Chapter Thirteen Mason
Chapter Thirteen
Mason
I don’t know how I’m still awake. I also don’t know why Cameron is humoring me so late.
I drink two full glasses of water, take a brief shower to scrub the lake water off me, change into flannel pajamas, and brush my teeth.
I don’t throw up, which is damn lucky, though there’s always tomorrow morning, when I’ll be inevitably hungover.
All the while, my hands itch to find my phone.
Whenever it vibrates, it doubles in weight, causing my posture to sag.
I’m better than that worthless man I was. And I’ll stay better. For you.
Those words have been swirling between my ears all night. I don’t believe them. But I want to. I want to so badly.
“Are you sure?” Cameron asks.
I blink, orienting myself, and realize I’m lying under my covers while Cameron stands beside me, dressed in boxers. Why did he strip? “Am I sure about…what?” I squeak, my low body temperature correcting itself comedically quickly.
“That we can share your bed.” He looks strangely earnest. I’m used to Cameron wearing a cocky grin and winking more than he blinks. His greenish-blue eyes glimmer like water under the golden aura of my bedside lamp, and his highlighted hair is appropriately stirred from beach wind.
I’m so busy staring that I forget he asked a question until he raises an unruly eyebrow and says, “I know I’m attractive, but I’m standing in my undies and getting cold and perky, so can I squeeze in or not?”
“Why are you in your underwear?” I choke out.
“Your clothes didn’t fit me and my pants are wet. Remember?”
Well, it’s not like I haven’t seen him in a more compromising state (that being when he was in practically translucent underwear after being shoved in Ravi’s inflatable pool), so I say, “Okay.”
Cameron crawls over me to slip into the opposite side of the bed, his corded football muscles shifting here there and everywhere.
He splays out on his back beneath the comforter, the heat of his body a mere foot from mine.
I only have a full-size mattress, which could fit two lanky people without issue, but it’s different having a bulky guy with a broad wingspan beside me.
I watch the ceiling swim, keeping my eyes anchored on a little divot to keep from getting dizzy. Then my phone buzzes, and I reach out, too tempted not to look.
“You like photography?” Cameron asks.
My hand pauses midair. I tilt my head sideways in confusion.
“You have a fancy camera,” he points out. “And a guitar. And a paint set. Did you make these pictures on your walls? How can you say you’re boring when you can do shit like that?”
He sounds so sincere that I burst into giggles. I squirm onto my side so I can peer at him through the dark. “Those pictures were given to me by artists since I watch the gallery for them sometimes. I’m not talented enough to make my own pictures.”
“What’s the canvas and paint supplies for?” he asks.
“They’re dried out. Haven’t used them in a while.”
“Why?”
I’m not sure why he’s pushing so hard. Does he feel that awkward lying in silence?
“I’m not very good,” I say with a shrug.
“I don’t have an eye for it. Same goes for the camera.
None of my pictures are worth taking. The guitar is…
” I clear my throat, wishing my lungs would open so I wouldn’t feel like I’m gasping for air.
“I thought it would be fun, but I’m useless with it. ”
“That picture you started painting looks good, though.” Cameron furrows his brows. “The silhouette of a tree against the sunset. Why stop halfway through?”
The compliment burns my cheekbones. I almost want to turn and assess it—is it better than I remember?
“The branches were too thick and the colors didn’t blend,” I say mechanically.
“Someone pointed out that the lines were uneven because my hands are too shaky. Because of all the coffee. Which also applies to photography and guitar.”
That should be explanation enough, but he stares like I’ve only further bewildered him. “I’m not an artsy guy, but I didn’t notice uneven lines,” he says. “Besides, isn’t the point of hobbies to have fun?”
“It’s not fun when you realize how bad you are,” I mumble.
“Well, if you want to get good at something, you should put your entire ass into practicing or you’ll be disappointed,” he snaps. “It’s like working out. You won’t be ripped after the first set of curls—why are you laughing? I’m being so serious.”
I’m laughing hard enough that my stomach is cramping. I clutch my abdomen with one palm and shield my face with the other. “I know you’re serious, and that’s the tragedy of it all,” I choke out.
“You’re drunk. Go to sleep.”
“Yes. And no.”
He wrenches his pillow from beneath his head and thwacks me. “All I’m saying is that your painting looks great and you should finish it, but also if you don’t like the picture but still enjoy painting then you should practice until it looks the way you want.”
The words tumble out of his mouth in a disorienting rush that makes me feel like my head is spinning. Somehow, I manage to decipher them, and my heart warms. “You really think it looks okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Call me whatever, but I’m not a liar.” He clears his throat. “I used to spend half my free time painting rocks when I was a kid, and I can promise you none of them look nearly as good as the picture you started. You have talent.”
He tries to say this indifferently, but there’s a level of strain behind his words that makes me feel like he either had to choke them out, or he unsuccessfully tried to hold them back. “Painting rocks?” I ask with a tiny smile.
He shrugs. Apparently not willing to elaborate.
“What did you paint on them?” I press anyway, because I want to know more about such a strangely cute fact.
“Forget you heard that.”
“Impossible. It’s permanently tattooed to my brain now. ‘Big beef-brained jock Cameron Morelli likes to paint rocks.’ ”
“Used to!” he croaks defensively.
I think, if he was my boyfriend, I would probably try to kiss the mortification off his face. “Please tell me you painted eyes and a mustache on one of them,” I plead.
He opens his mouth to yell at me. Then snaps it shut.
“Oh my God, you did,” I breathe, and I can’t stop myself from laughing again, tossing my hands up over my face. “Do you still have it? Please, can I buy it from you? I promise I’ll put it on my nightstand so I can cherish it every day.”
“I’d rather swallow it.”
“Cameron Morelli, you cruel, selfish tyrant.”
Cameron grimaces at me. “You’re more annoying when you’re drunk,” he snaps.
“What? No, no, you’re just being funnier than usual,” I tell him, smiling wider behind my hands. “Sometimes it’s fun to poke you like a water balloon and watch you dance.”
I’m probably being insufferable, confirmed when he literally starts squirming with aggravation beside me, like he’s resisting the urge to push me off the bed. “I genuinely can’t believe I have to lie here and accept your verbal violence,” he mutters.
“Find a way to shut me up,” I suggest.
Cameron gives me such a suspicious look that I dissolve into laughter again. This only worsens when he flatly says, “Give me your wet sock. I want to see how far back into your mouth I can shove it.”
I gasp, trying to sound offended, but follow this up with another uncontainable grin. “Cameron Morelli, how vulgar of you.”
“Can you stop saying my full name? It’s creeping me the fuck out,” he snaps, and it revs up my fit of laughter once again.
As I struggle to breathe, I can’t help but notice that he’s shifted onto his side toward me, his head braced in his propped palm, and he’s staring at the hands concealing my mouth. Like he’s trying to see through them.
“Oh, Cameron Morelli,” I say wistfully, to which he spits a cuss at me. “I think you’re not the big, goofy jock you say you are.”
He huffs in protest. “What would you call me, then, if not a sexy jock with a great ass?”
“I’ve never called you that,” I remind him. “Not once.”
“You’ve probably thought it, though.”
Which is beside the point. “You surprise me,” I admit, snuggling deeper into the bed, the tremors of uncontrollable laughter finally fading away.
Though, I still can’t seem to get warm after my kiss with the lake.
“You open your mouth and I think you’re going to talk about how many people you’ve dicked, but then you say something thoughtful.
Or I think you’ll make our study location at some arena, but you take me somewhere with vegetarian options you’ve already tested. ”
Cameron scoffs like I insulted him. “It’s normal behavior.”
“Going out of your way for someone else is thoughtful. Taking me to Burger King is thoughtful. Spending the night with me is thoughtful.” My voice fractures over the last sentence, and I realize my eyes are stinging. Oh no. I’m not going to cry again, am I?
Cameron’s expression softens like warming chocolate. “Hey, water boy.”
“Mm?”
“Who hurt you?”
I stare at him. He stares back, perfectly nonchalant.
“Why would you ask something like that?” I mutter, twisting onto my back to return my gaze to the ceiling. Does he think we’re suddenly best friends because we’ve spent a few hours together? Does he not realize how invasive he sounds?
“You’ve been wild tonight,” he says, unfazed by my annoyance. He’s still propped up on his elbow, facing me, waiting for me to look at him. It won’t happen. “I don’t think you’re acting like yourself.”
I squirm so my back is to him, glaring at the darkened canvases nailed to the wall. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” I ask coldly.
He doesn’t answer for a while. I’ve probably irritated him with that comment.
But I still feel him eyeing me, like he’s hoping I’ll blurt a tragic backstory to him in my drunkenness.
“Look, don’t say anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he says, reading my mind, “but it seems like you could use a talk. I’m here, so I thought I’d offer myself up. ”