39. Mason #2
“Yet Rose is here, and your mother isn’t…guess that was just the universe getting rid of the ones who aren’t supposed to be here and keeping the ones who are.”
The fury in my chest burns more than any amount of alcohol could. “Everyone is just some pawn in your world, huh?”
My dad’s eyes narrow. “You’re the pawn, Mason. You just don’t realize it.”
Something in me cracks at his cruel words, and I look at him in disbelief. “Why do you hate me so much?”
His expression doesn’t change. Sometimes that’s the part that hurts the most. It’s like my words don’t affect him, like his own son could bleed out in front of him and he’d just critique the mess I was making.
“I don’t hate you,” he says, but there’s no sincerity behind it.
“You don’t love me,” I spit.
He huffs as his nostrils flare slightly. “Grow up.”
“Say it then.”
“You need to get back to work.”
“Answer me,” I say, stepping closer to him with shaking hands and a heart that feels like it’s splintering into pieces. “Just answer me. Did you ever love me?”
He stares at me like he can’t comprehend why I’m asking, why I care. Love isn’t something he understands.
“Mason,” he warns.
“Why can’t you just say it?”
“Because this is so unnecessary.”
“It’s not unnecessary! It’s me begging you to say three fucking words!” I shout. “I’m not your investment! I’m not your project, not your legacy, not some fucking insurance policy—”
“You’re my son,” he snaps.
“Then act like it!” I yell, the emotions getting thick in my throat. “Act like you give a shit whether I’m alive or not!”
The words hang in the air.
Even I hear them and feel sick with embarrassment.
My dad’s face hardens. “Stop being dramatic.”
I blink back the tears.
It feels like getting slapped when his words hit me.
“Dramatic,” I echo, voice low and broken. “That’s what you call me asking my father if he ever loved me?”
He doesn’t answer. He won’t. Because showing love to him is a weakness. And my dad would rather die than be weak.
My throat burns. “Say it,” I whisper, the pathetic desperation slipping into my tone. “Just say you loved me. Ever. I don’t even care if it’s past tense. Just…say it.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
That’s his answer.
A laugh escapes me. “Of course.”
He steps forward, pointing his finger at my chest as the tears start to roll down my face, not even affecting him. “You’re throwing your future away.”
“What future?” I snap. “The one where I become you? The one where I wake up at forty and realize I don’t even know how to feel anything unless it’s rage?”
He keeps pointing at me like I’m the problem in this equation. “If you keep this up, you’ll lose everything. You won’t be like me. You’ll be a failure. A drunk, sad failure with a future you threw away for what? Stupid feelings and a buzz?”
My nails dig into my palms so deeply that I feel wetness from the blood starting to pool around my fingers.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He steps closer. “Yet life still goes on.” He grabs my arm…tightly. “Get it together.”
I jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”
His face twists, annoyed that I’m even someone he has to deal with. “You’re acting like a child.”
“I was a child,” I spit back. “When Mom died. When you left me to deal with everything that I felt alone. When I was raising your kids while you were more worried about your little fucking empire.”
He acts like that just irritates him more than it hurts.
“You wonder why I’m such a disappointment to you,” I continue. “You wonder why I’m so fucked up. It’s because of you!”
“You’re not going to blame me for your poor choices,” he says.
I stare at him, breathing hard, then just shake my head slowly.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, grabbing my keys off the counter behind me and heading for the door.
“Mason,” he calls sharply. “Come back.”
I don’t even look back as I walk out into the office. I don’t look at anyone else either until my eyes meet Brooke’s. I see the pity in her stare and hate it.
I wonder how much of that everyone heard.
I can’t even force myself to care at this point. I hope they all know how much of a piece of shit the man they work for is now.
When I make it outside, the rage is still so loud in my head that I need somewhere for it to go. I turn and punch the white brick pillar attached to the building; my knuckles split instantly from the impact.
It feels good, though, to feel pain temporarily anywhere else but in my head and in my heart.
Sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, head back against the seat, I stare up at the blue sky, wondering how this is my life.
Somehow, another small bottle from my glove compartment finds its way into my hand, and I drain what’s left in it.
How can a man bring life into this world and treat it like dirt on his shoe? How come everyone I try so hard to love and care about can never give me the same in return?
The one person who did…fucking died.
That’s the story of my life, though. My luck has always been shit, I guess.
I pull out my phone to call an Uber when I hear a soft knock on my window. I look up—eyes barely open—and see Brooke.
Slowly, I reach my hand over and hit the button to crack the window. “Go away.”
She shakes her head. “Unlock the door.”
I let my eyes close, annoyed, then hit the unlock button.
She opens the door and reaches her hand out. “Come on. I’m not letting you drive like this.”
I wave my phone in the air. “Was gonna call an Uber.”
“Well, I can just drive you home, come on.”
I look down at my watch. “It’s the middle of the workday.”
“Yeah, well, I just quit so…”
I look up at her, shocked. “Why would you do that? You love this job.”
She grabs my hand and helps me out of my car, grabs my stuff, and walks me over to her car across the parking lot.
“Because,” she says, “he called me a whore who was trying to sleep her way to the top of his company, and because I heard everything he said to you, and because I’m better than this place. I can get a job at any of the firms around here if I want.”
I shake my head, leaning on her so I don’t stumble. “I hate him.”
“Yeah. I heard that part inside, too.”
She puts me in the passenger seat of her SUV like I’m a child, and then gets in the driver’s seat, looking over at me. “Seatbelt.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes.
Then she asks softly, “Is Simone a girl from college?”
My throat tightens, and I stare out the window. “Yeah.”
“You’re in love with her.” She tells me, not asking
I turn and glare at her. “No.”
“You’re a worse liar than your dad.”
I flip her off, turning back to the window.
Then the guilt hits me again.
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to use you like that. That was fucked up of me.”
She waves me off. “I told you it was okay. I knew this was never that…never even more than a seasonal friendship. I just never minded adding benefits to it. But you’re not that kind of guy.”
I huff. “Yeah, everyone thinks I am.”
“I used to, too,” she tells me. “But the more I got to know you, it’s obvious that you aren’t some playboy who just sleeps around with anyone. You have to care about them, and something tells me that doesn’t happen often.”
“I don’t think I like you reading me like this.”
I hear her laugh. “Have you slept with her?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Yeah, well, you were the one who said her name right before you were about to be inside of me, so I think I get to be a little nosy.”
“Fair,” I say, flatly, then take a deep breath in. “No, I haven’t. It’s…it’s complicated with her.”
“Complicated how?”
I get a text and look down to see Bash’s name pop up, sending me a check-in text in our group chat with Erik, asking how I’m doing.
I ignore it and look back up at Brooke. “Complicated like I don’t even know how to explain it, complicated.”
“Try. It might help.”
I let out an annoyed breath. But she’s probably right.
“I don’t know. We started out as friends. Just friends. She had a boyfriend—”
“But doesn’t anymore?”
I shake my head. “No. He…cheated on her.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s just too soon to even explore anything.
Plus, she has a lot going on outside of that, too.
So, I don’t know, it’s not the time. And she might not even want that.
Everyone thinks I’m some player; no one actually wants to date me, not anyone I want to date, or trust enough to date, at least.”
She looks over at me when we come to a stop in front of my house. “Who hurt you?”
I laugh bitterly. “You want just one name or the whole list?”
She studies me. “You deserve to be happy, Mason.”
“Yeah, well, maybe she deserves better than me. I mean, look at me.”
“I am looking. And I see someone with a good heart, someone who would love the right person loudly, someone who is just afraid of getting hurt. I see someone who is used to being hurt and does whatever he can to hide it from everyone.”
I’m too drunk for this conversation. My head is spinning, and my heart hurts. I just want to go pass out in my bed and forget this day ever happened, try again tomorrow.
Or stop trying altogether.