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“You don’t like ’em?” he asks. “Thunderstorms?”
I don’t answer him. I lay still with my eyes closed and hope he takes a hint and gets the hell out.
He thinks for a moment. “You need a distraction. You need to do something to take your mind off it.”
“For the last fucking time,” I grit out. “I don’t want to fuck you right now.”
“That’s not what I was talking about. Get up.”
He comes over to the sofa bed to collect me. I try to battle him on it, but he grabs me by my forearms and heaves me up to my feet. The blanket falls away and I feel naked despite the fact that I’m dressed. I feel more exposed than I have in years.
“Mason… stop… I don’t… let go of me!”
“Hiding away isn’t gonna make it better. You need to find other ways to deal with it. I’m gonna get you to.”
I smack his hand, but he snatches hold of me anyway and tugs me out of the den. We go into the living room where he flips on the TV and pulls up a streaming service.
“You like shitty horror flicks?” he asks.
I raise a brow. “Um, what? Shitty horror flicks?”
“Yeah, the ones so bad they’re good. They’re funny. Look at this one,When Harry Ate Sally. This’ll work.”
I blink in shock. “Are you… you want to watch a movie…together?”
“Sit down. It’s starting.”
Thunder rumbles over any volume from the TV and makes me flinch as if I’m physically struck. My heart races in warning of my panicked state. I’m right on the edge of relapsing.
“I can’t do this. I need to take cover. I need…”
…a blanket. A safe space. A place where I can curl up and hide.
Mason stands opposite me and keeps me in his gaze. It’s like he’s reading my mind. He can tell what I’m thinking. An openness, an understanding he shows me that I’d never ever expect out of him.
“Sit down, Syd,” he says calmly.
For the first time since I’ve known him, I don’t put up a fight. I feel… compelled to listen. Accept his command without a bitter thought or combative reaction. I drop onto the sofa and watch as he takes the cushion next to me.
“Hungry? I’m thinking pizza. There’s that joint a couple blocks away. They deliver rain or shine.”
My brain refuses to process what’s happening. I can only stare dumbly at him as he pulls out his phone and places an order. He asks if pepperoni is alright, and I nod like I’ve gone mute and no longer have a voice.
“Here, if it makes it better to cope.” He dims the light and grabs the patchwork throw blanket folded over the back of the couch, draping it across my lap.
“Mason…” I trail off, unsure of what I even want to say.
“Shhh. Watch the movie. It’s pretty bad, it’ll have you busting out in laughter. Trust me, I’ve seen this one a few times.”
I turn my attention to the TV.
Within minutes, I understand what Mason’s talking about—the special effects are shockingly bad, and the dialogue is so unnatural and generic that it’s worth a laugh. The D-List actors are no better.
I watch, puzzled, as a guy foolishly runstowarda horde of zombies and then gets his head ripped off. Squirts of blood drench everything on screen, but instead of being horrified, I’m left thinking of ketchup.
A snort leaves me. “What was the special effects budget on this? I’ve seen better gore displays at local Halloween parties.”
“Isn’t it bad? Check out this chick. She’s supposed to be dead, but she’s still breathing.”
