Page 93 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Pick your jaw up off the floor.”

I whip my head around to see Mason just grinning at me playfully.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathe out, looking back around us. “I wasn’t prepared for all of this. This isinsane.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, watching me instead of the room. “It is.”

His hand comes to the small of my back, and he guides me forward into the thick of the crowd.

Chase glances back at us, smirking. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Greek royalty.”

“Shut up,” Mason mutters, bumping his shoulder as we walk deeper inside.

Mason leans in close to me. “Welcome to the big leagues, pretty girl. This is your first Greek gala; enjoy it.”

A waiter sweeps by with a tray of champagne flutes, passing them out. Mason grabs two—hands me one, downs his like it’s water, then sets the empty glass back down before the waiter can even turn away.

He gestures at the massive staircase. “Come on. We have a whole night to conquer.”

We follow in behind Chase and make our way to the carpet where they’re taking photos of all the couples coming in. Mason takes a couple of respectable pictures with me before, of course, throwing in a Mason-style photo by yelling over to me, “Turn around! Guns up!”

I laugh and turn my back to him as we hit a Charlie’s Angels pose together.

I spend the next hour pretending to be Mason’s arm candy as he talks to many of the Alumni and sponsors who are here tonight. I know he hates it, but I try to make the conversations flow easily and force him to talk about all the accomplishments he acts shy about.

Every chance he gets between conversations, I watch him grab another drink and down it, like his liver isn’t already going to have to work overtime tonight.

I don’t say anything, though. I know how uncomfortable he can get when he’s not hiding behind jokes and dance moves, so I let him be and give him time to loosen up.

We sit through all of the toasts and speeches people make on behalf of the houses before we finally get served dinner.

I feel like I’ve seen Mason drink more than the bites of food he’s taken.

I nudge him. “Eat, or tomorrow’s hangover is going to kick your ass.”

He chuckles and puts his glass down, reaching for his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

They start announcing awards, and Mason wins “Most Influential Underclassman” and “Rising Star Greek Athlete,” making me stand up from my seat, shouting and applauding for each one.

Finally, the night lets loose so we can start the real fun. Mason is much farther ahead in the fun department than me, but I grab a glass off a nearby table and down it. It’s only my second drink of the night, so it still might take me a couple more to get going, but I’m having a good time.

Mason pulls me onto the open dance floor, already past buzzed.

He’s always the life of the party; that’s why we’re friends. We’re alike in that way. We attract people, we draw them in…we entertain.

We Can’t Stop by Miley Cyrus starts playing, and we’re instantly in sync with each other as we start dancing.

You see, the thing about being that person that entertains everyone else that really sucks sometimes…is how empty it can feel. Not all the time. A lot of the time, it’s genuine. But when it’s not…the weight of performing gets heavy. It’ll make you either want to crawl into a hole to be alone, hoping someone comes and finds you still, making sure you’re okay—which they never do—or the performance starts to bleed out with the pain and anger you’re trying to hide.

That’s the option I think I’m staring at right now.

Mason’s eyes are glazed over. He’s so many drinks in that I don’t see my friend anymore. I see a hurting little boy. I see the pain that boy never got to feel openly.

I’m sure nobody else sees it…they never do. They never see us.

But I keep dancing with him like I don’t notice, because I don’t want him to crash.

He pulls me into him to slow dance when Blue Ain’t Your Color by Keith Urban starts to play.