I awkwardly step inside and try not to focus on the abs that seem to be staring into my soul. "Like I said... I'm Amara," I say as I shake his hand nervously. "I'm so sorry for... that, I just came here to get my shoes. I didn't know Matt was home."
I turn around and elbow Matt on the arm. "Ow!" he groans. "What was that for?"
"I thought you were at work."
"I was..," he raises his brow with a smirk. "I took a break."
I can't help but let out another laugh. "You could've used an on-call room."
"And risk Bully Julie walking in? No thanks." he scoffs.
I roll my eyes before awkwardly side stepping towards his closet and retrieving my shoes from inside. "There they are." I say in a high pitched tone.
"Again, I'm so sorry." I scrunch my nose up, apologising to Matt's... boyfriend?
"It's okay, it's nice to meet you either way," he chuckles. "I've heard a lot about you."
"All good things I hope."
"Of course, I'm Jackson by the way." he smiles. Now I can finally put a name to the face. I try to hide my surprise at the irony, Jackson—reminding me of Jack. At least this one seems like a decent person.
"Excuse me," he mutters uncomfortably as he shuffles past us into the bathroom.
"Oh my god!" I mouth to Matt. The pictures Matt showed me did not do him justice, he is one beautiful man.
"I know right?" he whispers. "And the things he can do with that-"
"Shh!" I silence him. "He's right next door, tell me later."
"I will." he laughs. "I have to head back to work soon, before I get a page and I'm not in the building. What do you need your going-out shoes for?" he asks with a raised brow and I chuckle.
"Quentin and I are having a few drinks later." I tell him and wait for the reaction.
He raises his brow and crosses his arms. "Puppy dog eye Quentin? Hitting on you in the break room Quentin?"
"Yes," I roll my eyes. "He needs a friend, I specified it was as friends."
"Yes, Amara. I'm sure he heard it loud and clear." he taunts sarcastically.
"It wouldn't hurt for you to talk to him more, you work beside him." I say.
"Whenever I talk to him he just asks me about you," he rolls his eyes. "You have friendly fun tonight."
"Whatever, Matthew." I scowl and he lets out an audible gasp.
"Low... that was low." he huffs.
"Okay, I'll see you later." I laugh. He leans in to kiss me goodbye, but I shove him away. "I do not know where that mouth has been in the past half hour."
"Yeah, wise choice." he shrugs, a smirk on his face.
"Goodbye, Matt." I shake my head as I leave. The sound of him giggling to himself in the background.
I make my way home and get changed. Not into anything special, I'm not dressing to impress. I do decide, however, to straighten my hair. Even though I don't need to worry about how I look in front of Quentin, it's nice to get ready for something.
By the time I get ready I'm almost running late, as usual. The drive over there was straight forward, no traffic and surprisingly, his house really isn't so far away from mine. I raise my brow as I follow the directions he left me, into the nice part of town. As I pull up outside I almost question whether I got the address right, only to have my question answered by him greeting me at the gate.
"Hi," he smiles as I step out of my car.
"Wow," is all I can seem to say. "How the hell did you afford this place?"
As soon as the question leaves my mouth I realise it sounded pretty rude. I didn't mean it like that, but on our salary—this isn't an option. Thankfully, he doesn't take offence at all. "Family money bought it," he tells me. "Disgusting, I know."
I let out a laugh as we begin to walk inside. He leads me straight through the house and outside into the garden, where he has what I can only describe as a white dome shaped structure. As we step inside it has a tv, couches and a fire in the middle. It's really pretty.
"You didn't strike me as the rich type," I blurt out, before facepalming. "Sorry, I did it again."
"It's okay," he chuckles. He motions for me to take a seat, and sits down beside me. "I'm not rich, I stopped speaking to my family a long time ago, and they cut me off—I just kept the house. I've payed for everything since I was 16 years old."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be, it was the best thing I've ever done," he tells me with a genuine smile. "You look great, by the way."
Before I can respond he holds up his hands. "Don't worry, I know this isn't a date. I meant it in the most friendly way possible. I'm not complaining, I seem to lack in that department."
"Why is that?" I ask. "Yikes, I'm on a roll tonight." my face reddens.
He laughs as he pours two glasses of wine. "Sorry, you don't have to answer that. I tend to just blurt things out." I say.
"I don't trust people's intentions, Amara. People tend to use me for the money that they think I have, and when they realise they were wrong they don't need me anymore," he explains as he hands me the glass, not looking me in the eye. "It's why I don't invite people over here."
"Why did you invite me?" I ask with a raised brow.
"Because even though I don't know you at all, somehow I know you aren't that type of person." he answers.
I feel a sadness hearing that he's so lonely because of such a materialistic reason. "People who treat you as dispensable aren't worth keeping around anyway," I tell him. "I'm happy to be your friend, Quentin."
He smiles, and I realise how kind his eyes are. It really is the nicest people who get dealt the worst hand in life. "Thank you, Amara."
He falls silent for a second and I can see the hesitation in his eyes, he's about to ask something I don't want to answer. "What happened with Elijah? If you don't mind me asking."
Called it. I take in a sharp breath as I take a sip of wine. "I retract my question," he chuckles, holding his hands up.
"That's probably best."
"So how is work? Miss 'I somehow got promoted in my fucking residency.'" he teases.
"Shut up," I roll my eyes.
"It's because of your eidetic memory, right?" he asks.
I shrug. "I don't have an eidetic memory, there have been no cases where someone has a memory like that, that only works when it comes to a certain topic. I don't know how to explain it."
"A prodigy, I see," he chuckles. "So, how is it?"
"It's busy, stressful. I've considered knocking my interns' heads together a few times."
"I'm sure you have," he laughs.
We talk for a while, and as time goes on I realise I've only had two sips of wine. He's a really interesting person, and I can see him being a great friend to have. I feel good about it being only that—he needs a friend much more than he needs anything else anyway.
As it starts to get dark Quentin decides to show me how the fire works, and it just ties together the whole place. If I ever come into money, one of these things are the first on my list. Well, after a house with an accessible roof. Our conversation never stops flowing.
"You just walked right in?!" he cackles.
"Yes! I always walk right in, it's just how we are. I walk right in and eat some food or he walks right in and sleeps in my bed," I tell him through laughter. "I'll stop and think before I walk in ever again, that image will be in my mind forever."
"Poor Matt."
"Poor Matt?!" I raise my brows. "His poor boyfriend! Our first meeting will be one he won't forget."
"I doubt anyone ever forgets their first time meeting you," he tells me with a smile. "I say that as a friend."
"You better." I roll my eyes and chuckle.
My phone begins to ring, and when I peer at the screen Mason's name flashes across it. "Oh, excuse me a second." I say, taking myself outside.
"House hunting going well?" I ask as I accept the call.
He doesn't respond. It's silent, besides a faint and distant background noise of music and talking. "Mason?"
There is another brief pause before a momentary sound of rustling . "He fucking called me, Amara," he hisses. And from those short few words I can tell he's extremely drunk. "Imagine that? Can you imagine that, Amara?"
"Mason, where are you? Who called?" I ask. I get a pit in my stomach immediately.
He lets out a small humming noise. "My fucking dead beat father." he spits. My eyes widen and my heart hurts at the sound of his voice. Behind the venomous tone, was so much hurt.
"Where are you, Mason?"
"At the bar."
"Which bar?" I ask.
"The one with the... the neon lights," he slurs. "He fucking called me."
"Stay there, okay? I'm going to come and get you." I tell him, I know exactly which bar he's referring to.
I end the call and make my way back in to find Quentin. "I'm so sorry, a friend of mine really needs me." I tell him as I gather my bag and keys.
"Oh, okay. No problem." he says with a smile, but I feel guilty for leaving.
He stands to his feet and I hug him. "We'll do this again, okay? I promise. You're a good friend, Quentin. It's just my turn to be a good friend to someone right now."
"Go, Amara." he smiles, ushering me out.
As I turn the keys in my car, I find it strange that I only had two singular sips of wine tonight, despite having every intention to have more. And for a second I find myself wondering if it wasn't because Quentin was just so interesting that I forgot it was there; and that maybe, somehow, subconsciously I knew that Mason needed me. In spite of it making no logical sense.
As I pull up outside of the bar I take a deep breath, something about the situation made me think back to when Mason and I arrived at this exact bar the first night we met, to carry my drunken mom home.
It's been remodelled since then, and as soon as I walk inside I spot him sitting, or more so, slouching over the bar. He has a drink in his hand, his hair is dishevelled and his eyes are heavy; I can't tell if it's from the alcohol or if he's shed a tear—although somehow, I doubt it was the latter. Thankfully, Luke isn't working behind the bar tonight—that would've been the icing on the cake.
I take a seat on the barstool beside him, his head is in his hands so he doesn't notice. "Can I see some ID?" the bartender asks me.
"I'm not here to drink." I tell him.
Mason hears my voice and turns to me with a drunken smile on his face. "You came."
"I said I would," I cock my head.
He finishes the drink in his hand. "Another," he waves.
"No, he's had enough." I tell the bartender, earning a glare from Mason.
"No, I haven't," he scoffs. "Another."
He looks to me as he polishes a glass and gives me an understanding nod, signalling that he won't serve him any more alcohol.
"Mason," I say softly, placing my hand on his. He looks to our hands, and then to me. He looks so sad.
"Seven years. He screws up my whole life, stops caring for seven years and now he calls?" he rants with a hateful undertone. I've never seen him this drunk, he's completely out of it.
"What did he say?" I ask cautiously.
"Hi," he laughs an empty laugh. "He asked how I am, like he cared—and then I hung up."
I can't begin to imagine the anger Mason has for his father, after everything he put him through, his mother and sister through. After what he caused them. All of Mason's problems begin with him. "Let's get you home, hm?" I ask as I squeeze his hand.
"Not home," he corrects me. "It's not home, it's a shitty hotel. At least it has a minibar."
More alcohol is the last thing he needs. I sigh and give in to my idea. "You can stay with me tonight."
He lifts his head. "Really?"
"Yes, but we need to leave here, Mason. So let's go, okay?"
He nods, but as soon as he tries to stand up he stumbles backwards, catching himself on the bar. I put his arm around my neck and walk him to the car, strapping him in.
As we start the drive he tilts his head towards me, looking at me for a few seconds. "I hate you." he mutters.
The words make me feel sick. I glance at him from the side of my eye. "You do?"
"Yes," he says. "No, I don't."
As we pull up to a stop light I take the chance to look at him, and I wish I never did. His eyes are full of so much sadness that it makes my whole body feel weak.
"I don't hate you," he repeats, as if to make sure I know it. "I hate that you were with Elijah."
The light turns green and I start to drive again. I flicker my gaze between him and the road. "You know it's not that simple." I say.
"I know." he groans incoherently.
He stays silent again until we reach my apartment. The car stops and I unbuckle my seatbelt, and his. Despite being silent, he kept his eyes on me the whole way.
"Do you still love me, Amara?"
His question causes me to freeze as I turn to open the car door. I turn back to him and stare at him blankly, like I've lost all ability to respond. "Let's go inside, okay?"
He throws his head back and shakes it in what I can only assume is disappointment. I feel the need, the overwhelming and suffocating need to ask him the same question, but I don't.
I help him inside, and sit him down on the couch as I gather a blanket and pillow for him to sleep with. I offer him a glass of water but he refuses, and tells me to pour it away. I lie him down, taking off his shoes and adjusting the pillow under his head—draping the blanket over his body.
I perch myself on the edge of the couch to face him, on the small space next to his chest. His eyes close and without thinking I instinctively begin to run my fingers through his hair, just to soothe him. Part of me knows I should stop, but I know that he simply won't remember it tomorrow, so I take advantage of it.
It stays that way for a few silent moments, before he places his hand on my leg, his eyes opening to look directly into mine. I'm surprised by the amount of sadness and hurt visible in them, how destroyed he looks. He tilts his head upwards to look at me closer, one of his fingers brushing against my leg softly. As though he was clinging onto the small touch. Nothing could prepare me for what came next.
"Why don't you love me anymore?" he asks emptily, the pain in his voice inconceivable.
Nothing in the world could have prepared me for that question. Immediately I feel tears brim in my eyes. Such a simple question. Six words that each felt like their own tiny knife plunging themselves into my heart and ripping it out in a matter of seconds. A question backed by pain. A pain that I've never had the chance to hear in Mason's voice before, one caused by me.
The vulnerability, the raw pain in the agonising question.
I thought that losing Mason was unbearable, that arguing with him was, that living my life not knowing if he was okay was the worst pain I had felt. But in this moment, I have never felt such an intense sadness.
Every part of me felt a need just as intense to relieve him of the pain. To say something, anything to take that pain away. I want nothing more—but I simply can't. And that hurts just as much.
Such a simple question.
"Don't cry." he whispers, bringing his hand to my cheeks and wiping away the tears that wet them.
"I know why." he says quietly.
I wipe the remaining tears with one hand, the other still in his hair. "Why?" I ask confusedly.
"Why you chose Elijah."
He's looking at me. His words are slurred, but I know that his thoughts are clear. He chuckles a little, but it's empty. "He's the boy next door, Amara. The one with the shiny eyes that everyone loves," he pauses, looking away. "I'm the damaged one that your mom warns you not to play with."
I sigh with a trembling lip. "You aren't making much sense," I tell him.
"Yes, I am."
And he is. Although his drunken metaphor was flawed, I know exactly what he means.
"You aren't damaged, Mason." I tell him softly.
"Yes, I am."
I let out a sigh and he does too. "You know that saying... we accept the love we think we deserve," he begins, bringing his eyes back to me. "Maybe that's why I could never accept that someone like you ever loved someone like me."
I can't bring myself to respond, but I don't think he expected me to. I run my fingers through his hair, just looking at him. His eyes close again, but I just sit there. There comes a moment when I know he's asleep, but I don't move.
I lean down and kiss his forehead gently, whispering in his ear. "It would have never been a choice, Mason."