AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Unable to process why I suddenly feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Why?
Whywhywhywhy—
I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched to shit as I try to get my bearings.
Distantly, I’m aware of several sets of footsteps thudding down the hall, making their way toward me.
I open my eyes and push away from the counter, quickly adjusting myself in my jeans. And in the nick of time at that.
“Mason?” Mom calls out worriedly, a second before she appears, hands spread, body tense. “What happened?” Her gaze darts to the floor, brows stitching together. “Who called? Did something happen? Is someone hurt?” she rushes out, taking a careful step into the kitchen.
Shawn carefully avoids brushing up against her as he bypasses her, making his way around the island, face downcast.
“Um, no. It was just a butt dial. I stepped on something. Something sharp,” I manage to stutter out, my voice oddly gruff, even to my own ears.
Mom’s gaze flies up to mine, and I quickly look away, jaw tensing.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and go to drop down and start picking things up, when she races forward to catch my shoulder, stopping me, taking care to avoid the broken shards of ceramic .
“Don’t worry about it. Are you okay?”
Nodding, I say, “Yeah. Just startled me, and I-I don’t know what happened.” My voice lowers to a whisper. “Sorry.”
“You said that already.” She gently nudges me back and out of the way, and crouches down to get the dustpan from out under the sink. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
Wetting my lips, I lift my gaze, feeling something stutter in my chest when a perfectly timed wave of lightning brightens the room, and I catch a flash of Shawn watching me from a few feet away, brows slashed low over his dark, penetrating gaze.
Phoebe hovers to the left of him, shifting from foot to foot as she chews her lip, watching me warily.
Shit.
I clear my throat and look around for my phone. I didn’t see where it ended up when it slid from my gasp.
“It’s over here,” Shawn says in an unreadable voice, as he bends down to retrieve it.
Throat constricting, I rush over, rounding the island, all but ripping it from his hand. In doing so, our fingers brush, and he immediately flinches back.
My gaze snaps to his, and he grimaces, looking away.
Wincing, I mutter, “Sorry.”
He shakes out his arms, followed by his head. “It’s fine.”
It’s not, but hey, he didn’t punch me in the face, so that’s something. Learned that lesson the hard way not too long after he first came to live with us, when I forgot myself and slung an arm over his shoulder, not thinking.
I don’t know who was more shocked when that happened, me with my cut lip, or him, eyes wide and visibly spooked. I was lucky he didn’t rip my arm off.
He bolted to his room in the attic after that, and it was three days before I was finally able to corner him and assure him it was okay and on me for slipping up. That was when he opened up to me for the first time—willingly and freely, and not as a requirement of group therapy.
He didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know or figure out myself, but it was a big deal. And it helped me understand his aversion to touch a little more, and how nuanced it can be.
Or rather, his aversion to people touching him.
He can touch other people, but it has to be on his terms. No exceptions.
A crack of lightning explodes, rattling the glass doors on the hutch, making me flinch.
