Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Ever since she started a new medication, she hasn’t been drinking—the alcohol upsets her stomach.
It feels like some cruel cosmic joke: she finally sobers up, finally acts like the loving mom I used to know, only for her body to betray her.
After years of resentment, I’ve just started to enjoy her company again.
“Heading out?” she asks, her voice raspy.
“Yeah,” I say, hovering by the arm of the couch. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”
“Yes, I’m a grown woman. I’ll be fine,” she assures, then studies me for a moment. “Mason?”
“Mm?”
Her smile warms, faint but genuine. “I’m proud of you.”
Her tender words catch me off guard. My brow furrows. “Proud of me? For what?”
She shifts, tugging the blanket tighter around herself. “I overheard you talking with Maddie.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Oh.”
“I like Hunter,” she continues gently. “And you’ve seemed… different ever since you met him. Lighter. I think he’s good for you. I just… I hope you end up with someone good.”
For a second, I don’t know what to say. I blink a few times, clearing my blurry vision.
“Thanks, Mom,” I choke out.
She reaches out weakly, and I take her hand, giving it a small squeeze. Distantly, I hear the sound of tires crunching over the gravel road. I glance out the window to see Hunter’s car parked outside.
“Have fun, sweetheart,” Mom says, settling back against the pillows.
I nod, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll see you Sunday night. Call me if you need anything.”
The screen door creaks shut behind me as I step onto the front porch. Hunter’s leaning against his car, grinning the moment he sees me. He looks absolutely beautiful—oversized graphic tee, baggy jeans, black converse with rainbow laces.
“Hi,” he murmurs, lips quirking.
“Hi, babyface.” I pull him in by his waist and give him a short kiss. “Happy birthday.”
He nuzzles his nose against mine. “Thanks.”
I drop my duffle in the trunk before climbing into the passenger seat. An overstuffed tote bag rests at my feet—bottled water, a pile of candy, and right on top, a bag of ranch-flavored chips. My favorite.
“Road-trip essentials,” Hunter says, sliding behind the wheel. “Don’t say I don’t take care of you.”
A laugh leaks from my lips, soft and a little shaky. “You know me so well.”
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
I glance back at the trailer as Hunter drives away. Mom’s silhouette lingers in the window, small and fragile. My teeth catch on the inside of my cheek before I force myself to look ahead.
Hunter flicks his eyes toward me. “Did you forget something? Want me to turn back?”
I shake my head and reach across the console, covering his hand where it rests on the shifter. “No,” I say firmly, a grin tugging at my mouth. “Let’s get out of Dodge.”
***
As Hunter zooms down the crowded highway, weaving through packed traffic, he remains remarkably calm. He’s probably used to it, having grown up here, but city driving is not for the weak. My knuckles grip the edge of my seat.
His phone lights up on the massive touchscreen, flashing a photo of an older woman: warm brown skin lined with wrinkles, straight silver hair, eyes crinkled into a smile. The name Obaachan glows beneath it.
“Sorry, it’s my grandmother. She’s probably calling to wish me happy birthday,” Hunter says, thumb tapping the green icon.
“Moshi moshi!” he answers brightly.
Her voice fills the car through the speakers—soft, melodic, rolling with syllables I don’t understand. Hunter laughs at something she says, then responds smoothly in Japanese, his voice lower, more careful, like he’s savoring the words.
I blink.
What. The. Fuck.
Hunter speaks Japanese? And of course, instead of sounding nerdy or awkward, he makes it seem effortless—sexy, even. My chest feels tight.
The conversation continues for a couple minutes. His grandmother’s tone is warm, and his replies are patient and quick. He switches to English only to say, “Love you, Obaachan,” before hanging up.
I’m still staring at him like he just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “I didn’t know you spoke Japanese.”
Hunter glances at me, surprised. “Oh, yeah, I guess it just never came up.” He shrugs casually, eyes back on the road. “My obaachan doesn’t speak English very well, so I learned it in middle school.”
“That’s…” My voice cracks, and for one horrifying second, I consider throwing myself out of the moving car just to escape the embarrassment. I clear my throat. “That’s ridiculously hot. I didn’t think your whole smart-guy thing could get any hotter, but you never cease to amaze me.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a smug smirk. He rattles off another phrase in Japanese, smooth as silk.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you just say?”
His smirk widens. “Kiss me.”
My heart slams against my ribs. The car is barreling down the highway at seventy-five miles an hour, but somehow the most dangerous thing here is him—his voice, his grin, the way he says it like a challenge.
So I lean across the seat, closing the distance between us, and do exactly as he asked.