Chapter Twelve Cam #2
“Oh, well, excuse the fuck out of me. I didn’t realize I was talking to the god of fucking consent.” He sucks down a few gulps of his beer, which causes my teeth to latch together.
“Have you had any water?” I ask sharply. “Did you eat dinner?”
“Sure,” he says with enough hesitation that I know he’s lying.
“You’ll get sick.”
“Then I better find someone to kiss before that happens,” he says, eyes roving over the beach. Everything he says is throwing me for a loop. I don’t know Mason well, but this…this isn’t him.
I massage my temple, sighing, and say, “I’ll do it.”
Mason blinks lethargically, words seeming to seep into his head. “Really?” he asks, snorting. “Even though I rejected you?”
“At least you know me.”
Mason laughs into his cupped palm. The sight is saddening.
I can almost feel the loneliness, the desperation, radiating from him.
After several long seconds, during which his laughter sputters away and he merely stands there behind his hand, silent, he lowers it.
His eyes are dull and lifeless, and he’s wearing a deadpan smile.
“Then kiss me,” he says.
“After you eat.”
He scrunches his nose. “Huh?”
“You might throw up because you’re drinking on an empty stomach,” I say, placing my hand on his hair and digging my fingers gently into his scalp. He peeks up at my wrist in confusion but doesn’t pull away. “Let’s go to Burger King and get you an Impossible Whopper.”
A glimmer of life returns to his eyes. “You know about their vegetarian options?”
“I’ve been looking up restaurants for when we need food runs,” I say, shrugging. Shouldn’t that be obvious, considering I told him I’d help with his diet and regimen?
Mason looks at me like I just spoke in a dead tongue. A breeze sweeps the beach, disturbing the glassy lake and crackling flames of the firepits. “That’s nice,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. I’m kindhearted as hell.” I dig my fingers deeper into his head and twist, turning him to the weedy hill climbing up to the main road. “Let’s go.”
So we go.
Mason sways in my passenger seat as we head down the road. We come upon the fast-food chain just as the trees start thickening along the street perimeter, and when the glowing sign emerges from behind a cluster of pine trees, Mason gasps. “We’re going to Burger King?” he asks hopefully.
How many times must I tell him we’re visiting patty royalty before it sticks? “Try not to act drunk,” I plead. “If the cops show up because some sixteen-year-old is toasted at the local BK—”
“Seventeen,” Mason interrupts, scoffing. “Why does everyone think I’m so young? I’m very mature. The rest of me just hasn’t caught up yet.”
I don’t have the mental fortitude to try to unpack why he’s saying that, so I don’t respond.
When we stroll inside, Mason shields his face against the fluorescent lighting.
I seat him at a table, where he promptly rests his face in his arms. Then I pop over to the counter and order him a veggie burger and fries, as well as a cheese Whopper for myself.
Because I’m a growing boy and deserve it.
As I wait for the food, I eye Mason. One might think he’s asleep, but there’s a tremor in his outline, like he’s crying. When the baggie arrives, I return to his side and twist my knuckle between his shoulders. “Come on,” I say. “Back to the beach.”
Mason curls his arms tighter around his face.
“I said I’d kiss you if you ate, remember?”
The moment he lifts his head, eyes pink and puffy and rimmed with exhaustion, I jam the straw of the water cup between his lips. He chokes in protest, then begins to drink, obediently rising to his feet when I clasp his elbow and tug.
As night falls deeper over Elwood, so does an early-autumn chill, and as we leave the parking lot, I see raised bumps flecking his wrists. He didn’t bring a jacket or come prepared for the cold, which seems unlike him.
I shouldn’t care. If something happened to make him cut loose, how is it my business?
But he feels different from the person I’ve been forced to be around.
Is this the guy who’s been hiding behind that sweet, feigned smile and dry voice?
Someone a little angrier, more combative, more frustrated, more tired and impatient and…
Genuine?
I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t realize we’re at the beach again until a cold rush of water swills around my ankles.
I’m standing at the brink of the midnight-black lake, which scintillates beneath the stars and moon as the water returns to its undisturbed state.
Mason scarfs down his veggie burger, looking out emotionlessly across the yawning expanse.
Every movement causes the pale blue gemstone around his neck to glitter.
I don’t remember him wearing that at the game. Maybe it was tucked beneath his jersey?
When he’s done, I take his wrapper and hand him his fries. He goes to town on them like he’s discovering potatoes for the first time. “Didn’t you order food?” he mutters. “You could eat it instead of staring at me.”
Oh. “Who’s staring?” I squawk, plunging my hand into the bag to grab my own meat.
Mason smirks and continues shoveling fries into his mouth.
Eventually, I stuff the baggie in a trash can half-buried in the sand, then return to Mason’s side.
Music still thrums along the beach from Bluetooth speakers, and the firepits are still crowded with high schoolers who were at the game, their chatter and laughter echoing along the lake.
“What are you hoping to get out of tonight?” I ask.
I avoid staring as he licks the salt off his fingers. “I told you,” he says flatly. “To get drunk and kiss someone.”
“Then, what are you hoping to forget? Or who? Your parents?” I don’t understand that situation, since he hasn’t clarified the circumstances, but I think I can paint a semi-accurate picture.
Mason sucks down the rest of his water, then jingles the remaining ice. “Hey,” he says. “It was just my face, right?”
“Huh?”
“The reason you asked me out. It was because of my face.” Mason’s attention shifts to his ankles, which are plunged in the cold, murky water. His shoes, socks, and phone are bundled on the sand behind us.
“Yeah,” I admit, because I literally told him so last week.
“And now…knowing what you know about me…would you still ask me out?” he mumbles.
I’m not sure where this is coming from. “Should I ignore the fact that you want to run me over with a tank while I consider my answer?” I ask skeptically.
Mason’s mouth twitches upward. I’ve amused him about something again. “You’re really not as confident as you pretend, are you, Cameron?” he whispers.
Embarrassment surges through me, which is becoming entirely too common around him. “The hell?” I demand. “I’m the most egotistical piece of shit this side of Elwood. You can’t take that away from me because you’re cranky.”
Mason throws a hand over his mouth and laughs. The sound is warming and cute, standing in sharp contrast to the dulled parts of himself he’s had on display. “You didn’t answer me. Would you ask me out, now that you know me better?”
I consider it, putting aside my biases, from the fact that he rejected me by verbally sucker punching my manhood to the fact that I’m his least favorite person.
I do love his face a concerning amount. The way his features are so soft and well-balanced, the visually pleasing contrast of his black hair against his ivory skin. Then there’s that annoying-ass smile.
That aside, would I ask him out based on his personality?
I don’t even have time to deliberate. The final, lingering spark of life remaining in Mason’s eyes flickers out, leaving his gaze hollow and cold.
“I know,” he whispers. “I’m boring. I can’t carry a conversation.
The only reason people stand to be around me is because they like my aesthetic. So don’t say it. I know.”
His candor stuns me. Mason kicks his foot, causing water to arc through the air and glitter like diamonds beneath the moonlight before they melt into the lake.
I don’t think my answer matters. If it’s no, I’m confirming his assumptions.
If it’s yes, he won’t believe me. I can feel the weight of this twisting, tangled ball of self-deprecation weighing him down, spreading its sharp tendrils into every fragment of his character.
Shaving away all the intricacies of who he is.
I know how it works. Been there, done that.
Yet I have a sinking feeling his demons are more gnarled and deeply embedded than mine.
Mine sunk their claws into me in late elementary school, and only loosened their clutches when we moved somewhere I could scrub myself clean.
Even still, I can feel the shadows of the puncture wounds they left behind.
But Mason…This aching atmosphere around him…
He’s been living with this pain far longer.
I’m starting to understand Mason Gray. He’s not just the cute, elusive water boy everyone wants to linger around because of his mysterious atmosphere and pretty appearance.
He’s a painstakingly crafted shell of a person who’s been battered and worn down to his most basic functions, thoughts, and feelings.
There’s only one crack in his armor. His smile.
That’s why he’s always hiding it.
I’m not sure what to say. I guess he doesn’t care, because suddenly, he’s grabbing my shirt, dragging me in to kiss me.
“Stop,” I say darkly, and I snag his wrists, but he curls his grip tighter around the fabric.
His proximity mixed with my reluctance sends a signal of panic reeling through my skull.
Mason’s hands are someone else’s. I’m not on the beach, I’m in a bedroom.
There’s a persuasive, cool voice in my ear.
You want to prove the rumors wrong, right…? Or do you take after your mom after all?
Everyone thinks you’re disgusting.
How can your dad stand it? His wife and son both being dirty, rotten—
“Fuck off of me!” I growl, and my hands fly out, pushing. Too late do I realize that I’m not in eighth grade. I’m much bigger than the boy I used to be; I’m at a beach party, and the person I’ve just shoved is a drunk, emotionally stunted Mason Gray.
Of course he falls. He can’t even stand without swaying. I feel like I’ve just rammed a fragile glass flower off its pedestal.
Mason shatters when he hits the water. He lands flat on his back, and the lake splashes up around him, soaking through his clothes and wetting my pants.
While I stare in horrified dismay, he looks around with jaded, dead eyes, like he’s not sure how he got down there.
This section of the beach quiets, the conversations dissolving as people turn to see the damning image of me standing there, arms extended, and Mason sitting in the shallow edge of the lake.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter out. “I didn’t mean…”
Nausea roils through me as Mason struggles to stand but only gets one leg under him before he collapses onto his knees, further drenching himself. He stares vacantly at his hands anchored in the sopping sand.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and I kneel in the water, allowing it to consume my jeans up to my thighs as I offer my hands. “I shouldn’t have—”
“My fault,” Mason whispers. “It always is. So you shouldn’t apologize.”
His lips pale the longer he sits in the water, his clothes clinging pitifully to his frame. Slowly, I wrap my fingers around his wrists and lift, unrooting him from the beach. I rise equally as slowly, waiting for him to properly plant his feet.
“Let’s go,” I say, tugging him toward the bundle of belongings behind him. He scoops them up, shaken like a wet puppy. I’ve probably ruined his night enough, but I don’t feel like I should leave him alone. “I’m taking you home.”
He doesn’t argue. He looks like he’s on autopilot, expressionless as he shivers from remnants of lake water.
That’s how I end up driving Mason Gray home.
It’s a long journey with nothing to break the silence but the soft hum of my engine. I put his seat warmer on, but Mason hugs his arms the entire time, shaking in his damp clothes.
I have so many things I want to ask. Or say. But we’re not close enough for any of them to leave my mouth. Still, it takes all my strength not to blurt something, because I know what it’s like to feel so fucking alone you might as well disappear.
Maybe I don’t need to ask anything. Maybe I just need to tell him that if he disappeared…
I would notice.
As we pull into his driveway, his body language changes. He closes in on himself and his eyes flit around the subdivision, picking apart every shadow like he’s anticipating we might be jumped. Instinctively, I prepare myself to clock a bitch, but the street is quiet and vacant.
“Well…here we are,” I say awkwardly as I guide him to his door. “Will you be okay?”
Mason’s eyes fuzz with incomprehension.
I wait a moment, then try again. “Water boy?”
The word gets his attention, and he peeks up at me. “Quarterback,” he says.
“Get inside and change into something warm.”
His focus slips down his front, where his shirt and pants cling to his purplish skin. “Okay.”
I start trailing backward, waiting for him to enter his house, but he doesn’t. Just grips the edges of his wet jersey like he’s lost all sense of direction and meaning.
“Water boy,” I say firmly.
His head quirks. “Quarterback,” he responds.
“Give me your house key.”
He does, though it takes him several seconds of fumbling through his pockets. I use it to unlock his door, then pull him into his house. Just as I’m stepping over the doorframe and back onto the porch, I feel a light touch against my wrist.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers.
I swivel toward him in astonishment. He’s staring at my feet, though his fingers are curling in around my wrist, his featherlight grip strengthening.
“I’ll call him if I’m alone,” he breathes. “Don’t leave me.”
Him? “What do you need?” I ask, closing the front door. He makes a barely audible exhale, and his shivering hand drops from mine.
“Just…stay.”
Maybe that gets a smile out of me. I hope he doesn’t notice. Cam Morelli shouldn’t smile like this for anyone. Softly. Kindly. That’s not who he is. I say:
“Then I’ll stay.”