“Sounds like a plan. Oh, do you want to hear about the latest novel I’m working on? I’m dabbling in urban fantasy. It has to do with a female pirate and a merman, though I think I want to make the merman a prince,” she winks, “because I might have my very own prince soon enough.”
As Lucy excitedly tells me about her new story idea, with mingling commentary of Prince Finley Andersson, I become one with the couch, comforted by the fact that I have a community of amazing women surrounding me. Something I never had during my teen years thanks to homeschooling and attending a church where I was one of three youths at any given moment. This sisterhood is beautiful, and I never want to lose it. I don’t need Mason or his friendship or his apologies. In fact…
Mason Kane can kiss my butt.
Chapter Ten
Mason - Present
My finger hovers overthe “send” button.
I crafted a well-thought-out text to send to Karoline, inviting her to go hiking with me out at the Bluffs this coming weekend. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her when we met at the coffee shop again to finalize the plans. I didn’t push her, as Finley suggested not to do, and she was nothing but professional with me, so I gave her the same energy despite wanting to bringeverything up again….Despite wanting to flirt with her and use our physical chemistry to manipulate her feelings.No, I wouldn’t do that. I’ve grown from the boy I was three years ago. From here on out, I have to keep my flirtation in check until she’s ready to receive it. Though, I'll admit, it’s going to be more difficult than setting up the concert stage or hiding from the press.
After the meeting, I ended up driving to Nashville for a last-minute invite to a charity concert due to another artist dropping out. They had asked me to participate a while back, but I said no on the account of taking a break since my tour had concluded. After realizing just how mad Karoline was at me, I decided to accept the invitation to keep myself busy for a couple of days.
But now I am back in Juniper Grove, sitting alone in the cabin, spending over an hour typing and deleting words to send to the woman I love who ardently despises me.
I read over the text again:
Karoline, I don’t like the way we left things the other day, and I would truly appreciate the chance to explain. I have no excuse for what happened three years ago, and I promise I will not try to justify my actions. All I’m asking for is the opportunity to apologize sincerely and in person. Would you be willing to go on a hike in the Bluffs with me on Saturday? The weather says it’ll be a warmer day with lots of sunshine. I’ll pack the snacks. Boston style peanuts. You still like those, right? Think it over. Let me know something by tomorrow evening, please? - Mason
I hadn’t meant to type a letter, but this version of my “reaching out text” is bounds and leaps better than the initialHey, Vroom. Wanna go on a hike Saturday? We should really talk. You know you miss this handsome face.
Yeah, I’m ashamed to have written that early, short draft. There’s no way under the sun Karoline would have agreed, muchless graced my phone with a response. I have to be more for her. Better to her.
That is something I’ve learned over the past three years. I had always known Karoline was too good for me, but what I failed to realize was that I could be enough for her if I just stopped acting like a conceited tool. There is a time and place for jokes, even conceited ones, and right now is not that time. Right now, I have to focus on gaining a morsel of trust back, then I’ll pray my heart out that God will treat that morsel like the loaves of bread and multiply it abundantly.
With a short prayer, I hit send, then I set my phone screen-down on the kitchen counter. Checking the time, my stomach grumbles. I’m two hours late for lunch. My personal trainer would kill me if he found out, so I heat up chicken from yesterday inside the airfryer and season fresh broccoli to pop in the oven to roast.
After shoving my meal down my throat, I slap on extra deodorant and slip into my running shoes. Hesitantly, I grab my phone and flip it over.
No text.
Reminding myself that it’s okay—she’s probably at work—I unplug my dark green earbuds from the charger and search for my hype playlist, which is basically a collection of 2010s rap songs. When “Black and Yellow” by Wiz Khalifa (the clean version) floods my speakers, a surge of adrenaline races through my system and I take one last swig of water before running out of the house and down the paved street. Braxton doesn’t have many neighbors around, but there is a nice elderly man that lives within yelling distance. I usually run earlier in the mornings while he sits out on his porch sipping a drink. We exchange pleasantries as I pass, and he’s even invited me over a few times. I’ve yet to take him up on the offer, but I know I’ll need to soon.Especially if I’m staying in this area. I need to be able to trust those who live around me.
I continue to wind down the road, where the farther I get, the less cabins there are. About a mile and a half into my run, I’m at the construction site where my new home is being built. The foundation and framing are finished, so now they’re working on the third stage—plumbing, windows, roofing, the works. Making a mental note to come check in with everyone and bring drinks this evening, I continue my jog.
I go another half-mile past my new home then turn around to trek the two miles back. Winded and numb, and apparently lapsing in self control, my thoughts drift to Karoline. The urge to check my phone, which still had notifications silenced, is enticing. One glance could put my burning question at rest.
Right after I pass my house again, I cave. Slowing down to a brisk walk, I slip my phone from my pocket.
Notifications flood my phone from various individuals and companies. I sift through them, looking for the coveted new text message notification. There are several, but none of them belong to Karoline.
I open the thread and re-read the message. It still says delivered, and I don’t know if that means she hasn’t read it or if she has her read receipt turned off like I do. I click the screen dark then tuck my phone away, forcing my numb legs to pick up the pace.
As my heart pounds, “Trap Queen” by Fetty Wap (also the clean version) blasts through my headphones, and my feet carry me forward. I try and fail to not think about that evening when I did the one thing I swore I’d never do.
Chapter Eleven
Mason - Three Years Ago
“Come on, man. It’syour birthday! Get over her already.” My buddy from college, Nick, pats my back as he takes another swig of beer. HARDY’s music pulses through the barn, drowning out many conversations happening around me. The hoots and hollers of beer pong victories echo supreme, however.
Cassidy made it clear that I’ll never end up with her. After the Morgan Wallen concert at the beginning of the month, I took my last shot, telling her how I felt, and when she didn’t say anything, I took it to mean she was speechless and went in to kiss her. When she dodged my kiss saying I was like a brother to her, I knew it was all over for me.
Ouch. It still stings.
But that’s why I’ve got this beer in my hand. I take a swig, trying to forget the dull ache of my pride being gutted.
