I mutter.
Cameron is quiet for a long moment, and when I peek at his expression, he looks contemplative. He scratches his neck and exhales slow, then says, “I can show you my workout routine if you want to come over after this.”
I look between his eyes, my own bewilderment reflected in that greenish-blue hue.
There has to be a catch. Like I’ll let you come over if you promise to give me one teeny-tiny little blow job.
Before I can prod him for his price, the girl at the counter calls our names, and we climb out of our seats to retrieve our food.
When I see the mountainous burger waiting for me, I nearly trip over myself. “I’m supposed to eat this?” I ask as we reclaim the booth.
Cameron is already unhinging his jaw to fit the triple-patty monstrosity in his mouth. He pauses, mouth agape, to glance over. “Sit on it,” he suggests.
I roll my eyes, then press a napkin against the burger and lean down, squishing it.
Grease and cheese pools to the bottom of the basket, staining the waxed paper and curly fries.
I manage to scoop the sandwich’s weight into my hands and sink my teeth into it.
Flavorful juices and seasoning burst through my mouth, delighting my taste buds.
I make a noise of stunned approval as I chew, and Cameron smiles with satisfaction.
“See? Knew you’d like it. Wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.”
He speaks so casually, one could almost miss that he’s being nice. That he actually took time to come here and make sure I wouldn’t be eating a burnt slab of mushroom on a bun if he brought me. “I hate breaking my jaw to get my lips around it, but the flavor is great,” I admit.
Cameron, the teenage boy that he is, nearly explodes with laughter. Maybe I should be irritated at another display of immaturity, but his mirth is sort of intoxicating. The edges of my mouth rise, lips parting to unveil my teeth.
That smile of yours…
Instinctively, I release my burger so I can shield my mouth. Cameron notices the sudden movement, and his bluish eyes glint with interest. “I don’t get why you do that,” he says. “Why cover them? The real ones.”
“What?” I pluck a curly fry from the basket and plop it onto my tongue. It’s been a while since I’ve had greasy, fatty food—I usually opt for snacking on leftovers in the fridge or old pastries at Annie’s—so a full meal like this is refreshing.
“You smile behind your lips,” he explains. “Those are the fake ones. And when you have a real smile that shows your teeth, you cover it.” He grabs a napkin from the dispenser and smears it over his face, spreading the grease to his cheeks.
“Interesting,” I say through my mouthful of Swiss. Are my “fake” smiles that obvious? “Maybe I don’t have a lot of confidence. You wouldn’t get it, being the most arro—ah, confident person in town.”
He doesn’t catch the jab, sadly. It’s cute when he notices I’m making fun of him. “What’s there not to be confident about?” he asks, framing his face with his hands.
Changing the subject around Cameron Morelli is easy. “Have you always been this way?” I ask, nonchalant. “I don’t know how you’re so self-assured.”
Cameron’s eyes flicker with apprehension, like I’ve caught him in a lie, and his fingers press deeper into his burger, squeezing juice out of his patties. “Of course,” he snaps.
“Nobody knows who you were before ninth grade,” I point out. Though, I can’t imagine Cameron being anything other than this.
“I was perfectly fine and mentally stable,” he says sharply. He shoots me a menacing glare, daring me to contradict him, before promptly changing the subject himself. “Are you coming over to see my workout equipment or not?”
Oh. I’m surprised he’s following up on that—I guess his offer was genuine. “There’s no reason to,” I mumble. “I don’t have equipment, so even if you came up with a regimen, I couldn’t practice it.”
“You could. You’d just have to come over after every study session,” he says, shrugging.
I tilt my head in bafflement. Cameron Morelli keeps startling me today. “I thought you preferred to spend as little time around me as possible,” I say with a knowing smile. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Ca—”
“I am Cam Morelli,” he snarls, so harsh and heated and sudden that instinctively, I reel away from him, my eyes widening. I’m not sure where his unexpected intensity came from.
“Sorry,” I hear myself say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
You didn’t mean to what? a voice mutters in my ears. You know you’ve done something wrong, but do you know what? What are you apologizing for, Mason?
Cameron must notice my change in expression because he relaxes as suddenly as he tightened, his brawny shoulders loosening, his contorted face leveling. “Sorry,” he grumbles. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
I watch his hands, unresponsive. They’re clawing into the knees of his jeans.
“Anyway, yeah,” he says, holding his chin high as he reclaims his grip on his burger. “Of course I want to spend as little time with you as possible. Why would I want to be around someone who’d rather get lobotomized than go out with me?”
My eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. Apparently, Cameron believes the only reason someone could reject him is because they have a deep, unfounded loathing for him. “What would it take for you to stop claiming I hate you?” I ask wearily.
“Prove you don’t.” He smirks like he’s got me cornered.
I knead the bridge of my nose. What’s something I could do to appease Cameron Morelli? I don’t want to get closer to him right now when he’s probably still riled up, but I also don’t have other ideas. So I say, “Come here.”
“Why?” Cameron demands, though he lowers his face so it’s a foot from mine.
At this distance, I can more clearly see the smattering of colors in his irises, the long lashes, the hairs in disarray on his golden-brown brows.
“So you can look into my eyes as you tell me how much you’d rather get your hand slammed in a car door than—”
I lean forward and kiss his greasy cheek.
His sentence disintegrates. He blinks, eyes widening with perplexity.
“I,” I say calmly, grabbing his chin, my stern gaze locking with his. “Do. Not. Hate. You.”
Cameron’s stare flicks between my pupils. A split second later, he’s reeling back and smacking his head against the booth. “The hell?” he chokes out.
I return to my burger and bite a chunk to avoid bursting into laughter.
Cameron doesn’t whine about me hating him for the rest of the study session.