Chapter Eighteen Cam #3
His right hand has been rooted on my chest, but he loses the strength to keep it up, because it collapses into his lap, joining the other.
“I want someone to…” It almost sounds like he’s choking on the words—like he’s afraid that if he speaks them in full, he’s going to be punished.
He’s blinking faster now, and I realize that despite his unwavering expression, his eyes are wet again.
Suddenly, he shoves his hands over his face.
“You can say it,” I assure him, my thumbs moving to stroke the backs of his fingers.
“Ridiculous,” he rasps.
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“Pathetic.”
“It’s not. You’re not.”
Mason’s fingers claw into his own face like he wants to rip it off.
It’s causing his skin to flare red, so I gather his wrists and pull so he can no longer conceal his expression.
His eyes and nose are cherry red and his face is drawn with such visceral pain that it drives a stake of nausea through my stomach.
“I want to disappear,” he croaks. The water becomes too thick to blink away.
Several shimmering droplets escape his lashes, sliding down his pearly cheeks.
Those agonized words are like shivs to my heart.
I tighten my grip around his hands, working my fingers through his, digging them deep into his skin.
“You’re not allowed to,” I mutter. “You’re stuck here, and worse, you’re stuck with me.
So tell me what you really want, or I’ll keep holding you hostage. Like in the corn maze.”
The reference jogs him, and his glazed stare sharpens.
“You said you want someone to…what?” I prompt.
He looks at his own hands wrapped in mine for several seconds. One more blink causes a torrent of tears to scour his cheeks. “I want someone to be gentle with me,” he cries.
I stand there quietly.
“I’m tired,” he chokes out, bending his head forward and resting it defeatedly against my collar.
“I make everything worse, no matter what I do, no matter how many times I try to change, no matter how often I say I’m sorry or that I’ll be better or that I’ll make it up to them.
I can’t smile right. I can’t walk right.
I can’t wear the right clothes or say the right things or bruise the right way.
I want…I w-want someone to not be so angry with me…
I want someone to be gentle…when they look at me and touch me… and kiss me…”
He takes two fistfuls of my jacket and pulls, like he wants to bury himself in it. I oblige, leaning into him, gathering him against my chest because I’m not sure what else to do.
“It’s scary, wanting to kiss you,” he whispers.
“Why?” I mumble into the top of his head.
“Because you’re gentle.” His voice is frail and nearly incoherent against my jacket. “But you’re also fake. Is this an act, or do you mean the things you say? Are you kind because you want something, or because you’re genuinely kind? If…if it’s all a lie…”
“It’s not.” I tug him away by the sides of his head so I can peer into his eyes, my own stinging with water as well.
He feels so lonely, so tired, so beaten.
Seeing him like this is agonizing to me, because I get it.
Maybe not to his extent, but this helplessness, this desire for such a simple thing—for someone, anyone, to just be kind…
I understand.
“It’s not a lie,” I tell him, cradling his damp face in my palms. “I promise. Let me show you.”
He deliberates for half a second before losing interest, the emotion fleeing his face as quickly as it came. His hands fall limply to the counter at his sides, and he says, “Okay.”
Suddenly, I understand why the laundry list of reasons I like him didn’t faze him. I understand why my words aren’t helping. I vividly recall the moment he winced away in my basement yesterday.
I promise is something he’s heard before. Probably several times. I’d wager that every time someone has offered that to him, they’ve inevitably broken it.
I move in again, fingers threading through his onyx locks. Mason’s eyes slide shut and his head arches back, preparing to receive another kiss. And I want to. Desperately. But I don’t think that’s what he needs right now.
So I press my lips gently to his forehead.
Mason’s body seizes up, like I’ve electrocuted him.
For a long, arduous moment, the world is still.
I stay rooted there, refusing to budge, trying to pour as much warmth and comfort into him as I can.
He gives a pitifully shaky exhale as I shift my lips to the top of his head, nestling them into his hair.
I think, maybe, I’ve startled him again.
He chokes on a quiet sob. His hands drag along the counter, and I wonder if he’s going to lift them to grip my wrists. To hold my palms against his face, maybe. Or to wrap his arms around my back.
I won’t ever know for sure.
Because his fingers stumble over a silver chain.
The warmth stirring between us flickers out, like the flame in his eyes. Mason’s gaze fogs over and his shortened breaths lengthen as if he’s passing out.
Immediately, I draw back, pulling my hands away.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice light and weightless. “I should get back to work.”
He scoops the aquamarine necklace off the counter and puts it on.
“Mason…” I clear my throat as he hops down and collects a feather duster from the shelf. “That man from earlier…is he—”
“Your transcript looks good,” Mason interrupts. “You’ll probably be able to get back on the field this week. So keep up with studying, even when I’m not with you.”
…Okay.
I recognize that present-but-not stare. I used to see it in a mirror every morning during middle school.
Mom would have to physically pull me out of bed, and on certain days when she didn’t have the patience, she’d leave me there.
This was a point of tension with Dad, who’d wake to find messages from the school and his son still lying in bed, flat-faced.
I’ve never shaken the remembrance of that feeling. That all-consuming nothingness. What pulled me out of it? Those dayslong funks I would sink into, aware but not comprehending a thing, feeling separate from my body and pulled onward by life…
Faintly, I remember the sound of my bed creaking. Mom curling up next to me, her fingers kneading through my hair. “Cammy,” she would whisper. “I know it’s hard to live right now, baby. I’m here for you. Dad and I will work something out.”
It didn’t absolve me of that aching barrenness, but her presence got me through things. Is that what Mason needs? My reassurances aren’t enough, so is this the missing puzzle piece?
I know deep in my soul that putting this much care into Mason’s situation is going to fully shatter the image of who Cam Morelli is supposed to be.
But I don’t care.
I really, really don’t fucking care anymore.
“Can you leave that spot?” Mason doesn’t look at me as he haphazardly wipes the back of an easel. “If an artist comes in and sees a stranger behind the counter—”
His voice is swallowed by my jacket as I lunge forward and swathe him in a hug, arms folding him back against me. Mason’s body stiffens yet again. I realize it’s not cool to take someone by surprise, so I hurl backward just as quickly.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “It just seems like you could use…I don’t know. Sorry. If you need anything, text me. Or call me. I’ll be there.”
I leave before I can determine whether his reaction is negative or positive.
Journal #8—April 19
It’s not a big deal. I’m not sure why I’m writing about it. My gut says I should anyway?
The other day I was mad. He drove drunk to my house.
I tried telling him how upset that made me, but I should’ve let him sober up, because he was just trying to kiss me, saying he couldn’t help it because he missed me.
I got angrier, and I tried to shove him away.
But my hand hit his jaw and snapped his head back. Should’ve been more careful.
This man is STRONG. Seriously. I’m glad I’ll be well protected when we’re married. He knocked me flat on my ass with one hit, ha ha. It was embarrassing. But I get it. I hurt him first and he was drunk. Thankfully it happened on Friday so my face has time to heal before school.
He’s stayed all weekend to hold the ice packs. He keeps crying like he did something wrong. It was just self-defense though. He’s in the kitchen making grilled cheese. Even after what I did, he’s being nice enough to keep me company and make me lunch? I’m surprised he didn’t break our engagement.
Things are good! We want an October wedding.
He knows I love autumn.