Chapter Nine Cam #3
Just as I’m thinking he might spit infuriated words at me, it’s like someone pops his building pressure with a needle, and suddenly he’s going lax, his posture slumping with exhaustion.
“My parents have a rough relationship,” he mumbles.
“My mom loves yelling and throwing things, but it’s never been physical. So. Nothing to do with them.”
Then what? I want to ask, but I feel I’ve pried deep enough, and an attempt to dig further will strike a concealed nerve.
Even if I’m curious to know what might happen, even desperate to know, it’s probably better that I don’t make him more uneasy than he already is.
Despite his knack for bantering, his body language hasn’t loosened much since we arrived.
Something about this situation unnerves him.
“Has someone at school been giving you trouble?” I try.
“Of course not,” he says stiffly.
I don’t know him well enough to determine whether he’s lying.
To lighten the mood, I reach out and ruffle his damp black hair.
“I’ll come up with a training plan,” I say, smirking when he swats my hands away with a scoff.
“We’ll come here after studying for light exercises.
Once your body gets accustomed, we’ll step it up a notch.
And so on, until you’re where you want to be. But.”
I shoot my index finger into the air.
Mason winces.
It’s subtle. Brief. Nobody else would probably notice.
I do.
I see myself in his eyes.
I’m eight years old. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen.
I freeze, finger hovering.
He’s watching it.
I used to do that with their knuckles.
Stare. Wait. Anticipate.
I lower my palm. Slowly.
He returns his eyes to my face.
Okay. I see.
It’s an inkling. Nothing more.
“You need to make sure you’re eating right,” I continue, like I haven’t noticed anything. His gaze is sharp again, and I wonder if he even realizes what he did. “Full meals. Protein, vegetables, fruits, grains. It means not skipping meals or running on sugar and coffee.”
Mason looks crestfallen, like he was hoping I’d forget about his atrocious lack of nutrients. “Just because you caught me on a day when the muffin was my only source of food doesn’t mean I’m always—”
“What did you eat today before we went out for burgers?” I demand.
Mason opens his mouth to protest but can’t find the words. Eventually, he says, “Coffee and a peanut butter protein bar.”
“Mm. Hmm. Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll try eating healthier, okay?” Mason says with an aggravated huff. “I just don’t have many opportunities where I can make a meal in peace because my house…is like that.”
I hate the implication, and worse, I don’t know what to do about it. “Can you make food when your parents are in bed?” I plead.
Mason dons this strange smile I’ve never seen before. It seems genuine but with an underlying tinge of lingering skepticism. “You must love the art of being active if you’re that worried about my health.”
He’s poking and prodding again. Just like I’ve been poking and prodding him.
I feel like we’re locked in a ballroom masquerade dance, both of us attempting to lead, both trying to sneak glances under each other’s sequined mask to see what really lies underneath.
He’s frustratingly observant. Maybe he feels similarly about me.
But Cam Morelli isn’t supposed to be a perceptive person. So why am I doing this? Why am I so fixated on sliding his mask up when I should just let myself be entranced by its design?
I prop my knuckles irritably on my hips. “Do you think I’m some one-dimensional fuck without empathy?” I ask with as much haughty disdain as I can muster. “You’re helping me study, so I can help put muscle on your bones.”
Right. It can be as simple as that.
Mason’s lips waver, and suddenly, he’s tossing his head back in laughter.
For the second time, I catch a glimpse of his bright, magnetic smile.
How it pushes into every fragment of his face, brightening his features and causing the air to sparkle.
How does a smile have the power to slow time?
It doesn’t, but every moment seems to drag, as if my brain is intentionally stalling its own perception to cling to this radiant image.
Then he throws his hand over his mouth, shattering the illusion.
“What’s funny?” I growl, my face reddening. “I’m never inviting you over again.”
“No, no, you have to now,” he says brightly, and I swear his golden-brown eyes are legitimately glittering. They’re more captivating than the mask. “Cameron Morelli, you fool. You’ve given me the perfect blackmailing material.”
“The what?” I squawk.
“I’ve caught you caring about someone other than yourself. Just what is the team going to think when I tell them you’re capable of being a sweetheart? I think it would cause mass chaos—”
“Don’t.”
Mason blinks at the sudden seething anger in my voice.
“I’m not,” I snarl when he doesn’t respond, fingers curling up into my palms. My heart is back in my throat, and alarm bells are clanging against the inside of my head, overwhelming my senses with desperate fury and dread.
“Don’t go spreading false shit about me.
Whatever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m not… ”
I’m not a sweetheart. I’m not gentle. I’m not a kind, softhearted boy.
I didn’t paint rocks for fun. I didn’t buy my mom flowers on my way home from school every week.
I didn’t hum while taking meandering walks through the park.
I didn’t constantly get chided on the local recreational football team for picking dandelions and daydreaming instead of putting all of my focus and raw talents into practicing.
I didn’t stay at home all weekend playing board games with my parents because I had no friends.
Cameron Morelli doesn’t exist.
He’s not allowed to.
“Sorry,” Mason says.
I focus on him, panic zipping through me in nauseating waves. He’s watching them again. My hands. I need to relax, and fast, because I’m frightening him. But the thought of my costume being forcibly peeled away, exposing me for what I am to everyone I’ve convinced to like me…
I can’t let that happen.
“Sorry,” Mason says, softer, like he’s afraid of startling me with his already meager volume. “I was kidding. I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying to…”
His eyes meet mine, and I can tell it takes all of his courage.
I don’t know what he sees there, but it’s enough that his body—which had begun to stiffen and brace—suddenly relaxes.
I can’t say for sure, but part of me thinks he’s recognized that my anger is stemming from panic. Not from something worse.
He takes a hesitant half step forward and reaches out, placing his hand against my collar. The tips of his fingers press into the hollow of my throat, as cool as they were when he fell on me a few nights ago. “Just breathe, Cameron. It’s not your fault. Okay?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, before inwardly cursing. Why am I acting like such an ass, especially after the way he keeps reacting to my anger? Getting this riled up is ridiculous.
But something’s different this time. His body language has changed. He’s not closing up, not pulling away or watching my fists. His hand is still flat on my chest, partially atop my shirt and partially digging into my skin. Something about his touch is strangely centering.
I feel like I’m on the football field during a game. Watching the defensive line, pacing, tapping my feet, a spiraling ball of nerves.
And then looking over at him. Mason Gray. Watching the game with vague, detached interest interspersed with glances up and down the bench to make sure nobody needs more water. Steady on his feet. Unmoving except to meander back and forth with no rush. Calm.
My heart rate is slowing.
“It’s worse than what you said, right?” Mason whispers, peering up at me with furrowed brows. “The way you phrased it earlier…You said you were picked on because of your mom’s reputation. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
I want to tear my eyes away from his, but they’re too magnetic.
I can’t even blink. His hand is like a five-hundred-pound weight, keeping me pinned to the flat carpeting of the basement.
His ability to see through everything I told him should terrify me, but his touch is like a soothing serum. It’s comforting.
“How would you know?” I grumble.
“Because I…” Mason swallows, his fingertips curling up gently against my skin. “I also…”
His mouth hangs open for a lingering moment. Then he pulls his lips between his teeth, chewing the words away. He remains that way for several seconds before he speaks again. I don’t know what to do but stand rigid, listening.
“I’m not going to tell anyone what you said,” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry people treated you so poorly because they had bad opinions about your mom.
Because of whatever other reasons you won’t say.
” He pauses, his jaw shifting like he’s deliberating his next words.
Then, “I just think you should know that it’s not your fault. The way people hurt you. That’s all.”
He tugs his hand away.
I’m free now, so I start walking to the staircase ascending out of the basement. “Come on,” I say flatly. “Let’s get you home.”
If Mason is annoyed, frustrated, relieved, or anything else by my complete and utter lack of response, it doesn’t show. His face is back to its base state. Unbothered. Neutral.
He follows me to my car, and we don’t exchange any further words that day.