Chapter Seventeen Mason
Chapter Seventeen
Mason
Because you should do things that make you happy, even if you think you’re bad at them.
I smirk at the watercolor picture I’ve been doodling, Cameron’s earnest words humming in my ears.
I think it looks okay. Or I’m too distracted thinking about him to notice the flaws.
The kindness hidden in his words. The way his eyes sparkle like pools of tropical water tinged a pleasant green.
The way the muscles flex in his shoulders, the way his hand sprawled against the back of my neck last night, so big but so gentle and careful.
I couldn’t handle it. The way he was holding me was too sweet.
For a moment, I was convinced that he cared about me.
I realize I’m smiling widely and my hand is rising to cover it. I know I shouldn’t. The gallery opened an hour ago, and it’s a Sunday morning, so I’m alone. The painters like to leave their calm, unbusy mornings and evenings to me.
I love it here. The vast windows overlook the lake, and autumn-gray light floods the building, making the need for overhead fluorescents unnecessary.
Plus, I get to study my favorite paintings and imagine where I’d make room for them in my house.
Or in my college dorm room, if I go. Though, I’m not sure what I’d pursue—I’m a good student, but my aspirations…
When I try to come up with something, my brain gets hazy and sluggish.
What do I want to do with my life? I’ve never thought about it because a future has always been promised to me. I never knew what it would look like, only that it involved us being together. Married. Moved in. And I’d be free to do what I wanted.
Within reason.
I massage my ring finger, loosening it before reclaiming the paintbrush.
The picture isn’t innovative. I haven’t painted in months, so I’m just doing an exercise to rekindle the warmth in my frigid hands, depicting a sun sinking into ocean waves.
Part of me hopes Cameron will see it. Maybe I’ll bring it to our next study session.
Maybe he’ll show me his old rock collection.
The door jingles. Immediately, I lurch off my seat behind the register and plaster a friendly smile on my face. “Good morn—”
It’s him.
His ice-blue irises carve through my body and inject frost into my veins. My limbs lock at my sides as his glacial presence washes over me, plundering me of warmth.
“Mason!” His grin stretches the skin around his sharp, stubbled jawline. “Your mom said you’d be here.”
He’s wearing a wool trench coat atop a collared sweater and slacks, as though he’s prepared for a formal event. The only thing he ever leaves in disarray are his fine, soft dark-brown curls I could never stop running my hands through.
“This place is so cute. Definitely your vibe,” he says with a gentle laugh.
“But are you here alone? That doesn’t seem safe.
” His gaze wanders the establishment, hands nestled in his jacket pockets, eyes tinged with disapproval.
“You’re only seventeen. And small. Shouldn’t someone help you watch the shop? ”
I don’t realize how tightly my hands are clenched until a dull ache pulses up my wrist. I’m holding my paintbrush so fiercely it’s causing my knuckles to throb.
He’s wandering closer, one step at a time, pretending the artwork is intriguing.
My eyes flit to the swinging glass door—it’s the only exit, and he’s in the middle of my route to it.
The left side of the cashier counter is cemented into the wall, so I have to loop around the right unless I vault over it.
He props himself on the edge of the counter farther from me, expression pleasantly chipper. “That’s cute,” he says, nodding to my picture.
I look down at it. The sun is too misshapen. I oversaturated the color of the waves.
“You’re not going to talk?” His dark, kempt brows meet at the center of his forehead. “I thought you were going to start responding to my texts, but you still won’t even do that. Why are you acting like we’re strangers?”
His desolate tone spears through the cracked, frail defenses encircling my heart. Guilt leaks from my chest, pouring into the rest of my body.
“Have you at least thought about what I said?” he pleads. “Won’t you consider my apology? I don’t want everything to be thrown away because I made poor decisions during a bad time in my life. You used to be excited when you saw me.”
His marble-white hand inches over the counter toward mine, still clenched painfully tight around the paintbrush.
“You told me you wished you could wear your ring in public,” he whispers. “You told me your mom finally seemed happy about something. I know I’ve made mistakes, but I also know I meant something to you. And maybe I still do.”
The more he talks, the further I fall into a daze, slackening my grip on my mental fortifications. His voice is so low and compelling. I used to joke that he could spend his life narrating books—that his voice could draw any reader to any genre. He’s good at luring.
“The ring looked good on you,” he says softly. “It made me feel incredible. Knowing you wanted to spend your life with me…”
“Or knowing you had me on a more permanent leash?” I mutter.
I don’t know where the words come from or why they sound like that, varnished with an anger I’m incapable of feeling. They leave a scorching hot feeling in my lungs, like they were coated in bile.
“That’s how you feel?” His voice quiets. Unlike my mom, whose voice rises with her anger, his does the opposite. I’d always considered it one of his green flags. “That I proposed to trap you? Don’t be immature. You broke our engagement off without batting an eye.”
The word “immature” clangs around in my head, sparking irritated heat.
“You thought you could do whatever you wanted the moment you had me tied down,” I snap.
After all the things he said and did, simply because he thought he could get away with them since we were secretly engaged, since my mom supported us…
“Don’t do this, Mason.” Aggravation flashes across his irises.
They’re always so cold in contrast to the warm, inviting atmosphere he brings to everyone else around him.
“You always assume the worst of me. I loved you in every way that I could. I drove all the way home from college just to get you out of your parents’ house at night.
I brought you gifts, took you on extravagant dates, listened to you rant. How can you think that way about me?”
He lists everything rapid-fire, like he’s been waiting for the moment to remind me of the things he used to do for me. More poisonous guilt clouds through my body, because he’s right. Why am I even arguing with him? He’s always right. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“We wouldn’t have this many problems if you would just listen to me and think things through before acting on your emotions.”
“…Sorry.”
“I know I haven’t been the best version of myself around you, but you never gave me the space or time to grow. You cut me off when things got difficult.”
“…Sorry.”
He massages his forehead with weariness, then swings his legs over the counter and joins me, scooping me into a gentle hug, slotting me into his arms. “I didn’t come here to scold you,” he whispers, his lengthy fingers dragging through my hair.
He smells of warm, spiced cinnamon. He knows it’s one of my favorite scents.
His palm unfolds against the back of my neck, holding my head to his shoulder, much more frigid than the one that was there yesterday.
“I’m not upset, I promise. So stop shaking, okay? ”
“…Sorry.”
“I adore you. And part of you knows that you’ll never stop loving me. I’m not giving up on you, Mason.”
…
“Hear me out. Please. Is there anyone who will love you the way I do? I promised to protect you, support you. I know your soul like the back of my hand. Genuinely, is there someone else who could be there for you? Who could fall for you?”
…
“Girls want bigger men who can protect them, so being bisexual doesn’t do you any favors. And guys—muscly guys, who are your type—always look for prey like you. You’re small and defenseless. Your face is seductive. They’ll try to mistreat you. But I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
…
“Even if there was someone out there with good intentions, would they be capable of falling for you? You told me I bring out your good qualities. Do you think other people can see them without me? Do you think they’ll be patient enough to wait for you to leave your shell, like I was?”
…
“You’re not wearing my necklace.”
His sentence is a scythe that slashes through my lethargic stupor and sinks my heart, which has been treading water since he stepped through the door. Instinctively, my fingers fumble along my neckline, seeking the jewelry.
It’s gone.
My stomach twists into nauseating knots. I try to keep the panic from showing, but he notes the shift in my expression, because his jawline tenses. “You lost it?” he asks.
“No.” I’m barely audible. “I didn’t…”
“Is it not a good enough apology gift? I had it custom-made for you.” His hand slides slowly down my face to nestle against the curve of my neck. He doesn’t sound angry, but he rarely does when he’s upset. He’s good at masking it, until he’s not.
“It’s at a friend’s house,” I say, though the air is so thin in my lungs I can barely push the words out. “I was working out with someone and—”
“Why do you look like that?” he asks, his thumb notching beneath my jawline.
One of his brows is arched, almost accusingly.
“I told you I’ve changed, so you don’t need to act so dramatic, okay?
I’m curious, that’s all.” His thumb works deeper, like he’s trying to push the answer out of my throat.
“Who were you working out with? You hate exercise.”
“Just a friend.” I’m still whispering. “He made me a regimen.”
“Oh? Who’s this friend? You must be close if he’s making a specialized plan for you,” he says, his thumb now trailing my jawbone. I hate the urge to lean into his touch. He’s being gentle right now, and if I show him I appreciate it, maybe he’ll stay like this.
“Some guy I’m tutoring from the football team,” I mumble.
“A football player.” He speaks with perfect neutrality, but a tense atmosphere is building around his shoulders. “I take it he’s a bigger guy? Popular? Knows how to work out?”
“I guess.” I don’t know why that matters, but he tends to fixate on meaningless details.
Sure enough, my confirmation further displeases him, and his hand drops to dangle at his side. “I haven’t even met him and I know he’s taking advantage of you,” he says with a frustrated shake of his head. “Honestly, Mason…why won’t you let me protect you?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, voice sharpening. Just a bit. “Cameron isn’t taking advantage of me. He’s paying a favor back.”
“Let me guess—his plan involves touching you?”
I want to protest, but the words are wedged in my throat. Last night comes flooding back in a surge of feelings. His lips on my jaw, his arm around my waist, his fingers on my nape.
“Mm.” He takes my silence as confirmation and steps back, disappointed. I almost follow him, wanting to plead my case. But why should I? He’s not my fiancé anymore, not even my boyfriend. So why do I feel guilty, like he caught me cheating?
The door chimes.
Suddenly, I remember where I am. The foggy bubble wrapped around us pops, and the world swims back into focus, allowing the daylight to flood back into my eyes. I take a shuddery breath of relief—one that he notices—and look over his shoulder.
It’s Cameron.