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I don’t know how long this goes on for, but when I finally collapse in a heap of sweaty limbs on the gritty floorboards, blinking blankly up at the rafters…
My mind is finally, at long last, blessedly quiet.
And all the things I refuse to give thought to in the light of day…
They’re once more buried safely in their respective rooms, steel doors reinforced and locked.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Note to future me: TURN PHONE OFF WHEN HAVING SEX
Also, don’t talk to Mason when you’re drunk
If I never have to hear him growl and get all protective over me like that again, it’ll be a moment too soon. My poor hand. Pretty sure I’ve developed carpal tunnel.
YEAH, YEAH, LAUGH IT UP
I’m just grateful I never had to hear you guys doing it. I’m pretty sure I would’ve died.
AGE 21, SEPTEMBER
When I enter O’Leary’s, I’m greeted by a roar of cheers and boos.
Eyes wide, I gulp down what’s left of my mint, and take in the sea of navy and white jerseys and matching face paint, save for a couple brave souls standing out brightly in red waving the others off with scowls.
Right. Big game tonight.
From the TVs mounted along the walls, whistles blare as Penn State and Ohio State face off on the field.
Muttering an excuse me, I shoulder past a couple guys sloshing drinks around, making my way to the bar closest to the door where I spot Mason popping caps off a couple of longnecks.
The second he sees me, surprise alights his face, quickly morphing into something else—something bordering on relief.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I squeeze through the bodies pressing toward the bar, ignoring the flutter of nerves in my belly nipping for attention.
“What are you doing here?” he says when I reach the bar. “I thought you weren’t coming back ’til Thanksgiving.”
He hands the beers off to a couple of guys, and when they step away, I quickly take their spot before it gets swallowed up by more bodies.
“I wasn—” I start to say, only for my voice to cut out when Mason leans across the bar, and yanks me into a tight, awkwardly positioned hug.
The second his strong arms come around me, I stiffen. And if I’m not mistaken, he tenses too when he senses my reaction. But he’s a lot quicker to recover than me, giving me one last squeeze, before pulling back. Not even giving me a chance to return the hug.
Smiling as if nothing’s amiss, he says, “What are you doing here?” He shakes his head. “Not that I’m not happy to see you. But you didn’t say anything about coming back.”
For good reason.
I have my own nerves to contend with. I didn’t need to worry about his too.
He’s probably forgotten all about what happened weeks ago. You’re the one who can’t stop thinking about it.
“Uh, yeah,” I manage to say, “my parents summoned me.”
As far as I know, Mason doesn’t know anything about the concert benefit my parents are throwing in Izzy’s memory next month. It hasn’t been advertised anywhere yet. It’s a sensitive topic around here—that topic being Izzy—and for whatever reason, my parents decided it should be me, of all people, to give Mason and Waylon a heads-up before they hear about it elsewhere.
I’ve also been tasked to ask them if they’d consider headlining the event.
