Mason's POV:
I open my eyes, my head pulsating in time with the beating in my chest. Fuck. I pinch my temple and squeeze them closed again to try and dull the aching with no luck. For that brief moment, I didn't remember what happened last night. I was just a man who woke up with a headache — a hangover. The memory of only hours ago floods over me and I feel physically sick. Embarrassed. Mortified even.
I re-open my eyes and look to my left, at the brown haired angel sleeping next to me. My embarrassment worsens as I look at her, thinking of her seeing me the way she did. The way I was. Fuck.
I feel thankful that she handled it the way she did, she couldn't have been any better. She didn't shame me, or walk straight back out of the door the way I would have if I seen myself as the fucking mess I was last night.
I don't wake her. Not because I want her to get a good nights sleep. I mean, of course I do. But for selfish reasons. I don't wake her because I'm terrified that when she opens her eyes she won't look at me the same way she did before. Before my breakdown.
That's what it was, I can't say otherwise. It was a mental break. Embarrassment hits me once more.
A wave floods over me, from my head to my chest—where it gets heavier. It covers my whole body like a weighted blanket, weighed down by overwhelming guilt that I have for the way I treated her. When I wasn't me. For making her flinch at my hand. For making her believe that I didn't love her.
I pause, thinking I may actually throw up.
Yet here she is. Sleeping soundly beside me. Her hair is a mixture of frizzy and wavy, sprawled out on the pillow. It does that when it's been wet and she doesn't have time to blow dry it. I lift my hand to stroke her hair, but it trembles.
Her eyes start to flutter open, and my heart sinks in my fucking chest.
Her head tilts upwards, and she smiles. She reaches up her hand and strokes my cheek gently. "Hi," she mumbles tiredly—her eyes still as full of love as they always have been. Bloodshot, from tears and lack of sleep: but not one speck of judgement in sight. One glance from her and the blanket was lifted.
"Hi," I say, my voice cracking and my throat stinging.
She sits up and rubs her eyes. "How do you feel?"
"Better," I respond. I don't know how to answer, and I don't know if that's true or not. "Don't you have work?"
"No, these are my days off."
Amara's POV:
I reach over and grab my phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up with several missed calls and texts from Matt. "Shit," I mumble.
*Mason's okay, I'm okay. I'm sorry for not texting sooner—I'll explain later.*
I let out a sigh. "Do you want some breakfast?"
He nods, and I make my way into the kitchen. I start to make some eggs, and rack my brain on how to speak to Mason. I don't know how to approach this, but I know I have to talk to him about it—we can't just pretend nothing happened. He needs help. I'm terrified I'll say the wrong thing—or that he will.
"Amara..," Mason sighs, sitting down at the counter.
My back is facing him, and I don't turn around. "How do you want your eggs?" I ask.
"The way you're making them is fine."
"Okay." I reply. I don't know what to say, I don't know where to start.
"Mar," he repeats.
"Orange juice?" I ask, unscrewing the cap and turning to pour some into his glass.
He stands to his feet and stops my hand, lowering it onto the counter. I lift my eyes to look at him, and he raises his brow with a sad expression. "I'm sorry." I sigh.
"Don't be," he says, pulling out a chair for me.
I take a seat and pull it close to him, so that our knees are touching. "There's a specialist at my hospital, he works with people with PTSD. He'd be a good fit, I think you'd get along. And you should see a physical therapist, I know one of those too. You know, just to make sure you're healing the way you should be since you didn't get the proper post-op treatment. And maybe I could ask Jennifer if she knows-"
"Amara," he stops me.
I tug my fingers through my hair. "You do need to see someone, Mason. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"What about..," I approach cautiously. "Spending some time in-"
"No fucking way." he says abruptly, standing to his feet.
"Okay, okay," I nod, motioning for him to sit back down. "I didn't think you'd say yes. I'll contact some people, okay? Outpatient."
He seems reluctant, but nods and takes his seat. "Alright, I'll continue with breakfast."
I turn around and take a deep breath. I don't want to say the wrong thing and push him over the edge, or trigger something. I'm still processing everything that he told me last night. And the guilt for not understanding, for not knowing what he went through is eating me alive. The way I reacted when he came home. I convinced myself he was dead. I believed it. Because it was easier than wondering whether he was in pain somewhere, or just didn't want me anymore. That maybe he had found home again in Italy. Guilt.
The silence as I finish cooking is suffocating. I plate it up and place both of our plates on the counter, pulling up a seat. As I take a bite, I can feel his eyes on me. I don't have to look at him to know he's looking at me.
"I'm going to stay here for a few days... if you don't mind," I suggest, glancing up at him quickly before returning my gaze to the plate in front of me.
"That's fine."
"Have you... spoken to your brother?" I ask cautiously.
His brow furrows. "No, why?"
"Just wondering." I respond as casually as possible. I don't dare look at him—I do everything I can not to look at him. He can read me like a book, one glance and he'll know I'm lying. That his brother is probably using my face cloth to wipe his ass at Casa Woods right now.
I cough awkwardly. "I'm uh, not that hungry," pushing my plate away.
"Neither am I." he shrugs, copying my motion.
"Do you... need anything?" I ask with a smile, finally looking at him.
"No," he shakes his head.
"Okay," I nod. We're both walking on eggshells. "I'm going to shower, then I'll make some calls."
——————
2 days later...
"I don't know, Mason. I already told you that." I huff, fluffing the couch cushion.
"Well, we have to figure it out." he retorts.
"You don't think I know that?"
He sits down and pats the spot beside him, letting out a sigh. "Sit," he motions. I look to him and pull the hair from my face before taking a seat.
"We're driving each other crazy." I groan.
He leans over and pecks my lips gently. "It's stress."
I kiss him back, "I know, I'm sorry," I whisper against his lips.
"Me too."
He trails his hand down my thigh slowly, and I stop him. "Mason," I sigh.
"Do you not want to?" he furrows his brow.
"It's not that."
"You're not scared of me, right?" he asks, his face falling slightly.
I tilt my head, bringing his hands to either side of my face. "I'm not scared of you, I promise." I say, wrapping my hands around his securely—pressing them to my cheeks. "This just isn't the right time."
"I need a distraction, Mar," he sighs. "I need to not be in my fucking head like this all the time. I'm going crazy."
"Put your shoes on." I tell him, patting his thigh and standing to my feet.
"What?"
"We've been cooped up in this apartment for 48 hours," I explain, sliding on my flats. "Shoes—come on."
He grabs his shoes, tying them as I search for my keys. "Where do you want to go?" I ask, picking up the pillows in hopes of seeing the silver. "Anywhere, just to clear your head."
"The rooftop." he answers.
I stop in my tracks, my heart sinking in my chest. I thank god that my back is turned to him, because I know every ounce of colour just drained from my face. "You know, our rooftop. The one we went to together," he continues.
The imagine of my body swaying on the ledge fills my mind. I haven't been back since that night, I haven't wanted to. I still don't.
"Amara?"
"—Hm?" I snap out of it.
"Unless... you don't want to?" he asks, his voice stringing out as he senses the uneasiness—even from across the room.
My eyes catch my keys on the counter. "No, we can go," I nod, grabbing them tightly and walking out of the door before he can analyse me. "Rooftop it is."
The drive is monotonous. I avoid making eye contact with Mason, whilst still trying to make short humming noises to signal that I'm okay—not angry, or upset, or anything that I may be feeling. So that he doesn't ask. When we arrive, we get out of the car and reach the steps. "I'll go first," he offers kindly, and I know now that he thinks this uneasiness is simply remnants of my old fear of heights.
As we climb, I can't shake the pit in my stomach and the image of my hands gripping a bottle as I contemplated letting go. We reach the top before I even feel as though we've really climbed; my mind is elsewhere.
Mason sits on the ledge, his legs dangling over. I look to him and watch as he lets out a deep breath, how he suddenly fills with visible peace. Rewrite the bad memories with the good. It's the only way forward. That's what Jennifer tells me. Therapy.
I sit beside him, my legs dangling with his. Despite how my heart beats into my throat, I take a breath and place my hand on his. I lean my head onto his shoulder, gathering my bearings.
"I wasn't going to do it." he breaks the silence.
I lift my head, remembering the bottle of pills and the whisky—I just didn't know he did too.
"Okay." I nod.
"Did I scare you?" he asks, slowly turning his head towards me.
I look him in the eye, and then look away. "You know, for a second I swear my heart stopped... like it actually stopped beating."
He stares at me intently, I can feel it as I look out into the sky—the soft breeze kissing air into my lungs. "For a split second when I thought-" My words fail me. "It's a kind of fear that can't be put into words."
"I'm sorry."
I look to him and smile reassuringly. "Don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry. It's not your fault," I say. "What is your fault, is making me love you so damn much that the very thought of you being gone—even just for a second, strikes a strong enough fear through my body to make me believe my heart has stopped beating."
He nods, before kissing me softly. "I'm sorry you had to see it, I know you can't understand."
I glance away, thinking of the irony that sentence paired with this location holds. "I understand."
"Thank you, for not leaving." he says, his eyes becoming serious.
"We don't walk away, not anymore. We stay and we fight—right? You can't back out of eternity."
"That's the beauty in it." he smiles, kissing my forehead.
I lean my head back on his shoulder, looking out to the same view I did over a year ago, with feelings that couldn't be more juxtaposed.
I rewrite this memory over the old one. The feelings of despair and hopelessness with ones of deep love and fulfilment. We sit there for a while in silence. Both, in our own way, enjoying the feeling of breathing fresh air.
After a while, Mason lifts his head and turns to me with a cautious expression. "I don't feel as... unsteady, anymore. Why is that?"
"Because you have your memories. It wasn't just PTSD, Mase, it was the amnesia too. That's why it was so rough—you had post traumatic stress over things you didn't even remember yet. It's still going to be tough, and you might even have some moments like before—but you've got all of the information to deal with it now. A lot of what happened was your memories trying to fight through."
His face falls. "I might freak out again?"
"Not like you did, now that you remember. It'll be hard, Mason, but you have your first session tomorrow. They'll be able to help a lot more than you think, and I'm here for you." I explain, squeezing his hand.
He nods. "Do you want to swing by your place and grab some of your stuff? If you still want to stay with me, that is."
"No," I say abruptly. "I mean, yes, of course I'll still stay. I just don't need my stuff right now, I'll get it later on my way to visit Matt."
He furrows his brow, moving his hand from under mine. "Amara, what aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," I shrug. "It'll just save time."
"Alright."
I narrow my eyes slightly, did I just lie to Mason and get away with it? Maybe with everything going on he isn't as focused on my deception abilities.
He stretches out his arms and yawns. "Before we go, I should give Enzo a call. He broke his leg last week during 'work.' Fucking idiot."
"No he did-" I begin, before slapping my hand over my face. "Fuck!"
"I knew it!" he gapes, standing to his feet. "My brother is at your place?!"
"How do you even do that?!" I yell, standing to meet him.
"I can read you like a book, Amara Woods," he shakes his head. "My brother is here?"
I sigh. "He came by the night... that night, he didn't want you to know until you felt better."
"You met my brother," his eyes widen as he slowly shakes his head. "Fucking hell."
"How did you even know it was about Enzo? How did you get that from me being weird?!"
"You were weird when I mentioned him yesterday, you were weird when I mentioned swinging by your place. I had a hunch, I ran with it." he shrugs.
"Whatever." I groan.
He raises his brow. "Come on," he motions, turning to leave. "Time for me to see my big brother."