Page 95 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Mason!” I say louder, firmer, with both hands on his chest. “Look at me.”

His eyes flick down to mine, and it’s like the room finally registers to him again. I can see it—the hurt, the fury, and the alcohol all twisting together, becoming something dangerous that could get him in trouble right now.

“You hit him,” I whisper, “and they’ll throw you out. You’ll be giving him exactly what he wants.”

I feel the rise and fall of his breath as my hand stays on his chest.

“Please,” I add. “Please walk away with me.”

He swallows hard, eyes still locked on mine, trying to weigh whether he’s going to listen to the angel or demon on his shoulder.

The Kappa guy snorts behind me. “That’s what I thought.”

Mason lunges at the guy.

I shove my hands against his chest in the same second that Tank and Chase grab him from behind.

“Bro, chill,” Tank says.

“Simone’s right,” Chase adds beside him.

Mason never takes his eyes off the guy. “Say one more thing—”

“Enough,” I say firmly, pulling at his arm.

Then slowly, and reluctantly, he finally lets Tank and Chase pull him back.

The Kappa guy laughs like he won this little pissing contest he tried to start.

I tug at Mason’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

He finally lets me pull him away, but his chest is still heaving like he wanted that fight, like he was craving the release it would give him.

Once we’re outside, sitting on the steps, Mason pulls the flask out from his pocket and drains what was left in it.

I stare off, my mind racing in loops and stuck thinking about the boy beside me and all the pain he carries.

“What’s going on, Mason?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, flatly, as he sets the flask down on the concrete steps beside him.

I turn to look at him, and he’s staring down at the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with me, too lost in his own thoughts right now.

“Hey,” I whisper, getting his attention. He finally looks up slowly, locking his sad eyes on mine.

“What is it?” I ask him softly.

He holds my gaze for a moment, weighing his words, weighing his feelings…weighing all the emotions he’s holding back.

“I really hate the holidays,” he finally says.

“Because of…your mom?”

I see his mouth twitch, that movement guys do when they think they have to be strong and hold back tears. Then he just nods, not being able to get any words out at first.

“Honestly, Sim,” he says quietly, “sometimes I think I’d rather put a bullet in my head than go back home—”

“Mason,” I gasp out. “You can’t say that.”