That pit in my chest sinks even lower, caving in on itself with every broken utterance slipping from his lips.
A silent plea shines back at me from that bottomless gaze. “I miss you.”
What little repairs I’ve done to my heart give out, just like that. The poorly, hastily stitched seams to put myself back together pop open, my heart too big, too desperate to be contained.
“I need you,” he says brokenly.
I hear what he’s not saying—what he’s asking for without so many words.
I promised myself,I think dimly, but even the voice in my head carries no fight. I already know this is a losing battle.
“I miss my friend,” he whispers, his lips hardly moving, reddened eyes boring into me.
I flinch. He sees it. I don’t even care.
He already knows. There’s no use trying to bury it anyway.
Maybe if he sees how much those words break me open, he’ll stop. He’ll leave me alone.
He squeezes his eyes shut. Fists balling at his sides. Tipping his head back, he blinks up at the sky, glaring fiercely into the stars like they’ve personally offended him.
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
Even from this angle, there’s no missing the wince that pinches his features.
Good.
Nodding strongly, he says, “I deserve that.”
Huffing through my nose, I tear my gaze away, staring unseeingly at the distant flurry of city lights peeking over surrounding rooftops.
“Fuck, I deserve a hell of a lot worse than that.”
My throat clenches, eyes burning.
“I’ll just…” His words trail off, and in the corner of my eye, I see him start heading past me, aiming for the sliding glass doors from which he came.
Before I can think better of it, I whip my head around and snap my arm out, catching his wrist in my hand. I’m distantly aware of the pencil rolling off me, tumbling to the grass. My sketchbook slides, but snags on the arm of the lounger.
Mason freezes mid-step, his gaze snapping down to where I touch him.
Gulping, I wet my lips and lift my chin, summoning an air of confidence I in no way feel. “Don’t. Just…don’t.”
“Jer—”
“Shut up,” I mumble. Scooting over, I give his wrist a little tug, dragging him toward me. “Don’t say a fucking word. Just…get over here.”
I watch as the breath visibly leaves him, surging from his lips in a gust I feel rush across my face when he bends down. He smells faintly of toothpaste and something that is distinctly him.
The lounge chair is one of those wide, two-person ones, with a wicker frame and a deep red cushion that is surprisingly very plush and comfortable.
Mason eyes flick to mine when he pauses crouched over me. His pale eyes dart between mine nervously, and he sucks furiously on his lip ring in a horribly distracting way. Beyond all that though, there’s something else. Something like gratitude. And like a reflex, the tension in my chest eases at the sight.
Knowing this helps him…knowing he needs me…
This is why drugs and drinking never really held much appeal.
Because making Mason Wyatt happy has and will always be the fix I can’t resist, even if it’s at the cost of my own wellbeing.
