There’s something painfully familiar in that.
People thinking they know your worth before you get a chance to show it.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I say.
He smiles at that. A small, real one.
“What about you?” he asks softly. “You scared to go back?”
I let out a long, shaky breath.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m terrified.”
He nods like that was the answer he expected.
“I keep thinking… if I go back, I’ll break,” I say slowly. “But if I don’t go back, I’ll hate myself for running.”
“That sounds about right,” he murmurs.
“And I’m angry.” My voice cracks. “At Leo. At those girls. At myself.”
“You should be,” he says. “That doesn’t make you weak.”
I hug my arms around myself. The leather jacket creaks.
“I want to be strong when I walk through those doors again,” I whisper. “But I don’t know how to be that girl yet. I’m working on it, but… it’s messy.”
Mason nods thoughtfully.
“That’s how you know it’s real,” he says. “The messy stuff is the part that builds you.”
I swallow.
I’m not used to boys talking like this.
Not without an angle.
Not without wanting something from me.
He stands, stretching. “Want to head back? It’s freezing.”
We step outside. The wind hits instantly, whipping my jacket fringe into the air.
When we reach the split in the road—his turn toward Irene’s driveway, mine toward the beach—he pauses.
“You really should let me take you skating,” he says gently. “Not like a date or anything. Just… trust me. Hitting a puck as hard as you can? Cleans out your head.”
I smile despite myself.
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s a no,” he teases.
“It’s amaybe,” I correct, lifting my chin.
He presses a hand to his heart like that’s the best news he’s gotten all day.
Then he jogs off, crunching down the gravel path.
