Chapter 24
Sierra
Mason starts to reach for me, I think. To move toward me again, but he stops himself. He rubs the back of his head, digs his fingers into his hair, looking nervous as hell.
“Is this okay? That I’m here?”
“Of course it’s okay.” I hug myself, unsure what to do or what’s happening. My pulse is flying. “How did you know where I live?”
“Uh, I may have begged June to pull your home address from your lease agreement.” He buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks worried, like I might be upset about this. “Unethical and wrong, I know. But I told her I had to talk to you. Face-to-face.”
“June did that for you?”
He takes a small step toward me. “I guess she could tell I really meant it.”
I hesitate, too, but quickly realize the only reason I’m hesitating is that Kyle hated public displays of affection. But I’m not trying to fit into his idea of the perfect girlfriend anymore, am I?
So, I do what I really want to do and run to Mason, throwing myself into his open arms. As I hug him, I can feel his tension easing away.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says into my ear, holding me tight. “I’m sorry I let you go.”
I bury my face in his neck, squeezing back the relief and happiness that threaten to explode from me in a torrent of tears.
His voice is scratchy with emotion when he says, “Am I too late?”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath and look up into his worried eyes. “No, Mason. You’re not too late for anything.”
I see the relief all over his face.
And when he kisses me, I kiss him back, deep and passionate, right there in the street.
When we step into my apartment, Mason and I, we’re holding hands. He took hold of mine on the way up in the elevator, and I feel giddy, effervescent, like my heart is filled with soda pop.
“So this is where the magic happens.” His low, warm voice feels out of place in the modern, sharp-edged apartment.
I snicker. “What magic? Are we talking about the physics-defying manner in which I’ve managed to IKEA this shoebox into a marginally livable space?”
He lets my hand go to do a slow walk around the small apartment, which takes seconds. It’s newish and clean, but it’s definitely a home meant for one person. The mere five hundred square feet means we’re standing in the tiny kitchen the moment we walk in the door.
In three more steps, we’re in the living room/office/dining room, where I’ve wrangled every available inch into somehow fitting a small L-shaped couch, a coffee table, and a decent-sized desk/entertainment unit/vanity table where I work, eat, watch TV, and put on my makeup.
In the small bedroom, I’ve managed to fit a queen-sized bed with a bedside table, but there’s not enough room for a dresser.
Because of the limited space, I’ve always kept it as clean and sparse as possible so I feel like I can breathe. But that also means it lacks personality.
I’m actually proud of how I’ve made the space work, but I realize I’m self-conscious about it because Kyle always seemed embarrassed by the way I live. As if I should’ve been able to do better. But Kyle wasn’t paying my rent, was he.
He wasn’t even paying his own rent. He has a mortgage, or rather his parents do, which they pay for him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Mason says thoughtfully, “but I can’t really see you living here.”
At this point, I can’t really, either. But I ask him, “Why?”
“It doesn’t feel like you. Except for this.” He points at the one piece of art on the living room wall. It’s a portrait of Sophie by local artist Katie Mayes in a pop-surrealism style that totally suits Soph’s eclectic-retro vibes and vibrant, playful personality.
