Mason
I felt like an asshole.
Guilt—that was it, guilt. After years of empty void, I practically had the emotional capacity of a brick.
But the look on her face when I'd said those words to her...even after I closed the door—I couldn't forget it. Just couldn't erase the image from my mind.
Why is a girl like you so far away from home when you clearly can't survive by yourself?
I'd spat it in her face deliberately. Better to keep away with the barbed words, the sheer dismissal than have her get any closer to me than she already was.
I could see through the front she put up—that cheery disposition. And at that point, she was vulnerable. All she'd asked was a simple question. Yes, I'd been affected by it, but—there was a difference.
Ever had not meant to hurt me, while I had, at that point, felt a burning need to hurt her.
God, I felt like punching myself. Seeing the whites of her hazel eyes turn red because of something so stupid, because of me...
I wasn't worth it. Nothing in this entire damn world was worth those tears.
She didn't remember me. Of course she didn't. She wasn't going to remember shit from around fifteen years ago.
Everly. Her name brought up memories of my childhood. The good parts.
Snow and autumn leaves and school. Flashes of smiles and laughter. The sun and her hair, both so alike. Shades of orange and yellow and all the bright colors in the world.
That was one of the reasons I couldn't seem to call her by her name.
She was still out there now. I could hear her fidgeting. I contemplated staying inside, then decided fuck it, and stormed back out to fix the mess I made.
I opened my door to the view of her crouched over the broken glass and spilt peanut butter. She must really like the stuff.
She didn't even look up at me, though I knew she could feel my presence. When I looked closer, I noticed that her fingers were cut in small places and bleeding from the glass.
Something about the sight unsettled me.
"Get up," I ordered, surprising myself with the tone of my voice. It was not directed towards her. I found myself wishing she knew that.
This time, she shifted her hazel eyes to gently sweep over me. That bright carelessness from before had disappeared, replaced with blank hostility.
I knew that look. I knew it because I had seen it countless times. In my mirror.
Fuck. What had I done?
I crouched down to meet her gaze parallel. I saw so much more than a carefree college girl with spare money—I saw the fear, the doubt, the loneliness.
Saying nothing, I separated her hands from whatever shit she was trying to clean up. Holding her by the wrist gently enough for it not to hurt, I nudged her up and led her into my apartment. She didn't object.
Once we entered, her eyes roamed my mostly neutral home. The apartment was clocked in shades of white and grey, and the furniture was dark contrasting against its background.
"It's very...neat," she choked out.
"Yeah," I said, leading her to the bathroom.
I was a little more organised than the average college guy, but she didn't need to know that.
"Hold your hands above the sink," I told her, and she surprisingly listened.
I felt her gaze on me as I carefully opened the tap on cold. Most of the peanut butter junk came off easily, but the small glass pieces seemed to be stuck and were still drawing blood.
Ever didn't seem to be bothered about the pain though, but seemed more interested in the side of my face. She was incredibly quiet, which disarmed me. She talked too much, and now here she was, not talking at all.
I sat her on the white couch in the living room, and she held out her hands patiently while I looked for the first aid kit. I was sure there'd be surgical tweezers in there. I was right.
I returned to Ever, kneeling in front of her.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked, quietly.
It was a while before I responded, smirking up at her. "Why not?"
I had managed to remove two pieces of glass without any reaction of pain from her. It comforted me, in a way. Then, all previous thoughts of comfort were thrown away when she hissed while I attempted removing the third, relatively large piece of glass.
Two more still needed to be removed.
We made brief eye contact before she looked away. She was still wearing that ridiculous animated t-shirt. It was undeniably cute, attractive, even. She awoke parts of me I wish could be left dormant.
Her left hand had somehow found my shoulder, and she squeezed when I pulled out the fourth piece of glass. Going slower would just prolong the whole process. Seeing her like this was messing up some part of me.
I finally got the last one out.
"All done, blondie," I said. Ever loosened her grip on my shoulder, the warmth dissipating.
Her reactions never ceased to amuse me, but this time, she didn't even protest at the nickname.
"Thank you," she said, bleary-eyed.
She looked up at me, and I thought it might have been desperation flashing in her gaze.
No. She was looking at me like one would when sorting out shelves at a supermarket. Trying to categorise me. Place me in one of those little boxes I'd never fit in.
"You want to know why I'm here?" she started. "Other than the fact that I have to go to college?"
I said nothing.
"I'm looking for something," she continued, features tensing. "I can't remember what it is, but I'm looking for it. It's here."
I frowned. "If you don't know what it is, how do you know it's here?"
Her expression faltered. "I don't know," she said, "I just do. It's...hard to explain. A gut feeling."
She stood, offering me one last glance before heading towards the door. It occurred to me, then, that she didn't have anything to eat, and her hands were screwed up.
"Wait," I said.
Don't do it, Mason.
She turned.
Don't fucking do it.
"Stay," I muttered. "I have extra food."
Too late.
"I'm vegetarian," she said then.
"It's pisto," I replied.
Ever showed no recognition of what I'd just said. Despite everything, I smirked.
"There's no meat in it," I explained.
She paused, deliberating. When she stared at me with those wide hazel eyes, I couldn't breathe.
"Okay," she said softly.
I nodded. She sat back on the couch and I switched the TV on for her.
"Hey, can you put on Cartoon Network?" she asked.
I held back a smile. There she was— the girl that reversed into my bike and wears animated shirts. I changed the channel and left the remote at the coffee table.
Warming up the pisto, I served it to her on a white plate. She accepted it with both hands and another polite "thank you."
She took a bite, and audibly moaned. Something inside me stirred at the sound.
"Did you make this?" she asked, her bright eyes wide.
I nodded. I could cook—my mother had taught me. Mexican food was my forté. Spanish food, which she was eating right now, I'd learnt how to make myself. She smiled, impressed.
I didn't admit it out loud, but I wanted that smile to be there forever. For once, I felt like I'd done the right thing. For once, I hadn't fucked things up.
"Are you Hispanic?" she asked.
I met her gaze, then nodded slightly. "Yeah."
The room delved into silence as she continued forking the pisto into her mouth at an alarming rate, and I wondered how she was still so damn small. At a little over 6 feet, I practically towered over her short frame.
I sighed. "I'll help you look for it," I said.
She knit her brows together. "What?"
"Whatever you want to find here. I'll help you look for it."
I gave her orange juice, and left, not giving either of is time to think about why I'd said what I did. It had come as second nature, the need to help her. Which was misplaced, because that was not me.
I didn't help people.
A few minutes later, I returned to find the glass empty and Ever sprawled across my couch, very still and very asleep.
Her jeans left nothing to the imagination, probably why the deprived assholes at the garage were getting loud. Logan had kept them at bay, though.
Seeing the female species at Charley's was rare—I knew this. It was another dick move on my part. I shouldn't have asked her to come.
That Cartoon Network t-shirt she had on was riding up, exposing the skin of her stomach. I averted my gaze.
I considered waking her up but... she looked so much like herself in that moment, so at peace, her blonde hair making her look angelic.
I couldn't.
So I dug out a blanket from my cupboard, draped it over her body, and switched off the lights.
I didn't know whether I'd regret it in the morning.
*
Ever
I woke up with a slight buzzing feeling on my palm, and lifted it up to see it covered in a bandage tied with a deft hand. My apartment looked way too neat to be mine. That was because, I realized quickly, it wasn't.
Everything came back to me in flashes. Mason was my neighbour. The broken jars. I'd fallen asleep on his couch.
Stupid, stupid girl. There were things that even a full night's sleep couldn't help you forget, like...
His touch. I could still feel his hand burning through my skin, a never ending sort of warmth emanating from them.
His scent. I was enveloped in a blanket that smelled of pine and cinnamon. The way he'd looked at me with those gold-flecked eyes like...like he cared.
It was a lie.
My mind was playing games with me. I didn't know how to feel. What to feel. All I knew was that he was doing strange things to me. Making me feel things I'd never felt before. Things I was sure I couldn't forget, which was a problem.
That stuff he'd given me last night was suddenly all I wanted to eat.
Did he really make it?
Jealousy sneaked its way in. I could only make basic things, the bare minimum like eggs and noodles. Yet here he was, so self-sufficient it scared me.
He was right. I needed to learn to take care of myself. For too long, I'd been dependent on the help of those around me.
I tugged at the blanket sheathing me. Falling asleep with a t-shirt was not all bad, but falling asleep with tight jeans definitely, definitely was.
I could feel my ankle throb a little from the jeans' narrow end. Contorting my body to reach it, I ending up falling onto the carpet beneath me.
"Ugh..." I groaned.
A throaty cough interrupted my self-pity session. I looked up, and screamed.
It was so shrill that Mason backed away, even slightly.
"Why the fuck are you screaming?" he muttered, unimpressed.
I didn't know where it came from, but having a six foot tall, half naked man pop up from nowhere could have offered some justification.
"Sorry," I coughed out. "You surprised me, that's all."
Mason had washed his hair. His bronze skin was even and looked soft, only interrupted by a few faded white scars marking his impressive chest.
Lean muscle, that one could only get from working out or hard labour, sculpted his chest, all the way down to his abdomen.
A caramel V-line travelled all the way down, into a thick white towel he'd wrapped around his waistline.
My mouth dried.
That brilliant tattoo was on full display, the dark black ink swirling down from his left arm to his chest. It formed an Aztec pattern of the sun.
The things Logan told me still stuck in my mind.
He walked over to the kitchen oasis, with just that towel covering the lower half of his body. If that towel were to fall...
I needed a gallon of undiluted holy water.
And a post-mortem report.
"Can you put some clothes on? Geez," I coughed out.
He faced me with a frown, chugging down a glass of juice. I had to blink to stop myself from staring at his straight jaw.
"In case you didn't notice, it's my house, blondie."
"Stop calling me that," I grumbled. "I have a name."
"Don't we all," he muttered, with an unnecessary amount of sarcasm.
There was no sign of the Mason I'd caught a glimpse of yesterday. Nothing. His demeanour had hardened overnight, and suddenly all I could hear were those words, over and over, in my head.
You clearly can't survive by yourself.
He'd said it with so much hate, so unheralded that it physically hurt.
He should come with a warning: Approach object with caution. Object is highly flammable. Maintain a safe distance at all times.
Noiselessly, he stalked up to me. I stared at him, swallowing.
"Are you scared of me, blondie?" he said, a furtive smirk curving his lips.
Sirens rang through my skull, but I lifted my chin slightly, defiantly.
Mason edged closer to me, and I took a step backwards, my spine making contact with the wall. He placed an arm on either side of me, effectively caging me against him.
He smelled strongly of aftershave and citrus shampoo, his hair darker and less curly due to water weighing it down. I sucked in a breath.
I tucked my arms behind me, refusing to let myself touch his skin. I didn't think I'd walk out of this without cardiac arrest if I did.
I couldn't read his features. "You should be. I'm not good for you," he said, "and you should stay away from things that aren't good for you."
"What do you do," I said, my breaths shallow, "if those things are chasing after you?"
Mason leaned further down, sending a rush of blood to my cheeks and increasing my heartbeat by a thousand knots. His lips brushed my ear, and a droplet of water fell from his hair to my skin. I inhaled sharply.
"You run faster," he whispered.
His breath fanned my face, hints of mint and orange juice. I broke eye contact, slipping underneath his arm and fast walking back to my apartment. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears.
He was going to be the death of me.
*
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