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Even from this angle, there’s no missing the wince that pinches his features.
Good.
Nodding strongly, he says, “I deserve that.”
Huffing through my nose, I tear my gaze away, staring unseeingly at the distant flurry of city lights peeking over surrounding rooftops.
“Fuck, I deserve a hell of a lot worse than that.”
My throat clenches, eyes burning.
“Forget it. You’re right. I’ll just…” His words trail off, and in the corner of my eye, I see him start heading past me, aiming for the sliding glass doors from which he came.
Before I can think better of it, I whip my head around and snap my arm out, catching his wrist in my hand. I’m distantly aware of the pencil rolling off me, tumbling to the grass. My sketchbook slides, but snags on the arm of the lounger.
Mason freezes mid-step, his gaze snapping down to where I touch him.
Gulping, I wet my lips and lift my chin, summoning an air of confidence I in no way feel. “Don’t. Just…don’t.”
“Jer—”
“Shut up,” I mumble. Scooting over, I give his wrist a little tug, dragging him toward me. “Don’t say a fucking word. Just…get over here.”
I watch as the breath visibly leaves him, surging from his lips in a gust I feel rush across my face when he bends down. He smells faintly of toothpaste and something that is distinctly him.
The lounge chair is one of those wide, two-person ones, with a wicker frame and a deep red cushion that is surprisingly very plush and comfortable.
Mason eyes flick to mine when he pauses crouched over me. His pale eyes dart between mine nervously, and he sucks furiously on his lip ring in a horribly distracting way. Beyond all that though, there’s something else. Something like gratitude. And like a reflex, the tension in my chest eases at the sight.
Knowing this helps him…knowing he needs me…
This is why drugs and drinking never really held much appeal.
Because making Mason Wyatt happy has and will always be the fix I can’t resist, even if it’s at the cost of my own wellbeing.
No other crash holds a candle to this. It’s the only high I can’t stop chasing, despite how much it fucking flays me open.
“Are you sure?”
Clamping down on my molars, I nod stiffly. Releasing him, I scoot as far away from him as I can as he joins me on the lounge chair.
“Grab my pencil,” I say stiffly.
Nodding, he reaches over, plucking it off the grass. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush, and our gazes snap together. I suck in a breath, realizing just how close we are now.
This lounger might fit two grown adults, but it’s clearly meant to be shared by couples. Those who are comfortable sharing space. It’sintimate.
It never used to be this complicated.
Then again, before we had other things on our mind. It was less about my feelings, and more about finding an anchor in the storm of our grief.
But now?
Now my feelings for him are front and center, like a gaping, jagged hole we can’t possibly walk around. Even Izzy’s ghost steers fucking clear. Well, at least for me. Can’t say the same for him.
Hell, for all I know, my feelings for him are nothing more than a nuisance. The thing keeping him from seeking what he had no problem seeking out before.
And to think, he doesn’t even know the fucking half of it. If he did…
