twenty-nine
. . .
Violet
As an incredibly type-A,lives-and-breathes-by-their-calendar person, I am a bit nervous about letting Mason take the reins on planning our evening. It’s not that I don’t trust him or think he will pick something I won’t want to do, I just hate things out of my control. But learning to trust people again is the key to my healing (or so my therapist says), so here I am, Stephanie, trusting people.
Mason and I have hung out several days in the last few weeks. While our “hangs” usually take place at the Beanery or eating lunch together in his office, I always leave wanting more time with him.
Despite my initial hesitance to ever look in his direction, I had managed to fall for him. Again. However, in my defense, I probably never stopped loving him. I just shoved those feelings down and tucked them away. In hindsight, I should haveshredded the feelings. Because they have now untucked themselves and are residing in the pit of my stomach, threatening to climb up my sternum and squeeze my heart like a vice. But this isn’t entirely my fault. Between that longing look in his eyes and the several flirty comments that found their way into our conversations, I knew Mason was fighting his own pesky feelings.
Tonight is the first time we are hanging out outside of campus. I was an absolute mess of nerves; resisting the urge to text Mason and demand he tell me everything he has planned for us tonight. I know he would immediately tell me too, especially if he knew how anxious this was making me.
I rummage through my closet, throwing a few different sweaters on the bed. The one detail Mason did share was that I should bundle up. I decide on my trusty winter coat that’s managed to keep me warm through several Nor’easters. I finish lacing up my boots when my mom calls.
“Hey honey, I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.”
I almost remind her that we spoke less than a week ago, but I knew she just misses me. Maybe I should get her a cat for Christmas.
“Hey Mom. Things are going. I’m heading out with Mason soon so I can’t talk for too long.”
“Oh, is tonight the night you’ll finally tell him how you’ve been feeling?” The question is innocent enough, but judging from the giddiness in her voice I can tell she’s really hoping I finally bite the bullet.
I instantly regret spilling the beans to her last week. Such was the struggle of your mom being one of your best friends. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to rush things.” I mumble.
“Rush things? You’ve known the man since you were 6! Life’s too short for you to second-guess every move you make. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut and take a leap.”
“That’s never been easy for me.”
“I knowaziz, but if you’re going to take a leap of faith foranyone, I’d be willing to bet Mason would be there to catch you.”
“Yeah, I think he would too. Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime…I do have a favor to ask you.”
“What’s up?”
“Melissa really wants Mason home for Christmas.”
Oof. “Mason’s views on going back to Castle Harbor really haven’t changed.”
“I know, but maybe he’d reconsider if he knew you’d be there too?”
“Mom, I don’t know…”
“Just for Christmas dinner. Melissa’s already talked to Joe about being on his best behavior.”
“I really think you’re underestimating how much Mason doesn’t want to be in a room with his dad.”
“Can you just ask him? The worst thing he can do is say no.”
I really would love to have Mason back home, but I won’t betray his trust by manipulating him into going back to Castle Harbor. Daddy issues run deep, and if he isn’t ready then he isn’t ready. “I will tell him I’m going, and if that entices him then so be it. But if he doesn't want to see his dad, I’m not going to ask him to do that. It’s not fair to him.”
“Honey, I didn’t mean to imply —” Her response is cut off by a knock on my door.
“Alright Mom, Mason’s here so I gotta go. Love you, bye.” I hang up the phone, spritz my curls with hairspray one final time, and grab my purse.
I slide on my coat as I open the door. Mason is leaning against the wall, a black beanie covering his locks, and the sleeves of his wool-lined jacket rolled up to reveal a sliver of his tattoo. Under this puffer jacket I look like the Michelin Man, while GQ over here is rocking the hell out of a beanie. So unfair.
