Page 53 of Mason

He’s breaking up with me. A hollow laugh hovers in my mouth as I realize the irony of the sentiment. We were never together, not the way I thought. Mason has never defined our relationship, never said anything to give me the impression we’re anything but lovers. Not even friends.

“I think it’s best that you leave,” he says, finally, his voice as cold as his eyes.

His words slice like a razor blade to the throat, effectively cutting off any lingering hope. I don’t fight it—what’s the damn point? I grab my purse, slip on my shoes, and walk out of his suite without so much as a backward glance.

I can’t.

Because if he so much as looks at me with an ounce of caring, I’m terrified I’ll go crawling back—just like my mom did.

I deserve better than that.

Chapter 30

I’ve rehearsed every word I want to say to Renee, every apology, every desperate cry for help. Now, more than ever, I need my sister. It’s not my fault my mother is weak, that our father is a jerk. It shouldn’t—can’t—affect the bond we have, the sibling connection that is my strength.

I have never needed that more.

I slip out of the cab and run-walk to the apartment lobby. The elevator takes too long, and so I run up the stairs, taking two at a time, with my black heels dangling between my fingers, pulse racing, heart pounding. I was so stupid to just walk out on Renee.

Why didn’t I bother to try to make things right?

I throw open the door, gasping. “Renee!” She doesn’t answer. “Renee?” The room Is pitch black. Silent as a morgue. I feel the emptiness even before I flick on the light, and my breath hitches with grief.

Renee is gone.

Her kitchen gadgets plucked from the cupboards, her clothes missing from the closet, her silly mannequins, even her bottle of Merlot—the one she said we’d share over Toscana Soup and fresh buns next week—snatched from the wine rack. There is nothing left of my sister here, not even her stupid polka dot chair. Only the faint hint of her cherry blossom perfume, misting the air like a faint memory.

I slide into the chair and rest my head on the dining room table, stunned by the by the sheer sadness that pulls at my chest. It’s as if my heart is literally being yanked from inside and still live, still breathing, tossed on the floor for anyone—everyone—to trample.

In the corner of my eye, I see the notepad, Renee’s neat penmanship carved into the paper with blue ink. I slide it forward and through the haze of my tears, I read every word of her wounded screed makes me feel ill.

I just can’t live in the same apartment with you after this, Olivia.

It’s too much.

I feel angry. At our father. At your mother and mine.

Even at you. For right or wrong.

So I have to go.

--R

Crumpling the letter in my hand, I curl up on my bumpy old couch, staring out the window where her mannequins once stood, and let the tears fall. I fall asleep sobbing, waking only a few hours later with my landline ringing ominously through my tortured dream.

I lift the receiver, breathing heavily into the phone.

“Olivia?”

I don’t answer my mother. There’s no strength to my voice.

“We need to talk,” she says. I hold the phone away from my ear, prepared to hang up. I can’t deal with her right now, especially today. “I’m in the city,” she goes on.

My head snaps alert. “Where?”

“At a restaurant in Times Square,” she says, speaking slowly and clearly. “And I am alone. I would very much like it if you’d meet me to talk.”

I lick my lips. “You drove to Manhattan?”