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Lucky except for the fact I’ll always want to gouge out her eyeballs, of course.
“I thought this would be nice,” Mason hedges.
Nice is a Nilla Wafer or a plain grilled chicken breast. It’s not a night with special, homemade hot cocoa.
Right now, I’d like to pour the cocoa right over his head.
Maybe THAT would get a reaction. Something more thannice.
But apparently, nice is all I’m going to get, because Mason turns away. I twist so now I’m the one staring—more like glaring—athisprofile.
I stare at Mason’s cheekbones and the straight curve of his jaw. He’s a sonnet-worthy kind of man. It’s infuriating.
Are hate sonnets a thing? I’m pretty certain I could write one to rival Shakespeare’s work.
But no—I don’t hate Mason. I could never.
The longer I sit, the more I stew in my not-hate feelings. As my frustrations simmer, I think about my conversation with Mary, about Sam’s latest email, and about the stupid dates John set me up. I was all for canceling those dates.
But now …
Picking up my hot cocoa, I drain it all, leaving only the candy cane and a single marshmallow. I set my mug on the table next to Mason’s, then take a breath.
“I think John set up my first date for tomorrow,” I say, casual as can be.
I swear, Mason flinches. “You’re going through with it?”
“A promise is a promise. And you know how John is.”
“Oh,” Mason says.
Oh—one of the shortest, most pointless words in the dictionary, rivaled only byumanduh.
I wait for more, but there is nothing. No words. No reactions.
It stings, but I shouldn’t be surprised he says nothing and does not look my way. The less he reacts, the more I do.
“Maybe John’s right, and I’ll finally meet the right guy!” I say, throwing my hands wide. My laugh is maniacal.
If I seem a little unhinged, it’s because I AM.
Mason turns to me so, so slowly. He blinks rapidly, like he’s been caught in a dust storm and is trying to clear out his eyeballs.
His mouth opens and closes, but he says nothing. I can’t tell if he’s jealous or just concerned I’m going over the edge.
To be clear, the edge is somewhere far, far in the rearview mirror. I have found it, and I have driven right over it, Thelma and Louise style. There is no going back now.
“Maybe so,” Mason says.
Maybe. Freaking. So.
Is that what you want?I almost ask.Is thatreallywhat you want?
Instead, I find myself saying, “Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” like Abed fromCommunity. I sure wish Abed were here right now. His character is the best at comparing real-life situations to popular movie plots. He could tell me if there’s any chance of me getting an HEA or if I’m stuck in a zombie horror film.
It feels a little like the second one to me.
I need a break from Mason and his stupid handsomeness and his delicious hot cocoa and his not-so-delicious mixed signals.
