Chapter Eighteen Cam
Chapter Eighteen
Cam
It’s my third stop of the day, so precious water boy better be grateful that I’m so kind and considerate.
But if he’s not here, I’m torching the whole gallery and then myself.
I’m tired of shipping my ass across Elwood just to return his necklace to him, especially considering I’m missing out on an unofficial practice Darius is currently running in his backyard.
He hosts those occasionally to make sure our muscles stay warm—though, it’s rare that more than five or six people actually show up.
His dedication to the sport scares even me sometimes.
I try not to think about the tingle of relief in the back of my neck at the fact that I have an excuse not to be there.
Is the length of this necklace-related journey my fault for not contacting Mason before setting out on my quest to see him, as my parents indicated when I texted them my frustrations?
No. It’s his fault for being unpredictable and elusive.
First I visit his house and meet his mother. She’s a short lady with apple-red cheeks and a surplus of hair that coils to her neckline. She answers the door with eager eyes, but when she sees me, the excitement dissolves from her features.
“Who are you?” she asks.
She doesn’t look anything like her son. She seems about as thrilled to see me as Mason usually is, which is to say, not at all. “Hi. I’m Cam Morelli. Is Mason around? I need to return something to him.”
She seems reluctant to divulge Mason’s whereabouts. Eventually, she says, “Try Annie’s Brews,” then closes the door before I can utter a thanks.
The quaint coffee shop is lively on this sunny Sunday, overflowing with high schoolers or commuter college students. My eyes rove the vicinity, seeking a beanie or curled-up figure shaky from caffeine overdose. There’s not a single Mason Gray in sight.
He must be at the gallery. Well, I’m here, so I grab him a cinnamon-twist latte with extra whipped cream. Knowing him, he’s probably had five cups this morning. Knowing him, he’s probably craving one more.
So then I’m on my merry way to the local gallery.
When I pull up to the parking lot, there’s a single car.
Probably a guest, since Mason doesn’t have a vehicle.
Did he walk here this morning? Good for him, getting in his steps, but the roads are twisty and winding—it would be safer if I drove him so he doesn’t get hit by some high schooler taking a corner too fast.
I clamber out of the car, sparks twirling in my stomach. It shouldn’t make me this nervous, the whole “dropping something off that he forgot at my house” mission, but my body is reacting like I’m on my way to assassinate my first hit to prove my worth to my father. Or something.
I stride to the gallery door, pushing inside.
Mason’s standing behind the cashier counter in fitted jeans and a turtleneck decorated with fall leaf patterns. He catches my eye, and I almost grin like a giddy fool.
Then I notice he’s not alone.
My stride scrapes to a stop. There’s a tall man behind the counter with Mason.
His clean stubble lends maturity to his features, but I think he’s in his early twenties.
His skin is smooth, his face strong and squared, his arms thick enough that I can tell he either works out or plays a college sport.
He looks like the kind of standard attractive person who’d appear on the front page of a men’s clothing catalog.
The man shifts to see me. His eyes are cool and calm, a frosty blue, but he’s wearing a giant, beaming smile that warms the air. Yet there’s something disconcerting in his stance, lax as it is, and a prickly sensation squeezes my chest.
I think I’ve interrupted something.
“Mason,” I call out, breaking through the ice gluing me to the carpet and pressing forward. It’s a clear path to the cashier’s desk, but my journey there is difficult. Every step makes me feel like my shins and calves are battling quicksand.
“Cameron,” Mason says. His eyes are two cold, empty caverns, devoid of recognition or awareness or…
anything. His fingers are curled with such visceral tightness that his knuckles are bone white.
Normally I pride myself on reading people’s moods, but the atmosphere around Mason is painfully dull and uncolored—it’s like reading a corpse.
“I brought some things,” I say, glancing awkwardly at the man beside him.
“This is Cameron? The football kid who’s working out with you?
” The man’s grin widens, still bright and welcoming.
So why is it suddenly so cold? The sparks in my stomach have been extinguished, and the air is so chilly I can almost see my breath furling out.
I nearly extend a hand to him—he seems familiar with Mason—but keep my arms down.
An invisible dome encircles them, and my gut says I shouldn’t pass through.
“Hi,” I say uneasily.
The man’s eyes plunge through mine with unnerving intensity, like he’s trying to tear into my skull. “I’ve distracted you enough, Mason. Please consider thinking over everything I’ve said.”
He walks around the counter, boots clicking fancily against the tiles. The moment Mason is outside of his reach, I hear myself exhale.
Then there’s a hand on my shoulder, so powerful that it nearly buckles my knees. His touch saps the color from my skin as he bends down a couple of inches to look directly into my eyes, his own flickering with measured resentment, that smile still arching into his face.
“Pleasure to meet you, Cameron,” he says, softly enough that only I can hear him. His breath is as cold and minty as his eyes.
He straightens up, fingertips needling into my skin beneath my jacket, before wandering off. He pauses when he’s a foot from the exit.
“Mason? One more thing.”
Mason’s staring at the countertop like he fell asleep.
“There’s a banquet coming up to celebrate my graduation and promotion,” the man says, straightening his jacket’s lapels. “Your mother RSVP’d for the three of you. If not before, I look forward to seeing you then.”
He walks out of the gallery, the bell chiming.
I want to vomit. Who was that? I feel like tendrils of invisible ice have snaked along the building walls, plunging this place into an arctic void.
My palm trembles around the cup from Annie’s Brews—I’m clenching it so hard the lid popped off.
A trail of coffee has poured over my fingers, but I can hardly feel the burn under the lingering sear of frost.
“Why are you here?” Mason asks.
It takes me a moment to remember why I drove all over town this morning. I hobble closer despite the weakness in my legs and place the coffee near his hand. “Your mom said you were at Annie’s,” I say awkwardly. “I couldn’t find you so I decided to try here. I grabbed you a cinnamon-twist latte.”
Mason blinks slow and careful, staring at the cup. “Why?” he whispers.
“I was already there, so I figured—”
“Why are you here?” Mason’s eyes shift to mine, swallowing any brightness around them.
I pluck the aquamarine out of my pocket. “You left your necklace at my place.”
He gazes at the gemstone without comment.
I skirt around the edge of the counter and hold out the clasp. “Turn around and I’ll put it on,” I say. “I’m an expert necklace hooker. My mom sucks at finding the loop, so…”
My sentence sputters off. Mason has turned and bared the back of his neck silently. Sighing, I drape it around his front, and as I start hooking the necklace, Mason’s shoulders shift down, almost imperceptibly.
“Mason,” I say.
No response.
“Water boy.”
His head quirks.
“You don’t have to wear this,” I tell him.
“I do,” he mumbles.
“Why?”
“It was an expensive gift and I need to be grateful.”
The sentiment makes me scoff, and I pull the necklace away, dumping it in a pile on the cashier counter. “The point of a gift is that you don’t owe someone for it, right?” I twirl him at the shoulders so he’s facing me.
“He got me my birthstone because he knew I’d be happy,” Mason says quietly. “I can’t be unappreciative, or…”
His voice trails off, like he doesn’t have the strength to finish his sentence.
I’m not getting through to him, so it’s a good time to put my words into practice. “I brought you something else,” I say, reaching into my jacket flap and pulling out a crinkled sheet of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A gift. A shitty one. But I figured you’d want to see.
” I smooth out the crease so he can see the painting.
It’s a dinky thing I spent time on this morning—we have old art supplies in the basement closet, so I whipped something up, doing my best to depict a looming mountain and bulky gray clouds.
The forefront features a crudely painted stick figure couple sitting in grass.
Mason takes the picture with bemusement. “Um…what is this for?”
“You said you suck at painting.” My attention wanders to the countertop, where I spot another painting far more meticulous than mine.
“See!” I cry out, gesturing to it. Mason must’ve been in the middle of making it, because it’s of a similar style to the half-finished canvas in his room.
“Your art is good. I created this garbage to show you. I didn’t even purposefully fuck it up—I’m just that untalented. ”
Mason’s dark hair is hanging in his eyes. His fingers curl in tighter around the paper’s wrinkled edges.
“It’s none of my business what you do with it, because it’s a gift,” I say, feeling sufficiently awkward amid his silence.
“I figured you could look at it whenever you’re feeling down about your art.
Because it’s just so fucking terrible. Like, I worked on it for two hours.
Diligently. I’d understand if you throw it out the moment I turn around, since it’s so ass-ugly—”
I choke on my words. Mason has set the painting aside and stumbled into my chest, hugging me. His palms tremble as they flatten against my spine and rise slowly toward my shoulder blades, like he’s trying to find where best to hang on to me.