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Idothink, actually. My heart does a little flippity-flop, and I nod enthusiastically, my mouth too full to answer, my heart too full to find the right words. Mason smiles again, his eyes bright, and I feel a flush rising from my chest with all the speed of a brush fire during a drought. I’m grateful for the dark, which hopefully hides the redness I’m sure extends from my chest all the way up my cheeks. Even my forehead feels hot.
The intensity of his stare makes me suddenly very aware ofexactlyhow full my mouth is. I cover it with my hand, trying to chew without overthinking it. Unlike Mason, I do not think I look particularly attractive while masticating.
Mason’s fingers encircle my wrist, and he gently pulls my hand away from my mouth. “You don’t need to do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
I wait for him to let go, but he keeps holding my wrist, even after it’s down on the table. His thumb makes tiny circles over my skin, and I’m barely containing myself. I wonder if he can feel how fast my pulse is racing over the pad of his finger.
“You don’t need to hide around me,” he says. “I know you, Chels. And I like you exactly as you are.”
If my cheeks were hot before, they’re core-of-the-earth flaming now. How, exactly, does one respond to this kind of compliment?
I have no idea, which is why I say, “Right back at ya, big guy.”
Of all the dumb things to say …
I’d love to fall down dead underneath the picnic table, right there in the gravel for saying something so ridiculous in a very sweet moment. But Mason only laughs softly. He seems pleased. Then again, he did just say he likes me as is. I can only hope that includes when I stick my foot ankle-deep in my mouth.
Mason releases me once again to resume eating, and I have half a mind to throw his plate like a frisbee over the chain-link fence so I can have his hand all to myself.
“Are you going to spend the night chastising me?” I ask teasingly.
He raises a brow. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night—and beyond—showing you what you’re worth.”
Okay, where has THIS Mason been? I resist the urge to grab his face to see if it’s one of those realistic latex masks like inMission: Impossible.
But this really is Mason, just not a side he’s shown me before. It’s not like he’s suddenly acting like someone else, even if this is all new. It feels more like he’s peeling back layers of control, opening a door to usher me inside a room he’s carefully kept locked up for years.
The confidence and surety of his tone assures me that his feelings are real, and they arenotnew.
I can’t wait to tell my mom. To tell Mary. To tell Sam, even.
Maybe, at some point, to tell John.
Or maybe not. I remember our conversation last night about finding our own relationship apart from him. Sitting here at the food trailer park, it really feels like what we’re doing.
And I happen to REALLY like this new direction.
It’s starting to feel like the dream I’ve had for years is possibly within reach. I’m terrified I’m going to screw it up, so I cut my crêpes into tiny pieces and eat slowly. It’s preventative eating—keeping me from saying any other stupid things.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and when my phone starts vibrating in my purse, it reminds me of Mason’s mom. I ignore whoever’s calling and take a sip of my bottled water.
“Not to pry, but you were going to tell me about your mom?” I say tentatively.
Mason sweeps his napkin over his mouth, and I realize he’s somehow finished both his crêpes while I’ve finished half of one. I mean, I know I’m going slowly, but he practically inhaled his.
Leaning forward, he rests one elbow on the table, swiveling toward me ever so slightly. His eyes look big and sad.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I quickly add.
But I really hope he does. This part of him has long been a mystery to me. I know only the basic building blocks when what I really want is to knoweverything. Partly because I’m nosy, but mostly because his past is part of what makes Mason the man he is. If he’s a library, I want to spend the rest of my life walking among his shelves, devouring every single book only to start all over again.
Mason’s gaze finds mine, and some of his sparkle is gone. “I want to. I’ve always wanted to tell you about her. It’s just … not the easiest thing to talk about.”
“Take your time. I’ve got a lot of crêpe left to eat.”
This makes him smile, which was my intent. Sighing, he closes his eyes, draws in a slow breath, and then tells me about the home life he’s kept quiet about for so many years.
