Heal Me

Chapter Twenty

An hour and a half later (how it took two hours to give fifteen stitches was a mystery), Sarah emerged with a look of nausea. Her sleeve was still torn and bloody, but through the rip, a clean, white bandage was visible. Clutched in her freckled hand was a prescription for something to ease the pain.

After some debate, we decided not to go home for the hours remaining before our meeting tonight. Mason thought that would be taking chances, considering both Marcus and the camouflage guy knew where we lived. Instead, we took a taxi to Mason's place where he invited us up for takeout Chinese delivered in twenty minutes or less. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I could smell the food permeating the paper boxes on the table.

"Hope you like it." Mason set a stack of black plates on the table, along with a few forks. "It's my specialty."

"Yum," Cat said, gathering a plate and stacking it high with the various flavors. Veggie fried rice, egg rolls she made sure were vegetarian, fortune cookies, and a swirl of thick, red sauce.

When Sarah had served herself, the two of them took seats at the table and began to eat, no longer paying attention to Mason and me.

I grabbed a plate, very heavy, and a fork, also heavy. In fact, the entire place looked filled with heavy, dark objects. It was cozy, that was the only way to put it. Large, overstuffed furniture; a grandfather clock that chimed every quarter hour; a giant, flat-screen television that took up the majority of one wall; lava lamps; and expensive looking trinkets. Overall, it felt like Dad's study at home, and I couldn't help but feel at ease.

For the first time since leaving for college, I yearned to be home in California, snuggled safely in my king-sized bed. Eating a banana split prepared by our chef. Watching re-runs of Friends.

A nudge from Mason interrupted my reminiscing. "You okay?" he asked quietly, keeping the conversation private.

I waited until we were across the room, sitting in one of his gigantic, suede couches before answering. "I'm just tired."

Mason twisted a bite of noodles onto his fork, took a neat bite, chewed and swallowed. "Liar."

The rice was perfectly sweet and salty, tainted with MSG, no doubt. I was surprised Cat was even eating it. But I was never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, unless the gift horse was money, and the giver was a guy I liked. "Okay, I'm nervous. I don't see tonight going very well. But I'm also tired. That was true. Cat got us up at the butt-crack of dawn this morning..."

At that, he laughed. The sound vibrated through the couch. "Well, if it helps, I'll be there the entire time, okay?"

"Yeah," I sighed.

"And you can take a nap, if you want. We have a few hours." Mason reached over and pressed a button on one of the many controllers decorating his coffee table. The television came to life with an episode of Family Guy. "Background noise," he explained. "It's become a habit since I left home. My Dad always had the television on."

"I like this show." I took a large bite of rice, relishing in its texture and the relief it offered my empty stomach. "But I can never decide if they can hear Stewie, or not."

Finished with his food, Mason put his plate and one socked foot on the table. "I don't think they can decide. One episode they can, and the next they can't," he mused, pulling a merlot colored pillow into his lap and hugging it. "But I prefer when it's just the dog that can hear him."

When I'd eaten all I could hold, I placed my plate on top of Mason's on the table. There was still some rice and a few bites of sweet and sour pork, but if I finished it all, I feared vomiting on Marcus later. Not that he wouldn't deserve the gesture.