‘It’s my form of therapy,’ I say quietly. After Mason left, I was convinced he took all my inspiration with him. It was like all the creative, fun ideas I once had flowing out of me dried up – nothing I painted seemed to compare to my older stuff. But now that Mason is back in my life, it seems my creative streak has returned. I’m trying to convince myself that the two aren’t connected, but obviously he impacts me in more ways than I care to admit.
‘Like mine being football.’ He nods. ‘We all have something.’
Turning my head, I gaze out the window. My fingers furiously pick at a loose thread in my skirt. For months, I gave myself countless mental pep talks in preparation for potentially seeing Mason again. I had it all planned out. I was meant to be cool, calm and unbothered. Like he always was. Instead, I’m a tightly coiled bundle of nerves who feels like more of a mess than anything whenever he’s near me. And since he’s made it his mission to insert himself into my everyday life, whether I try to avoid him or not, it doesn’t seem like he’ll be going away any time soon. A part of me is holding my breath, though, and waiting for him to run away again, like he did before.
Each inhale is filled with him. A pleasant, comforting mixture of his body scent, coffee and the mint body wash he’s used every day for as long as I remember. It reminds me of warmth and the sense of his arms around me. The feeling of having his attention and the forbidden nature of our touches and kisses. I don’t want to be reminded of all this. I spent so long squashing it deep down, but no matter how hard I try, it keeps trying to resurface.
I focus on inhaling and exhaling, the knot in my chest tightening with each passing moment. Does he feel this? The crackling tension between us? The air thickening to the point it hurts to breathe? Is this all in my head?
‘If you pull any more on that thread, you’re going to rip a hole in your skirt.’
I blink back to reality. My eyes dart to his, then down to my denim skirt, where the thread has unravelled way more than I realised. ‘Oh,’ I say.
‘You seem nervous.’ The truck smoothly comes to a stop as we idle at the traffic lights.
My throat is dry when I try to swallow. I feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face. ‘Being around you makes me anxious,’ I blurt out before I have the chance to stop it. I mentally cringe at the statement, wishing I could take it back.
My words hang heavily between us, and even when the light changes, Mason is still staring at me.
‘The light is green,’ I croak out, gesturing in front of me.
After a beat, the truck moves forward.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t mean to make you anxious.’
I chew my lip and reach for the thread, internally cursing when I realise I can’t pull on it anymore.
‘If it’s any consolation, you make me anxious too.’
‘I do?’ I whisper.
‘Extremely. My head is all over the place when it comes to you.’
I inhale sharply, facing the front again.
We’re just friends. That’s all we can be.
My cheeks are hot to the point they’re burning. I drum my fingers rapidly on my thighs. Why does this fifteen-minute trip to the university feel like it’s taking an eternity?
My shoulders sag in relief when the car park comes into view. We manage to snag one relatively close to the walkway, which means I don’t have to climb a series of stairs, like I would have if I were driving. I always play it safe, parking way back in ‘no-man’s-land’, as Mason and Zayden call it.
By the time I get around to the boot of the car, Mason has my bag slung over his shoulder and my extra textbooks lazily held between his chest and forearm.
‘Thanks, Mase, but I can carry them,’ I say, reaching for my items, but he steps back. Frowning, I swipe at them, but he holds them above my head. I’m tall, taller than the average girl, but at six foot two, he towers over me, and easily holds the books out of reach. Grumbling, I step back, shaking my head. I’m not annoyed in the slightest, but I act like it regardless.
‘Not on my watch,’ he says dismissively. He walks off in the direction of our building, and I have to jog to keep up with his long strides.
I push the sleeves of my top up to my elbows as the warm air, combined with the excessive walk to class, has me feeling hot. I regret thinking a long-sleeve shirt was a good idea.
‘I’m going to take a trip back home next weekend, to catch up with some people,’ Mason says. ‘If you want to come, you’re welcome to. Zay probably will.’
‘Oh, sure,’ I reply, reaching back to tighten my bun, since my hands refuse to sit still. ‘Would be good to see everyone. Well, not everyone ...’ I trail off, realising that going back would mean facing the problems I ran away from. Growing up in a small town, it’s hard to avoid people. The last thing I want to do is run into Dylan or Phoebe, but I would like to see Mum and the few friends I do keep in touch with. ‘Maybe I won’t go.’
‘Forget about them.’
‘Easier said than done,’ I say, exhaling. ‘Will you go see your dad?’
Mason visibly tenses at the mention of his father. His jaw locks, and he turns his head away so I can’t see the expression on his face.
