“Are you seriously blaming me for your affair?”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m explaining how it started, how one conversation led to another. How she started coming over more often, always when you were asleep or too out of it to notice.”
The waitress returns. “Ready to order?”
“Just water,” I say. “We won’t be long.”
She leaves, and Mason continues as if he wasn’t interrupted.
“It went on like that for two weeks. Her coming over, us talking, me feeling less alone. And then one night—it was about three weeks after the funeral—you were having one of your really bad nights. Crying, wouldn’t let me touch you, told me to leave you alone.”
“Because I was grieving my mother.”
“I know. But in the moment, it felt like you were pushing me away permanently. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He runs his hand through his hair. “So I went to the living room. Had some whiskey. And Lizzy texted asking if you were okay. I told her to come over.”
“And you slept with her.”
“Not that night. That night we just talked. Drank. She told me about her own problems—some guy who’d ghosted her, her job stress. Normal stuff that felt like a relief after weeks of only focusing on death and grief.”
“This isn’t making it better, Mason.”
“I’m getting there.” He leans back. “She kissed me that night. Just once, when she was leaving, and I should have stopped it and told her it was wrong. But I didn’t. I kissed her back.”
My stomach turns. Hearing the details makes it worse, not better.
“After that, it was like a dam broke. She’d come over during my lunch breaks when you were sleeping. We’d meet at her apartment when you thought I was working late. It was easy. Too easy.”
“Three months of easy.”
“Yeah. Three months of me being a coward and a cheat.” He looks down at his hands. “And the worst part? Lizzy wasn’t even pretending to feel guilty. She’d talk about you right after we’d—” He stops himself. “She’d say things like ‘Savannah will never know’ or ‘She’s too wrapped up in her grief to notice.’ Like you were this obstacle instead of her best friend.”
“She wasn’t my best friend. Neither were you.”
“I know that now. But at the time, I convinced myself I was helping you. That by having an outlet for my own stress, I could be more patient with your grief. How fucked up is that?”
“Very.”
“I’ve regretted it every single day since.” He looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “These past few months have been hell, Savannah. I don’t have a job.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“I know it’s not. But I need you to understand what my life has been like. I’ve been couch-surfing at my cousin’s place. He’s gotthree roommates in a two-bedroom apartment. I sleep on the floor most nights.”
“You made your choices.”
“I did. And I’m paying for them.” He takes another drink. “I can’t afford my car payment, so they repossessed it last week. Had to take the bus here. The bus, Savannah. At thirty-two years old, I’m taking the bus because I destroyed my entire life.”
Part of me wants to feel sorry for him. But mostly I just feel tired.
My phone buzzes on the table. Ledger’s name flashes on the screen.
I decline the call.
Mason notices, and a strange smile crosses his face. “He keeps tabs on you, doesn’t he?”
“This conversation is over.” I reach for my purse, ready to leave.
30
