Chapter 24 Sierra
Sierra
Mason starts to reach for me, I think. To move toward me again, but he stops himself. He rubs the back of his head, digs his fingers into his hair, looking nervous as hell.
“Is this okay? That I’m here?”
“Of course it’s okay.” I hug myself, unsure what to do or what’s happening. My pulse is flying. “How did you know where I live?”
“Uh, I may have begged June to pull your home address from your lease agreement.” He buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks worried, like I might be upset about this. “Unethical and wrong, I know. But I told her I had to talk to you. Face-to-face.”
“June did that for you?”
He takes a small step toward me. “I guess she could tell I really meant it.”
I hesitate, too, but quickly realize the only reason I’m hesitating is that Kyle hated public displays of affection. But I’m not trying to fit into his idea of the perfect girlfriend anymore, am I?
So, I do what I really want to do and run to Mason, throwing myself into his open arms. As I hug him, I can feel his tension easing away.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says into my ear, holding me tight. “I’m sorry I let you go.”
I bury my face in his neck, squeezing back the relief and happiness that threaten to explode from me in a torrent of tears.
His voice is scratchy with emotion when he says, “Am I too late?”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath and look up into his worried eyes. “No, Mason. You’re not too late for anything.”
I see the relief all over his face.
And when he kisses me, I kiss him back, deep and passionate, right there in the street.
When we step into my apartment, Mason and I, we’re holding hands. He took hold of mine on the way up in the elevator, and I feel giddy, effervescent, like my heart is filled with soda pop.
“So this is where the magic happens.” His low, warm voice feels out of place in the modern, sharp-edged apartment.
I snicker. “What magic? Are we talking about the physics-defying manner in which I’ve managed to IKEA this shoebox into a marginally livable space?”
He lets my hand go to do a slow walk around the small apartment, which takes seconds. It’s newish and clean, but it’s definitely a home meant for one person. The mere five hundred square feet means we’re standing in the tiny kitchen the moment we walk in the door.
In three more steps, we’re in the living room/office/dining room, where I’ve wrangled every available inch into somehow fitting a small L-shaped couch, a coffee table, and a decent-sized desk/entertainment unit/vanity table where I work, eat, watch TV, and put on my makeup.
In the small bedroom, I’ve managed to fit a queen-sized bed with a bedside table, but there’s not enough room for a dresser.
Because of the limited space, I’ve always kept it as clean and sparse as possible so I feel like I can breathe. But that also means it lacks personality.
I’m actually proud of how I’ve made the space work, but I realize I’m self-conscious about it because Kyle always seemed embarrassed by the way I live. As if I should’ve been able to do better. But Kyle wasn’t paying my rent, was he.
He wasn’t even paying his own rent. He has a mortgage, or rather his parents do, which they pay for him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Mason says thoughtfully, “but I can’t really see you living here.”
At this point, I can’t really, either. But I ask him, “Why?”
“It doesn’t feel like you. Except for this.” He points at the one piece of art on the living room wall. It’s a portrait of Sophie by local artist Katie Mayes in a pop-surrealism style that totally suits Soph’s eclectic-retro vibes and vibrant, playful personality.
I move to stand next to him. “I bought that at a music industry charity event that Sophie dragged me to, for way less than it’s worth but more than I could really afford. I just had to have it.”
Unfortunately, I also thought it might impress Kyle. See, I have art. I’m cultured.
Kyle called it “lowbrow art,” as if that was an insult.
“It’s awesome,” Mason says. “It’s so . . . her.”
“I know, right?” I find myself smiling, thrilled that he gets it.
But of course he does.
I gaze at him, that handsome face I’ve come to adore. But when he looks at me, I look away.
“Come on, I’ll show you the best part.”
I grab his hand and pull him with me to the sliding door that opens onto the small but useable balcony. We’re way up on the nineteenth floor, with a sweeping view over the Georgia Viaduct, the stadium, False Creek, and across the water, Olympic Village.
Directly below, traffic flows and, admittedly, it’s noisy.
Right across the street is the enormous arena where a large digital sign shows a billboard for MGK’s Lost Americana Tour.
Mason chuckles. “You live right above the arena?”
“Yep. Totally sold me on this place. I go to as many concerts as I can, and I don’t have to worry about parking or fighting traffic, I just walk right down. Do you wanna know what the best best part is?”
He gazes at me, affection in his eyes, and warmth floods my veins. “I do.”
“I don’t even have to go to a concert to hear it loud and clear.”
He laughs again.
“Swear to god, when I’m broke, I just open the windows. Sometimes I don’t even need to open the windows. When Korn played last October, I thought it was gonna cause an earthquake.”
He’s laughing, so I laugh, too, happy tears pricking my eyes.
“You do realize that some people would consider that a reason not to rent this apartment.”
“Oh, I know. But I’m not one of those people.
In the last two years alone I’ve seen Justin Timberlake, Pearl Jam, Olivia Rodrigo, Bruce Springsteen, Katy Perry, Nine Inch Nails, and Cardi B, and eavesdropped on so many others from this balcony.
I do actually have to open the windows if I really want to hear what’s going on over at the stadium, because it’s farther away.
Unless it’s Guns N’ Roses, U2, or AC/DC. Then, no window opening needed.”
“Wow. I’m shocked you weren’t actually at those stadium shows.”
“Hey, I already saw GNR at the stadium once, and a girl’s gotta set some budget. I already spend too much on music.”
Mason leans on his forearms on the balcony railing. “Sounds like this balcony is a melomaniac’s dream.”
I grin. “A polyjamorist’s, too.”
He grins back, dimples and all.
“Wait. MGK is playing tonight . . .”
“I see that. And are you going, or just eavesdropping?” he teases.
“Well, I sold my tickets for a pretty penny, because I thought I’d be in Orchard Cove . . .” I bite my lip a little, then just say it. “Wanna hang out on the balcony and listen with me?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Great.” I try to play it cool, but inside I’m fucking dancing.
Does this mean he’s sleeping over? “I think we can wrangle a couple of chairs out here and a couple of ciders. There’s a liquor store down the block.
I wonder if they carry Sea Haven? Or Twisted Tree? ” I raise an eyebrow, teasing him back.
“If they’re independent, they may. If it’s a government liquor store, no chance.”
“What?! That’s a travesty! They don’t support you?”
“It’s not a support issue. It’s a supply issue. We can’t possibly supply enough product to get into those stores. But that’s fine. We’re a craft brand and will always be a craft brand. Small batches, high quality, no compromise.”
“Aw. It’s sweet the way you turn into anime when you talk about your products.”
He laughs again. “What?”
“You get these cartoony little stars in your eyes.”
“Oh, yeah? Kind of how you look when you talk about music. And smoothies, actually.”
I snicker. “Yeah. My two great loves.”
He smiles softly and I glance away.
Then I take a breath and plunge.
“Doja Cat’s coming in October,” I say casually. “I’ve already got my tickets. I always get two.” I try to keep the smile on my face. But my heart is pounding and those good old persistent self-doubts rear their heads, making me almost chicken out. “Maybe you’ll come back?”
My bones feel like they’re vibrating with the force of my pulse, and I squeeze the handrail to steady myself as Mason takes a long, long time to respond. I focus on the way the lowering sun, behind us, reflects off the glass of the other towers, molten-pink and crimson and gold.
It’s beautiful, though not Orchard Cove beautiful, and I wonder what he thinks of it.
“Sierra.” His voice is low, hesitant. “I think you misunderstand.”
I swallow the jagged lump that’s suddenly lodged in my throat.
“Look at me, please.”
I take another deep breath, then meet his eyes.
“I’ll go to any concert you want,” he says softly. “But I really don’t want to go back to Orchard Cove for any length of time without you.”
“What?” I whisper.
He hesitates, seems to be choosing his words with care.
“I know how it feels to be abandoned by someone you love. To be discarded. And I know you don’t deserve that any more than I did.
” He edges closer to me. “I should never have made you worry that I wasn’t going to choose you.
I know that’s what your father did to you.
And I know it’s what Kyle did. And I’m so pissed at myself for not just telling you how I feel, all the things that I feel when I’m with you.
It all just poured down on me like an avalanche when you left. When I let you leave.”
I’m breathing so fast now and my heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. “Well, to be fair, you were asleep. I didn’t really give you a chance to—”
“No. I should’ve made it clear to you. I should’ve told you I wanted you to stay, and given you a chance to choose. To choose me, if that’s what you wanted. The only reason I didn’t say it was because I was scared that if I did, if I gave you that choice, you wouldn’t choose me.”
I laugh abruptly, I’m so shocked. “I think I chose you as soon as we met, Mason Grant. When you locked onto me that day in your bar, pouring me cider . . . the rest of the world didn’t even stand a chance.”