‘I’m getting a drink!’ I shout to the girls, holding up my now-empty cup. They both nod.
Instead of heading to the kitchen, I rush up the stairs. I pause when I see my door, which was closed, slightly ajar. Stalking towards it, I pull it open to see two guys bent over my dresser. One of them steps away and tilts his head back, a finger pressed against one side of his nose.
‘Get out of my room,’ I snap, grinding my molars together when I see they’ve knocked over some of my photo frames.
They both startle and turn to face me, one of them holding a rolled up note in his hand.
‘Sorry,’ the other says, sniffing and rubbing the back of his hand across his face. ‘Just borrowing the space for a minute. Want one?’
‘No, I want you to get out,’ I say through gritted teeth, a headache starting to form behind my eyes. I might bring up all the alcohol I consumed this afternoon, which is a sight I don’t want anyone to witness.
They don’t argue. They step around me and, seconds later, Mason barges into my room, as if he has the right to be in here. He lost that long ago, although he seems to be forgetting the way he left things with us.
‘Why are two guys leaving your room?’ he demands, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his eyes dart around, inspecting my bed before jumping back to me and narrowing a little, even though the bed is neat and tidy, unchanged from when I made it this morning.
Groaning, I turn my back to him. ‘Stop stalking me.’
‘I’m not stalking you,’ he scoffs.
‘Seems like it,’ I mutter.
My phone vibrates again. I look down at it and ice fills my veins. Dylan sent through a message. A single word.
Dylan:Slut.
A cold, numb feeling spreads through me. I don’t know why I haven’t blocked his number. He never has anything nice to say.
A part of me has been worried about what Mason said to Dylan when we saw him at the club. Dylan has this delusion that Mason and I were up to no good together while I was with him, and the other night Mason basically admitted that was true. It wasn’t – Mason wasn’t even in the country when Dylan and I dated – but with what he said, I’m sure Dylan has twisted it in his mind and convinced himself he’s the victim here. He’s exceptional at that. It would explain the sudden calls and texts from him, but I could be completely wrong with that theory. I don’t want to think about any of it. I don’t want Dylan in my life at all.
‘What?’ Mason asks, noticing the colour draining from my face.
Closing my eyes, I lean back against the wall, feeling like all the energy in my body has suddenly evaporated.
My phone is yanked from my hand, and my eyes pop open to see Mason glowering at it, as if it’s personally responsible for the message it’s displaying.
‘Obviously he didn’t learn his lesson,’ he grounds out, looking furious.
‘Seems that way.’
‘You know he’s full of shit, right?’
‘Right,’ I reply, but my voice betrays me, coming out as deflated as I feel.
Concern fills Mason’s face, and he steps towards me. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Blush. You’re better than him and he hates it. He knows he isn’t going to get someone like you again, so he needs to tear you down to his level.’
‘Yeah,’ I murmur, looking at my feet. ‘I’m sure that’s it.’
His finger presses underneath my chin, forcing my gaze to his. ‘You’re an extraordinary person, Blush. Don’t let anyone ever convince you otherwise.’
His words warm my heart, but I struggle to draw breath under the intensity of his gaze. If he truly thinks that, then he would have given into this thing between us long ago, saving us both the longing and torture we’ve been enduring for years. But the damage is done, and there is no going back.
But he steps closer, and my thoughts become more and more cloudy by the second.
There is no going back to how we once were. Right?
‘Hey, I have an idea,’ he murmurs, and I blink back to reality, that stunning face only inches from me. He brings my phone up to face level with the camera open. He steps behind me, pressing my back to his chest. He wraps his arm around me, so that his forearm is resting against my throat. I watch through the front-facing camera, curl my fingers around his arm, and look back over my shoulder at him. I hear the distinct click of the camera going off.
Glancing back at the photo, I see him smirking. My insides coil. This photo is the exact representation of my relationship with Mason: me adoring him – it’s so damn obvious, written across my face in bold lettering – and him being his usual, cocky self, treating this as a game. I watch as he presses send. Within seconds, we see Dylan’s read receipt. Usually, I would never encourage something like this, but Dylan hurt me so badly and so viciously, I don’t care if it makes him sad or angry to think of me with someone else. Especially Mason, who was always a major threat and argument-starter in our relationship. What Dylan and my best friend did to me was much worse.
