Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The next few days pass by in a blur of flirty texts, fleeting touches, and lunchtime makeout sessions.
Logically, I know Mason’s a busy guy. He’s juggling two jobs and raising his little sister. His mom just got diagnosed with cancer. I get it. Really, I do.
And yet, every time he turns down my invitation to hang out, there’s this tiny, stupid pang of rejection in my chest.
He always lets me down gently—apologizing as he tells me he has to drop Maddie off at a sleepover, work a closing shift at the burger joint, or drive his mom to another doctor’s appointment. None of it is his fault.
But there’s a voice in the back of my head that won’t shut up. The same voice that whispered in gym class when I was picked last for dodgeball. The same voice that tore into me when I didn’t get asked to prom. The same voice that taunted me the night Travis left me.
No matter how much I want to believe Mason likes me, part of me is still bracing for the moment he realizes he made a mistake.
But tonight, he finally texts me to tell me his schedule is freed up, and he’s coming over to see me.
My body vibrates with anticipation as I scurry to the bathroom. I take a ridiculously long shower, scrubbing every nook and cranny of my body with my favorite lavender-scented soap, like I’m trying to wash away every trace of insecurity.
Afterward, I repaint my nails, fully aware Mason probably doesn’t care about that. Still, it feels like something I can control. I agonize over the color for a few minutes before eventually settling on a mossy green. Earthy. Grounding.
I change outfits three times, and nothing seems to feel right. I want to look effortless—but not too effortless. I land on an oversized T-shirt tucked into cropped jeans.
By the time there’s a knock at my door, I’ve paced the living room so much I can see my footprints embedded in the plush rug like tire tracks.
I take a deep breath, open the door, and there he is.
God, he looks like one of those ridiculously ripped models from cologne ads. He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a sleeveless tank top. His curls are extra bouncy today. I wonder if he puts any product in it.
Probably not. He’s the kind of guy who’s effortlessly attractive without trying.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“Hey.”
He steps inside, his gaze skimming over me slowly. “You smell good,” he says, already closing the distance.
He kisses me slow and easy, like we’ve got nowhere else to be. And maybe we don’t for once. Maybe we can take our time with this.
When we pull apart, I motion toward the couch. “You want to sit down? I can grab us something to drink.”
Mason drops onto the cushions and props his feet up on the coffee table. “Sure. Surprise me.”
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and take a few extra seconds to collect myself. I pour two glasses, hands shaking. I stare at one of the half-filled glasses, twirling the stem mindlessly.
I want to believe he actually finds me attractive. I want to believe I’m not just the closest warm mouth or a convenient escape from his stress, but the fear still gnaws at me relentlessly.
When I return, Mason’s leaning forward, squinting at one of the potted plants on the windowsill.
“You name your plants?“ he asks.
I freeze in my tracks. He’s inspecting the labeled wooden popsicle stick lodged into the soil.
“Um. Yes.”
He laughs. “Why is this one called Taylor Swift?”
“It’s an ivy plant,” I say as if it’s obvious. “Hedera helix. She has a song called ‘Ivy.’”
He snickers, taking the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in the process. “You’re adorable.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m not ashamed to like girly pop music.”
His grin softens as he leans in and presses a quick kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’d never make fun of you.”
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and smacks his lips together with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “This is good,” he muses, pretending to analyze the flavor like a wine connoisseur.
I hum, sitting down next to him on the couch, close enough that our knees knock together. “It’s from my favorite winery back home—Brackett Hill Vineyards.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Home as in Detroit, or Shelby Harbor?”
“Shelby Harbor,” I answer quickly. “Detroit hasn’t felt like home in a while.”
“Shelby Harbor has some great wineries and breweries,” he says, seeming to reminisce as he stares into his glass, swirling the maroon liquid.
I narrow my eyes. “How would you know? You weren’t old enough to drink when you lived there.”
He smirks. “Please. Everyone had a fake I.D. during their first couple years of college.”
I just stare at him.
His lips twitch. “Wait, you didn’t?”
“No,” I admit. “You really think I could’ve passed for twenty-one at eighteen? I still get carded constantly, and I’m twenty-three. This babyface wasn’t fooling anyone.”
He chuckles. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” I add, “I didn’t really have the typical undergrad experience. No keg stands or frat parties. Landon was into that kind of stuff, not me. He’d throw these massive ragers at our apartment, and I’d just hide in my bedroom to study with noise-canceling headphones.”
He grimaces. “Sounds miserable.”
“It wasn’t,” I say quickly, maybe a little defensively. “I like school.”
He gives me a look I can’t decipher. I stare into his eyes like I’m trying to study him.
“I missed hanging out with you these past few days,” he admits, setting his wine glass on a coaster. His hand floats to my knee, squeezing gently.
The words are simple, but they’re exactly what I needed to hear. I hold them gently in my chest, letting them soothe the ache.
“Me too.”
He kisses me again, and I fumble to set my glass aside.
There’s a hint of cherry wine on his lips, sweet and decadent.
His fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently, pulling me closer.
My hands roam up his arms, savoring the feel of him, until my fingers brush something firm and circular on the back of his arm—his CGM, tucked under a strip of medical tape.
I pull back instinctively. “Shit. Sorry.”
He takes my hand and brings it back to rest on his bicep. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt. Just don’t, like, punch my arm or anything.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” I mutter, chuckling awkwardly.
He bites his bottom lip. “Seriously. I don’t want you to be afraid to touch me however you want. You can manhandle me,” he says with a wink, but there’s a hint of raw honesty in his voice, like maybe this is a source of insecurity for him.
“Okay,” I say softly.
He must catch the hesitation in my voice, because he asks, “Would it help if I showed you how it works?”
I nod. “Yeah, I think so.”
He pulls out his phone and opens an app. A line graph lights up the screen. At the top, a bold number reads 127, with a small horizontal arrow beside it.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the sensor on his arm, “is a tiny filament under my skin. I have to change it every week or so. It checks my blood sugar every five minutes and sends it here.” He taps his phone.
“If my blood sugar gets out of range, it’ll beep.
If it’s high, I need to use my pump to give myself insulin, and if it’s low, I need sugar. ”
I stare at the sensor, trying to absorb the knowledge. “Does it hurt when you put it in?”
He snorts. “Are we still talking about my CGM?”
I groan, my face heating up. “Shut up.”
His smile melts into something more serious again. “It does hurt a little, but I’m used to it.”
“How old were you when you were diagnosed?”
“Eight,” he responds easily. “Maddie had just been born, so my parents were... kind of distracted. You know, new baby and everything. It took them a while to notice the symptoms—I was thirsty and tired all the time, and I lost a ton of weight. I was a scrawny kid. By the time they realized something was wrong, my blood sugar was over five hundred. I was in full-blown diabetic ketoacidosis—basically my body started turning my blood into acid. I got really sick.”
My eyes widen. “Jesus. That must’ve been scary.”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t remember most of my life before diabetes. This isn’t new for me. It’s just... my normal. So please don’t feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t,” I tell him earnestly. “I’m just... impressed. With how well you handle it.”
“Well,” he says, dryly, “the alternative is death. So, you know. Pretty solid motivation.”
I squint disapprovingly at his cynical humor. “You’re awful.”
“I know,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “Now, please kiss me.”
He asks politely, so I do. I lean in and kiss him slowly and intentionally, letting it build.
His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing my waist, warm and careful. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push. Just touches me like he’s trying to map out uncharted terrain.
I pull back just enough to speak. “We can, um... go upstairs, if you want to.”
He nods, a little breathless. “Yeah. I do.”
I stand and take his hand, leading him up the stairs. The house is quiet except for the soft creak of wood under our feet. When we step into my bedroom, I hate how sterile it looks. It’s too big. Too impersonal.
The king-sized bed sits neatly in the center, made with crisp white sheets and a blue comforter.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, overlooking the lake, the moonlight casting silvery streaks across the hardwood floor.
The abstract artwork hanging on the wall looks like it belongs in a hotel room.
“My apartment in Shelby Harbor has more personality,” I insist. “I didn’t bother decorating this place since it’s just… temporary.”
Temporary. The word leaks into the space between us, all-consuming.
Mason doesn’t speak. He just meets my gaze, cautious, as his thumb strokes along my cheek. Then his mouth is on mine, gentle at first, his hands slipping to my hips. He urges me back toward the mattress, pressing me down before lowering himself beside me.