Knowing I only ever make it worse kills me.
“Jeremy.” He says my name, but all I hear ishers.
God, I should’ve never agreed to this trip.
I drop my gaze. “Come on,” I mumble. This time, he doesn’t stop me when I tear myself away. I know it kills him too, the second he remembers the eyes he’s staring into aren’t the ones he wants them to be. I’m not surprised in the least that he lets me go.
If only we could remember this feeling always. Maybe then we’d be able to stop torturing ourselves and leave our friendship in the past where it should remain. By all accounts that would be the smart thing to do. But, unfortunately, when it comes to Mason, I’ve never been that smart. Maybe leaving the country will finally do the trick.
The plan was to avoid him until I came back from Europe next winter, but I don’t head out for another month and a half, and saying no to this weekend all because of my hang-ups over a boy felt pathetic. And wrong. I always hoped for the day I’d get to share something like this with him, with my friends from my life in Shiloh.
Hell, up until this last year, I never even thought it would be something we’d do together. I figured it would only be something reserved for the life I have while I’m away at college.
How could I possibly have turned this down?
We’re silent as we weave our way through the crowd to catch up with the others. I’m not surprised to discover that Will’s the one carrying Phoebe on his shoulders. Next to him, Ivy sits on Waylon’s shoulders, arms spread out, head tipped back, black hair cascading down her back. Shawn keeps pace next to them, darting glares at anybody who dares to get too close. I don’t even think he realizes he does it.
“Look,” Mason murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. Again, he’s standing so close his elbow brushes mine. I spare him a fleeting glance before following the direction of his gaze.
My lip curves up, my turmoil over the guy standing next to me fading to the background, if only for a moment.
Because Waylon’s holding Will’s hand.
And that’s a pretty fucking big deal.
If this was one of my comic books, this would be the final scene. The final block. It would show me reaching out and taking Mason’s fingers in mine, lacing them together. It would be simple. Easy. Just like it’s always been for us.
There’s just one glaring issue. A plot hole in our narrative I just can’t seem to claw my way out of.
Mason Wyatt was never mine to have.
Chapter five
Will Foster
White strobe lights spear the dark night club, converging on the center of the dance floor.
Upbeat music blares from the speakers, the heavy reverb vibrating my chest, and making it feel like the floor is shaking.
The parade ended hours ago, and we spent the rest of the day at the Pride festival going on at Cret Park. Afterward, we split up, half of us taking to the Gayborhood at the insistence of Ivy and Jeremy, and the rest, to a diner closer to home base.
Next to me, Waylon folds his arms over the banister separating us from the dance floor, eyes narrowed thoughtfully on some unseen spot in the crowd. I follow his gaze to where a couple dudes grind up against each other, making out.
My lip ticks up as I’m suddenly thrown back to a night similar to this one, only instead of rainbows, it was skeletons and black and orange streamers, and I was very much on a mission to get drunk off my ass so I could forget about the guy at my side.
Except that’s not what happened.
As if prompted by my trip down memory lane, the lights dim briefly to a soft shade of blue. It doesn’t ripple like it did that night so many months ago, giving the impression we were underwater.
No, instead this time its flashes and swinging rays of light, pulsing with the beat of the music.
Still, in my mind’s eye, it’s water I see, and in my head, it’s a softer, slower, gentler song playing out as the world seems to come to a standstill. Confetti explodes from somewhere in the dark rafters above, just like that night, only this time it’s metallic, catching on the changing colors of light.
A hand brushes my arm and I turn, my heart thumping at the soft, knowing smile gracing Waylon’s face. Like that night, he wears a feather boa, but this one is rainbow, where last time it was pink.
And just like then, he leans forward, putting us nose to nose. Chest to chest.
Feathers tickle my skin, skating across a hard nipple. His boa or mine, I have no idea.
