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I’m vividly aware of Shawn watching us, but I can’t find it in me to shove Mason away, despite knowing what it probably looks like.
“Did he take anything?”
At the gruffly spoken sentence, I lift my head, meeting Shawn’s tough gaze. I open my mouth to tell him I’m not sure, when Mason beats me to it.
“No. Just drink,” he mumbles.
I’m about to repeat what he said, when Shawn says, “I heard him.”
Okay then.
Suddenly the door opens, and Waylon appears, freezing in place when he sees our position on the floor. I duck my head, keeping my gaze on Mason’s slackened, bleary face.
“You lock up?” Shawn asks.
Mason stares up at the ceiling, eyes glassy and distant. His cheeks are flushed and stained with tears. I don’t even know when he started crying. I must’ve missed it somewhere between sitting down, and him laying across my lap.
I watch fingers that don’t even feel like they belong to me brush through his wavy, matted light brown hair. I don’t even care at this point what it might look like. I’m too far gone—too broken.
“He’s drunk.”
At Waylon’s statement, I find myself saying, “I found him at the cemetery.” I don’t take my eyes off Mason’s face. He doesn’t even react to my words. He’s in my arms, and yet he’s never felt so far away—so out of reach. I continue to stroke his hair. “He was already well on his way to drunk when I got there.”
I should’ve stopped him.
Should’ve chucked the bottle across the cemetery when I had the chance.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have kissed me.
I’m vaguely aware of a sharp intake of air. Then?—
“Why?”
Swallowing thickly, I open my mouth to respond, only to realize I don’t really know. I mean… Mason told me, but it still doesn’t make sense. I still feel like I’m missing something.
“Did you mean it?”
“I didn’t even let myself consider the possibility until you brought it up the other night.”
My forehead bunches, a sick feeling rising up my chest.
“Did they find something?” Waylon forces out, his voice ragged.
There’s footsteps, but I can’t tell if they’re moving away, or drawing close. I can’t find it in me to care either way.
“Way,” Shawn says. More rustling. Quickening breaths. Then, Shawn says, “That’s not it.”
It takes me a second to understand.
Waylon thought they finally found her body.
There’s a sigh of relief, and a tendril of bitterness wiggles its way up my throat, tasting like bile. I hate that I wish it sometimes—that we had a body. If we just had answers from the start—closure—so much trauma could’ve been prevented.
Sure, we would’ve grieved.
It would’ve been horrible.
But at least we’d be free to go on with our lives. It’s no matter what someone claims to have seen—some part of us will always wonder. Always doubt. On a good day, I can shove it down. Go about my day.
