37. Simone #2
I try to stay on the fun side of it all, though, taking more shots, dancing like no one’s around, and having a good time with Lani, trying not to think about how Lydia isn’t here with us.
No Hands by Waka starts playing, and I pull Lani up with me onto the pool table, even though some kids are in the middle of a game.
We’re dancing, laughing, and shouting lyrics like we have no care in the world right now.
I love this feeling. I love not caring.
I feel Lani laugh beside me as she tugs my dress down so I’m not flashing everyone at the party, and a crowd has started to pack themselves into this room, everyone wanting to see the show we’re putting on.
I stop dancing when I see Lani being pulled off the pool table.
“Sandro! You’re such a buzz kill!” Lani shouts at her brother. “How do you end up at every single party I’m actually enjoying?”
I’m quickly distracted when I feel a hand on my leg and look down to see Mason with his hand extended out for me to take and get down.
The sleeve of his shirt rides up, and from this high up, I can see a tattoo peeking out on the inside of his bicep I’ve never seen. I can’t make it out fully, but it looks like little wings, maybe?
“Come on,” he says, pulling my attention back to his face.
I cross my arms. “Why? I’m having fun.”
He cocks his head at me and then, without saying anything else, grabs me at my thighs and hauls me down. Everyone in the room starts booing, and Mason just hikes me over his shoulder and gives them all the middle finger.
“Mason! Put me down. I can walk!”
He walks out of the room before finally putting me down. “You’re so wasted, girl.”
I give him an annoyed look. “I can smell the liquor dripping from you, Mase.”
“Well, I can handle my liquor,” he teases.
“Fun police.”
“Get your ass upstairs so I can get you some water.”
“Isn’t there water in the kitchen?” I ask, mockingly.
He rolls his eyes. “I have a mini fridge in my room, and it’s way too crowded in here.”
I roll my eyes back, mimicking him. “Fine. Let’s go, Dad.”
When I turn to walk towards the stairs, he puts his hand on my lower back to steady me as I sway a little. The heat feels like it could burn my skin, but I’m too drunk to act like I don’t like it tonight.
When we get into his room, he shuts the door behind us.
I plop onto his bed, and hate how good it smells, how much I want to stay right here curled up in his sheets.
I push myself up on my arms and watch as Mason grabs two waters from his fridge and walks over to me.
He walks right in front of me and places his water down beside me before taking my bottle and opening it for me.
I watch his arms and the way they tense up, the veins in them popping a little.
My eyes continue to trail along his body, stopping once I reach his face.
His eyes are already locked on mine, and I couldn’t break the eye contact if I wanted.
He hands me the water. “Drink.”
I take it, not looking away. “Yes, sir.”
He watches me for a second, then swallows and grabs his water. He walks over to the dresser, leaning his elbow against it to open his bottle, then chugs the whole thing.
I’m almost done with mine when I set it down next to me and look back at him.
“What’s the tattoo on your arm?” I ask him.
He looks down, lifting his sleeve a little. “It’s just a butterfly.”
“Hm, that’s funny. I have a butterfly tattoo too,” I tell him.
He raises a brow. “You do?”
I nod. “Yeah, I got matching ones with Lydia. We got them on her eighteenth birthday.”
His eyes get curious as he steps closer to me. “Can I see?”
I lift my shirt up high enough to show him the tattoo on my ribcage.
He looks at it, and I could have sworn I saw his hand move, like he wanted to touch me but stopped himself.
When I realize how close we are to each other, I quickly pull my shirt back down, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.
But he doesn’t move. He just stares at me, smiling at my nervousness. “It’s cute.”
My hand reaches out to his arm to shift the attention from me to him, my fingers brushing against the tattoo on his bicep. “What’s yours for?”
His voice softens. “My mom. She always used to talk about butterflies. What they meant after someone dies. How people go through this process of transformation after death, and the strength they have. No matter how small you are.”
“That’s…beautiful,” I whisper.
Silence stretches between us, and I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the electricity that has me feeling nauseous with nerves.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” I ask suddenly, voice low. “You barely even text me anymore, and you only talk to me when we happen to be in the same place.”
He exhales. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He looks almost pained. “It’s just…too complicated.”
That’s an understatement when it comes to us.
“So? I still wanna know.”
He shakes his head slowly, and the silence that he lets linger kills me.
I just sit there, waiting for him to give me more, to tell me this thing between us isn’t all in my head.
I need to know if that’s what he’s been running from.
If he doesn’t want it…or if he does…or what the hell any of it means.