Lemonade (WLGYL #2)

Chapter 22 - Present

I woke up to the smell of pancakes and for a split second, I thought I was back home with my tie dye bed sheets and plethora of stuffed animals, ready for my mom to call me down to breakfast. But my sheets were white, I had one stuffed animal (Shadow the cat), and I wasn't at home.

I groaned, my head suddenly pounding with the events that had transpired the night before. Mason must've been making food and, despite how little I wanted to talk to another human at the moment, my stomach betrayed me with a growl.

Groaning again, I slithered out of bed and reluctantly stepped out into the kitchen.

Mason was standing at the counter, his grey cotton t-shirt stretched out around the neck. He was scooping pancakes onto two plates in front of him. At the sound of my door opening, he raised his eyes from the frying pan. He gave a small smile. "Hi," he said.

"What's all this?" I asked in response, pulling on the hem of my red pajama shirt; it had shrunk in the wash and I was suddenly aware of how it barely covered my stomach.

Mason flipped another pancake onto the plate in front of him. Chocolate chip, my favorite. "I noticed you were upset yesterday."

Was I that obvious? I figured Mason was asleep when I got home from my night with Liam. "How?"

Mason hesitated, and then grimaced. "The walls are thin."

Fuck.

The only thing worse than crying over a boy, was your ex hearing you cry over a boy. I felt embarrassed, even though I knew I shouldn't have been. "I'm sorry," was all I could think to say.

Mason made a noise, something between an incredulous scoff and a tight laugh. "You have nothing to be sorry about." He paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I couldn't think of anything I'd want to do less.

"Not particularly." I took the barstool at the counter across from Mason. He nodded, accepting my response, and the silence grew between us, only broken by the sizzle of pancakes. He was running low on batter.

Raising my eyebrows, I said, "How come you never made me pancakes when we were dating?"

At this, Mason did scoff. "Hey, I cooked you plenty."

I giggled, "Yeah, burnt toast."

Mason's mouth dropped open. I noticed he had stubble, the shadow soft against his jaw. "Excuse me, Miss I-can-only-make-scrambled-eggs, it wasn't burnt, it was crispy. Just the way I like it."

"Yes, chef!" I said, my hand in a mock salute. Regardless of my teasing, Mason was arguably the better cook between the two of us. Or, at the very least, he actually tried in the kitchen, whereas I usually gave up early to order something or cook the most minimal-effort dish.

"And lest you forget your birthday dinner."

I smiled at the thought in spite of myself. Although he didn't specify, it was clear what birthday he was talking about. My eighteenth birthday. It was truly one of the better days I had ever had.

"Like I could ever forget." I had been looking down, not wanting to meet Mason's eyes on this trip down memory lane, but at that, I couldn't hide any longer. Our eyes met, and I knew it had been one of his better days, too. He put the pan down, and looked as if he were about to say something, but closed his mouth at the last minute.

Mason cleared his throat, and the moment was over.

He slid a plate across the counter. "This one's for you." Pointing to the maple syrup, whipped cream, and extra chocolate chips next to me, he said, "Go nuts."