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“Mason?” he says nervously.
Dropping my hands, I stare at the boy I’ve known practically all my life, and I wonder how I could’ve been so selfish, so stupid.
“Did I…”
When words fail him, I wait.
His lashes flutter as he drops his gaze. “Did I do something the other night?” He winces. “Say something?” He shakes his head, but still won’t look at me. “Because if I did…whatever it was…I was drunk out of my mind. I don’t even remember. It wasn’t—I wasn’t?—”
“You told me you wished it was you.”
He goes eerily still.
“You said you were sorry, that we’d all’ve been better off if it was you instead of her.”
Blinking, he finally lifts his head, and be it the alcohol swimming in my veins, or all these little realizations and epiphanies barreling into me with one punch after another—hell, probably all of it—but I…
I can’t help but notice just how…fuck, how gorgeous he is.
Not that he hasn’t always been pretty. It’s why his life was hell growing up. Too pretty for a boy. Too soft. Too fucking gentle and kind…
This is just the first time it’s really fucking hitting me, that he’s not just beautiful…
But that I find him beautiful.
You’re drunk, a voice reminds me, and I shake my head at it.
No, no, I’ve always found him beautiful.
Before me, Jeremy’s brows knit—a couple shades darker, warmer, than his silvery-white hair. “That’s it?” he says. “That’s…that’s all I said? That I wished it was me?”
I stare at him.
That’s it?
That’s all???
He expels an unsteady breath, frowning even deeper. He gives a little shake of his head. “Mason…”
“Did you mean it?”
He stills.
His eyes dart between mine, like he’s looking for something.
“Did you fucking mean it?” I ask more forcefully this time.
His mouth opens and closes as he fumbles for words that won’t come. But it’s no matter. He doesn’t need words. The answer in written all over his face, clear as fucking day, leaving no room for argument, confirming he did in fact mean it.
“Right,” I mutter.
“Mase—"
Scoffing, I shake my head, and step toward him. “Gimme that.” I rip the bottle out of his slackened grip, and whirl away, unscrewing the cap, and bringing it to my lips.
I feel him watching me, his gaze burning a hole through my head. But I ignore it, and instead turn my focus down to the headstone burning a different kind of hole through me.
“I don’t…I don’t understand,” he says quietly.
