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I noticed he’d called about an hour ago…
Is that how long he was waiting?
Figuring he’d keep harassing me until I answered, like he’s always done, I was surprised when my phone stayed silent. Surprised and…well, hurt.
And yeah, I’m fully aware how pathetic and unfair that is.
Still, the fact that he came here to wait for me and confront me in person instead…
Fuck, if that doesn’t just make this all the more difficult. And yet, try as I might here to keep my guard up, I can feel it slipping with each passing second that Mason Wyatt stands before me with eyes only for me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay for the whole set.”
And I am…but I also don’t regret leaving. With each song sung from those stupidly pretty lips of his—perfectly sung, might I add—combined with the effortless way he strummed a guitar, like it was the instrument he’s been playing all along… well, it felt as if someone was hammering a stake through my heart. Inch by unbearable inch.
And not the fun kind of inches that would make my toes curl.
In theory, obviously.
Twenty years old and still as virginal as ever, unless frequent handies from yours truly combined with awkwardly angled fingers count.
“You showed,” Mason says simply, yanking me back to the present. “You’re here. That’s…that’s all that matters.”
Throat thick, now I’m the one nodding.
“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the stairs.
“I can do it. You don’t have to…” My words die off, because he’s already halfway up, clearly set on ignoring me.
Rolling my eyes, I sweep up the garbage bag, and follow after him.
I don’t miss how he keeps his head low, gaze downturned when we reach the second floor. He makes a beeline straight for my room, disappearing inside like there really is a ghost here, nipping at his heels.
My steps slow, my gaze honing in on the closed door to Izzy’s room just as a light flips on in my room, shining light into the hallway.
Has anyone been in there recently?
I haven’t been able to bring myself to go in since last summer, the night Morris visited to break the news that she was dead and they were essentially closing the case.
After I’d cried myself into a numb, nearly-catatonic daze in Mason’s arms outside, he and Waylon crashed in my room, and I found myself crawling into my sister’s bed, unable to do anything but stare at the wall plastered with pictures of her life, waiting for the earth to swallow me up and spit me back up.
Dad found me like that in the morning. I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
“Jeremy?” a voice calls out, and I shake myself out of the memories.
In my room, Mason’s frowning from where he stands over by the window next to my desk.
I look around, not surprised nothing’s really changed, except that it’s a little more empty than it was before I moved out.
The bed’s made, and it’s a comforter I don’t recognize, seeing as I took mine to college with me. It’s black and gray-checkered with what looks like black solid sheets peeking out from underneath—also new.
“Thanks for helping me with my bags,” I say, sliding my messenger bag off, and kicking the garbage bag off to the side.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, a note of distraction tinging his voice. “Did you…”
My gaze lifts to his. “What?”
“Did you wanna watch a movie? I still haven’t watched the new Guardians of the Galaxy.”
