Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
I rub a blade of beach grass between my fingers, inspecting for jagged chew marks. There’s a species of invasive beetle that’s been wreaking havoc on native plants lately. I may be a vegetarian, but whenever I see their evil little metallic-green bodies, I stomp them to death without hesitation.
The beach is busy this afternoon, especially for a weekday.
Mason’s in the tower, scanning the lake with his usual steady focus.
He looks annoyingly sexy up there—bronzed skin, curls tucked under his red visor, swim trunks tight around his muscular thighs.
I can’t wait to kiss his stupid, perfect face during his lunch break.
The sound of flip-flops slapping through sand pulls me out of my daydream. A middle-aged man ambles away from the beach, towel slung over his shoulder, shirtless and sunburned to the shade of a boiled lobster. His hairy beer belly protrudes over the waistband of his swim trunks.
He’s drinking from a styrofoam cup, sucking noisily through a straw. Ice rattles against the sides as he swishes the last melted bits around. Then, without hesitation, he lets the cup fall to the ground.
I stare for a second, waiting for him to stop and correct his mistake, but he doesn’t. He’s already walking away.
I tuck my pencil behind my ear and stand from my crouch. “Hey! You dropped something.”
He glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “Nah, I’m good.”
My pulse picks up. “No, you’re not. You left your garbage right there.” I point toward the white cup lying in the sand.
The sharpness in my voice startles me—I’m not usually bold like this. Even with nerves buzzing under my skin, the urge to protect what matters wins out. It’s easier to stand up for nature than it is to stand up for myself.
It reminds me of the night I first met Mason. He was intimidatingly attractive, stand-offish, clearly annoyed with my pestering. And still, I couldn’t let him trample a Pitcher’s Thistle, even unintentionally. My stomach had been a knot of anxiety, but I couldn’t let it slide.
A scowl creases the man’s sunburned face. “Chill out, dude. It’s no big deal.”
Heat prickles the back of my neck. “Tell that to the birds and the fish. We’ve already got enough trash in the lake without you adding to it.”
He barks out a humorless laugh. “What are you, some kind of litter cop?”
“No.” I keep my voice level, even though my chest is starting to feel tight. “I’m just not a disgusting slob.”
He takes a step closer, looming over me. “You trying to start something with me, pretty boy?”
I scowl up at him, refusing to back down. “Pick it up.”
His lips curl into a threatening grimace. “And what if I don’t, huh? What are you gonna do about it, faggot?”
The word hits sharp in my chest, but before I can react, a large shadow falls across the sand beside me.
“Is there a problem here?”
Mason’s voice is low and calm, but there’s a commanding undertone to it. Like he wants to establish that he’s not fucking around.
I glance sideways. He’s damp from the heat, tank top plastered to his broad frame, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He rolls back his shoulders, subtly widening them to make his presence seem even bigger.
The man’s gaze flickers between us, nostrils flaring.
“Just telling the pretty boy here to mind his own business,” he mutters.
Mason’s jaw ticks. “You know, there’s a trash can right over there,” he says, pointing to the bin on the boardwalk. “Or are you just too lazy to walk the extra ten feet?”
The man’s eyebrows pinch together. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Mason grumbles.
Tense silence hangs in the air as the man squints at Mason, fists balled at his sides like he’s weighing his chances.
Of course, the odds aren’t in his favor. I have no doubt that Mason could lay him out flat with a single punch.
“Alright, then,” he mutters, snatching the cup from the sand. He stomps to the boardwalk and tosses it into the bin with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Mason replies flatly.
The man mutters something under his breath and storms toward the parking lot.
I exhale, shoulders finally dropping.
Mason turns to me, his fingers grazing my elbow—light, but steadying. He slips his sunglasses off and hooks them on the collar of his tank top, his eyes warm and intent on me.
“You okay?” he asks gently. “I heard what he said to you.”
I nod, even though my pulse is still thudding in my ears. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for stepping in. You didn’t have to, though. I had it handled.”
“Maybe so,” he says, “but this is my beach too. I don’t like people treating it like a dumpster any more than you do.”
“I hate guys like that,” I say through clenched teeth.
His lips curve into a sympathetic smile. “Me too.”
I sigh, tucking my hands into my shorts pockets. “Lunch? I’m starving.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
We walk to the shed in silence, keeping some space between us on the trail. A cool breeze stirs the leaves overhead, rustling softly. Mosquitoes buzz annoyingly around my head, and I swat them away with a flick of my hand.
After unlocking the shed, we slip inside. It’s dark and grimy, cluttered with tools and lawn equipment. But over the past week, it’s become our private hideaway.
“Come here,” Mason urges, arms opening wide.
I don’t hesitate. I step into his chest, pressing my face into his shoulder. The sting of tears prickles behind my eyes. I know I shouldn’t care about a random balding bigot calling me a slur, but his voice still echoes in my ears, taunting me.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Mason murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
I sniff, stepping back and swiping at my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says firmly. Then his mouth quirks. “That guy was right about one thing, though.”
I look up at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“You are a pretty boy,” he says with a smirk.
I snort, a small laugh breaking through the heaviness. “I don’t think he meant it as a compliment.”
He cups my cheek. “Well, I do.”
He leans down and kisses me, silencing the madness in my mind. The world narrows to just the sensation of his lips sliding against mine, warm and inviting.
Then, a loud beep shatters the moment.
Mason breaks away, cursing under his breath. He pulls out his phone and groans.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Fucking low blood sugar.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because we were kissing.”
“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control, Mason.”
He ignores me. He sinks to the floor, cross-legged, lunchbox in his lap. He pulls out a roll of Smarties, crinkles the wrapper open, and tips the whole thing into his mouth. His jaw works, tight with frustration.
I lower myself beside him, resting a hand on his knee. “You okay?”
He fusses with his curls, sighing. “I’m fine. Just frustrated with my broken pancreas, I guess.”
I squeeze his knee, keeping quiet while he stares into the distance and chews. His fingers twitch as he unwraps another roll of candy.
“Is there anything I can do to help you right now?” I ask, hating how useless I feel.
Mason is the first person I’ve met with type one diabetes, and other than the brief Google search I did after we first hooked up, I’m clueless.
“No,” he says, throat bobbing. “Just… stay here, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His fingers shake as he rips open the roll of Smarties. He pops a handful into his mouth, chewing quickly like he’s forcing himself to swallow. His breathing comes out in short, shallow puffs of air.
“Smarties are my go-to low snack,” he says after a moment, his words syrupy slow. “I buy ‘em in bulk after Halloween every year when they’re on sale. They’re cheaper than the glucose tablets from the pharmacy, and they don’t taste like chalk.”
I smile gently, smoothing my palm across his forearm. His skin feels clammy, the muscles underneath twitching like they can’t settle. We sit in silence for a few minutes as he stares at the floor, pupils blown wide and unfocused, as though his brain is a few beats behind his body.
I squeeze his knee. “Is your blood sugar coming back up yet?”
He pulls out his phone, the screen glowing pale against his face. A small graph flashes green, an arrow pointing upward.
“Yup,” he sighs softly. “Better now. Thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”
He pauses, staring at the floor. “You didn’t leave me.”
My brow furrows. “Why would I?”
He just shrugs, pulling out a ham sandwich and taking a large bite. The silence between us feels heavy, like there’s more he wants to say, but I let it go.
I unpack my own lunch—a bowl of pesto and veggie pasta salad—and take off the lid. I stab a green spiraled noodle with my fork and pop it in my mouth, the fresh flavor bursting on my tongue.
He wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck is that green shit?”
“Pesto.”
“Pasta shouldn’t be green. It should only ever be covered in tomato sauce or cheese,” he says, shuddering in disgust.
I laugh, poking the veggies with my fork. “You sure have strong opinions about food, Mase. First ranch, now pesto.”
“I’m passionate,” he defends. “And that shit looks radioactive.”
I pout. “Don’t be mean. I made this from scratch.”
He gawks at me. “You made that?”
A small smile tugs on my lips. “Yeah. I love cooking.”
“I’m a terrible cook,” Mason grunts. “Most nights, Maddie and I just eat frozen pizzas or chicken nuggets.”
I grimace. “Ugh, gross. You should let me cook for you sometime.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’ll force me to eat vegetables.”
I giggle and nudge his shoulder playfully. “A little fiber won’t kill you.”
He chews his sandwich thoughtfully. “Tell you what—find a recipe that includes ranch, and I’ll let you cook for me tonight. Candlelight, tablecloth, the works.”
I grin. “Oh, you’ll let me?”
“Yes. I’m a very generous guy.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And what’s in it for me?”
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and leans in, lips ghosting over my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “I’ll bring the dessert.”