55. Mason
Mason
“When was the last time you felt in control?”
I can’t help but smirk as I lean back in my chair. I feel like an asshole, but I can’t bring myself to care. I want to see what buttons I can push here, honestly.
“Define…control.”
He doesn’t give me a reaction; he just looks blankly at me. “That’s deflection.”
I sigh dramatically, putting on a little show and being sarcastic. “Wow. We’re jumping straight into labeling behaviors?”
He tilts his head, looking at me and trying not to roll his eyes. “You try to avoid being vulnerable by making jokes and being stubborn.”
I glare at him.
“Let’s try this again,” he says calmly. “When did you first realize that drinking helped quiet the thoughts and feelings for you?”
I study him for a moment, trying to figure out how to rile him up—trying to deflect. He’s got that annoying posture—all upright and perfected but not stiff. He has that thing about him that convinces you he’s not judging you…but how can you not judge someone like me?
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I say evenly. “Alcohol doesn’t make things quieter. It just makes things louder in a different direction.”
He nods like that might actually be some useful information for him. “Okay. Louder in what way?”
I shrug. “It makes everything…more fun, I guess.”
He tilts his head. “Fun how?”
I sigh. “You’re really going to do this?”
“Yes.”
I glance toward the door, imagining just getting up and walking out of here before this gets too deep.
“It normally makes my brain shut up, and I can pretend to be someone else,” I admit finally. “Is that the answer you’re looking for?”
“No. I’m not really looking for any specific answer here,” he says. “I’m just asking what it does for you.”
“It slows things down,” I mutter.
“Slows things like what down?”
“Thoughts.”
“What thoughts?”
I look at him flatly. “You know, all the fun ones that keep me up at night.”
He doesn’t even smile at that. “Be specific.”
I rub my jaw, stalling. “Responsibilities,” I finally say, giving in a little. “Expectations. Feeling like I’m never going to be enough…like I’m exactly everything people tell me I am.”
He nods slowly. “Where do you think that comes from?”
I laugh lightly under my breath. “Trauma from childhood, probably. Isn’t that the answer to everything?”
He doesn’t laugh. He just waits. And I hate that he waits. Hate that he forces me to sit with those feelings and doesn’t let my humor cover it all up.
“I grew up in a home where if something broke, it was automatically my job to fix it. Even if it wasn’t my fault…it was made to be my fault.”
“Your dad had a lot to do with that, right?”
I exhale through my nose. “Sure. Yeah, probably.”
“Tell me about him?”
“What about him?” I counter, getting defensive like a reflex.
“How was growing up with your dad after your mother died?”
I hate that word. Hate how it still feels so permanent after so many years.
“Hell,” I toss out, then smile. “A lot like this right now.”
His face goes flat like he’s already tired of my shit.
Get in line.
The silence stretches until I give in to him.
“I guess I learned early that if I kept things light and tried not to care, then his words wouldn’t be able to hurt me and I could steer things in an easier direction.”
He leans forward. “So you learned that your job was to regulate the emotional climate of the house.”
“I learned that someone had to,” I shoot back.
“You were a child.”
“And?”
“And that wasn’t your job.”
I stiffen. “Well, I didn’t see anyone else volunteering.”
He watches me carefully. “Don’t you see the pattern?”
“What pattern?”
“You take responsibility for things that aren’t your responsibility. You believe that if you don’t manage other people’s emotions, something bad will happen. You act like you’re fine, so you won’t burden other people with your feelings.”
“That’s not—” I stop.
Because, yeah, it kind of is.
“It’s not like I’m controlling people,” I say defensively. “I’m just…aware and know how to pivot things.”
“You’re hyperaware,” he corrects. “You anticipate problems before they happen. And typically run away from them.”
“Isn’t that the smart thing to do?”
“It’s exhausting.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t mind being tired.”
“Except you do,” he says. “Which is why you drink.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re really connecting the dots here well.”
“When you drink,” he continues, “you don’t have to anticipate problems. You don’t have to fix anything. You don’t have to be ‘responsible’ anymore.”
I stare at him.
“You get to be the fun one,” he adds.
I laugh quietly. “I am the fun one.”
“That’s my point.”
I don’t like this.
He studies me for a moment. “Do you ever drink when you’re not using it to escape?”
I open my mouth, and then close it again.
He nods slightly. “That’s what I thought.”
I shift in my seat, a little irritated now. “You’re acting like I’m some walking case study right now.”
“I’m just trying to help you understand yourself.”
“I understand myself.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you continue to repeat the same cycle?”
I scoff. “What cycle?”
“You get close to someone, you feel something real, panicking, numbing it with drinking and pretending nothing happened.”
I freeze.
“That’s not—”
“Your mom died,” he says gently. “Your dad checked out or was never around to begin with. You stepped up with your brothers. You learned that attachment equals responsibility and responsibility equals pressure.”
I swallow.
“So when something feels permanent,” he keeps on, “you look for the exit now, which usually looks like self-destruction.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, and this time my voice isn’t defensive—it’s just tight.
“What part isn’t fair?”
“You’re making it sound like I can’t handle anything serious.”
“Can you?”
I hesitate.
Truth is, I don’t know. I think I can handle a lot. I handled my brothers. I handled my dad. I handled grief by not looking at it too long. But handling something that wants to stay? That’s different.
“I don’t want to screw it up, especially with her,” I say quietly. “If the expectations are low, no one can be disappointed.”
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Making yourself become the screw-up someone has told you you are, even though you aren’t. Don’t you think you can do better than that?”
“You know what,” I mutter, leaning back again, forcing a smirk back into place. “What kind of therapist talks to their patients like this?”
He doesn’t even hesitate to answer. “The kind that’s your friend and not your actual therapist. Mind you, that you don’t even have, and definitely need.”
I stare at him, then shake my head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you,” Bash says calmly, “are overdue for actual help.”
I grab my coffee and take a sip, even though it’s cold now. “You’re lucky you’re my friend,” I mutter.
He smirks. “You’re lucky I care.”
I look down at the table, annoyed. Because he’s not wrong…about any of it. And that’s the part I hate.