Page 60 of Letting Go at 40

Sadly, Mason and I didn’t have a moment alone to discuss what happened.

Then Archer pulled another disappearing act. The drama caused Jenna and the girls to move into the main house.

Once again, I’d felt entirely abandoned by my brother. We had been close as kids, but I didn’t know my brother as an adult. Maybe I never knew him.

With thoughts like this, I retreat to my bedroom once Jenna is settled.

This past June, I’d changed the primary suite after the school year ended. Spring cleaning gets delayed to a June purge for teachers, and I’m often inspired to make changes when another school calendar ends. I’d repainted the room and bought a new bedroom set including a new bed with thick, white wooden posts on the four corners. The footboard columns stood mid-chest to me, and I gripped one for support, lowering my forehead to the swollen ball on the top and closing my eyes.

“Anna?” Mason’s quiet call to me is both a welcome balm and a niggling contradiction. I want him to hold me. I fear he’ll be another loss in my life.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, lying to us both. With my eyes closed and my forehead plastered to the wooden pillar, I exhale. I don’t feel so much like crying, as I do screaming.

“Is it Archer?” Mason stands close behind me. So close, yet so far away.

“I can’t take anymore loss.” The admission crackles through the room like summer lightning on the lake.

“My parents are gone. Ben is gone. Archer came back and already left. You’re going to leave.”

“Hey.” Mason’s firm hand slides up my spine and underneath my hair, cupping the back of my neck. “Logan. Zack. Me. We’re all here. The kids are fine. Jenna will be good. No one else is going anywhere.”

That was the thing. I didn’t trust that Mason was here for the right reasons and as soon as he wised up, got bored, realized I wasn’t enough, he’d be gone too.

The idea of his loss hits me in the chest, causing a deep ache behind my sternum and a cracking of my ribs. I didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t like the thought of him being out there, somewhere, but not within my grasp, not within my little bubble. It didn’t feel fair to have these thoughts, to covet him for myself, but I also didn’t want to give him up.

Friends? Deep down, Mason was so much more than a friend, but I couldn’t put a label on what he meant to me.

I lift my head, certain a giant red mark is imprinted on my forehead, but I don’t look back at Mason.

“I’m just . . .” I exhale, frustrated that I can’t put into words how I feel. How losing him would be a loss I couldn’t handle. He’s a phone call away. He’s an impromptu visit. He’s standing behind me, offering me comfort and warmth as I panic.

My heart wouldn’t recover if Mason disappeared, too.

“Relax,” Mason murmurs, squeezing my neck. “Deep breath, okay?”

His strong fingers move down the column of my neck and dig into my shoulder. Then his other hand meets my opposite shoulder, and he squeezes at the mounting tension in my body. His skilled fingers press into the tight muscles and his thumbs knead just below my shoulders. His hands work down my arms, massaging away the stress, until my limbs are loose and relaxed at my sides.

“Do not turn around.” His voice is firm, while low and gravelly, as his fingers brush the hem of my T-shirt. He pulls it up and over my head. I grip the bed post again for support. My skin pebbles with the cool breeze through the open window and a long, low exhale from Mason against my neck.

When his hands first touch my shoulder blades, I flinch.

“Easy,” he murmurs as though speaking to a skittish animal.

“I just have all this . . .” I lower a hand and wave it around my belly. I feel caged, restless even. “Pent-up energy.” Or frustration. Or anger or envy. Or fear. Again, screaming feels like a good option. A time bomb is ticking inside me, ready to explode.

Mason’s thumbs dig into my shoulder blades as his fingers curl around my sides. The tips of his fingers are close to the edges of my breasts, and I close my eyes. My bra is hardly a barrier to his nearness.

What would it feel like to have his hands slip forward and cup my breasts?

The thought alone has my nipples hard, and I clutch harder on the bedpost before me.

We probably shouldn’t be in my room—alone—again. He definitely shouldn’t have his hands on me. But I crave his touch. The massage he’s giving me and the calm he’s infusing into my body is a soothing balm.

Unfortunately, with every press of his palms and squeeze of his fingers, my body winds up in a new way.

Mason’s hands move down my sides, thumbs working along my vertebrae. Lower and lower he goes until he’s at the base of my back. His thumbs dip into my shorts and rub my waist above my backside. With every movement of his hands, Mason exhales, long and deep. His breath brushing along my neck. The fine hairs there dance. My skin prickles further.

I tip my head to the side, relishing in the sound of his breathing, the feel of warm air along the column of my neck. With every knead of his fingers and resulting exhale, I’m hyperaware of Mason. Close. Comfort. Calm.