"This may come as a shock to you. But it's been a while since I was a sixteen-year-old girl," I say to Mason as we walk through The Cotton Exchange in Downtown Wilmington. The exposed brick building is open to the outside through connected shops, nestled side-by-side into an enormous, historic brick building. A warm afternoon breeze wafts between us as we weave through a group of locals.

"I realize that," he says, placing his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the door of the next shop— a tiny boutique called Leather Over Lace. "But you were a high school girl much more recently than I was."

Though he probably doesn't mean the gesture as something romantic, it feels nice to be close to him like this— enjoying each other's company less dramatically than had preceded us.

The ride to Wilmington had been quick. To my complete surprise, we’d spent it in enjoyable conversation. We talked mostly about Stars Over Southport as I fielded his questions about the volunteers, vendors and bands, how everything is going to be set up, and who this Charlie guy is that's running it. I figured I'd pretty much run the festival into the ground with him lately, so I was surprised that his questions kept coming.

"Plus, I think Beth would appreciate your," he clears his throat, "aesthetic."

Turning, I stare at him, a beguiling grin on my lips. My current aesthetic is my white, dusty converse sneakers, a heather navy T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a frayed pair of high-waisted jean shorts. My wild hair is pulled up into a loose top-knot, and I have a touch of mascara on my eyelashes. That's it. A real looker, if I do say so myself. "Aesthetic?" I ask sarcastically. "Really?"

He laughs. "You know what I mean. You have that cute, carefree hipster vibe going on. And Beth happens to be in her hipster phase."

"Hipster?" I quietly accuse him as I finger a few of the miniature clay ring dishes that line the shelves to my right. If this is his idea of hipster style, he must be blind to it. "Is that what you think this is? A phase I'm in?" I chuckle.

With a ridiculous grin, he shakes his head.

Moving to the accessory table, I eye the different rolled-up belts. "I can't believe of all the possible favors in the world, this is the one you ask of me." I pick up a pair of round, metallic sunglasses and try them on, turning to him. Peeking over the shades, I flash him my eyes. "What makes you think I'll find a better birthday present for your sister than you can?"

"You seem creative. You also said no to dinner, so you didn't leave me with much of a choice."

Overtop the rack of indigo-dyed tops, I watch as Mason edges toward the back of the boutique where two teenage girls are giggling and inspecting a shelf of Wilmington-made wheel thrown coffee mugs. He skims the rest of the pottery and moves over to the jewelry displays with the effortless grace of someone who doesn't realize the effect he has on the people around him. A group of chattering middle-aged women parts leaving Mason to move past them with ease. The girl at the cash register stares at him adoringly, a little smirk plastered on her lips. She walks around from behind the counter and meets him by the display of summer scarves hanging on the wall.

"Do you need any help today, sir?" I hear her ask.

Losing myself in thought, I thumb through a rack of crocheted and leather vests over in the corner of the shop. John had been the same as Mason, attracting female attention wherever he went. But there is one subtle difference. John was never oblivious to the attention. He thrived off of it.

Pulling an interesting cream-colored lace vest from the rack, I head toward the mirror in front of a makeshift dressing room that's drawn with a paisley curtain. Holding the crocheted vest up, I cock my head at myself in the mirror. It's cute, and I love the fringe on it. But I'm pretty sure I have something similar at home.

Suddenly, Mason appears behind me in the mirror. Swooping his arms around me from behind, he wraps me up with a tight hug and places his chin on my shoulder causing every single inch of me to freeze. "Play along with me," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "I told her you were my girlfriend." In the mirror, I see him throw his glance over toward the cashier girl who had offered him help just minutes earlier. She rounds her side of the counter and is playing with a swift tack gun. When I inconspicuously glance over at her, she's not even trying to hide her stare.

"I like this," he says loud enough for the girl to hear, a hint of naughtiness in his voice. "This looks like something my beautiful girlfriend would love." He pulls the vest from where it's clutched at my chest and holds it out in front of us still on the hanger.

Though this isn't real, I can't help but smile lopsided at him as he locks eyes with me in the mirror. I am speechless, completely robbed of all my common sense. But his gentle hold on me, the tender depth of his eyes— it urges me to keep up with his charade even though this feels nothing like one. At least not to me. Pulling myself from my stalling reverie, I grin a little harder. "It is," I say sweetly, feeling the tiniest pang of guilt for enjoying this so much. "Your girlfriend does, in fact, love this vest." The words sound foreign rolling off my tongue. Your girlfriend. But something about the phrase feels satisfying— like tasting honeysuckle for the first time as a kid in the deep shade of summer. Mason's girlfriend. The words taste like they're mine, like they belong to me.

He plants a slow, lingering kiss on the side of my hot neck which sends a shiver down my spine. "I think you should let me get you this," his eyes boring into mine through the mirror.

I furrow my brow at him, looking down at his lips then back up to his eyes. I shake my head at him, but he defies me, nodding with a smirk.

"Is this the one you'd like?" The punch of his words jolts me back to reality. Quickly pulling away from him, I turn and furrow my brow. "Shut up, you're not," I say, taking the vest from him. Whisking back to the rack, I shove the hanger into the folds of it without so much as a second thought.

What the hell was that? My palms start to itch, and I feel a tension building up the back of my neck. God. Who does he think he is? Does he think I can’t afford it? I may work at a cafe, but I make my own money. If I wanted the freaking vest, I could buy it myself.

Frazzled and uncomfortable at just how far he'll go to make his point to the cashier, I move toward a shelf of leather belts and sling bags in an array of tones. Grabbing up a burnt sienna purse, I hold it out to him when he walks up beside me. "This is it," I say, trying to hide the fact that I just literally bolted from his arms. “For your sister.”

Nodding, he inspects the quality of it like it's an elusive hardback from one of his nerdy bookstores. "Try it on for me?" he finally asks.

Feeling my phone vibrate in the back pocket of my shorts, I pull it out and see an unknown Wilmington number flashing across my screen.

Mason notices. "You gonna answer that?"

"Nope," I say, taking the purse from him. I sling it over my shoulder to strike a pose for him.

"Who was it?" He gives me a thumbs up.

"No idea. I don't recognize the number." Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I pop the bag across my chest as a cross-body and pose for him again. "It's versatile, simple. Can be worn by hipster-chick or flower child alike. It's a win in my book."

He grins and takes the purse from me. "That's it then. What else you got?"

Raising my eyebrows at him in question, I step toward him. I thought we were nearly through, but now he wants to find her a second gift? I clear my throat and narrow my eyes at him. "Something else?"

"The bag is great. Beth will love it. But I want to get her another gift, too. It's her sixteenth birthday."

Shrugging, I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket again. But I don't want to pull it out in front of Mason, so I ignore it. "It's a nice bag," I say, preoccupied with the thought of who in the hell could be blowing my phone up like this. "It holds its own as far as birthday presents go."

He runs a hand through his dark hair. "Sure, but she's my baby sister. I want to get her something she'll never forget. Something special."

Maybe it's because I'm an only child that I can't possibly understand why this doesn't suffice. The purse alone is over seventy bucks. In fact, I would've been obsessed with this bag back in high school. Beth will love the purse. He's just showing off now. Rolling my eyes behind his back, I answer him with the most ridiculous gift I can imagine. "What about concert tickets," I say, knowing there’s no way he’d let his sixteen-year-old sister go to a concert.

Cocking an eyebrow at me, he tilts his head like an intrigued puppy and smiles. "You're brilliant. You know that, right?"

"Yep. Depends on the day," I say, taking a phony bow as Mason heads to the checkout line with the purse. Before I can make it out of the boutique, my phone is vibrating like a bat out of hell again. Whipping it from my back pocket, I step out onto the brick entryway of The Cotton Exchange, the hot breeze kicking up my flyaway hairs. Without even checking to see who it is, I answer, my voice annoyingly exasperated. "Hello?"

"Where the hell are you?" Brooke asks frantically.

I hadn't told her I was coming to Wilmington. But we didn't have plans until tonight, so I'm at a complete loss as to why she's looking for me. Moving further from the doorway, I perch onto a cement ledge in front of a shoe shop. Lowering my voice, I cup my hand around my mouth so the afternoon locals don't hear me. "I'm in Wilmington. Why?"

"Who are you with?"

"Mason," I say quietly.

"What? Why?"

"I owed him a favor for picking up press for the festival. He asked me to come with him, so I did. Brooke, why is this such a thing right now? You're the one who—"

"It's John," she says, nearly out of breath. "He just freaking called me. Said he saw you with some guy, and he's pissed."

My mind goes blank as her words form an empty echo in my head. My mouth goes dry, and I don't say anything. Of course, John would see me. He lives in Wilmington. Probably still works in the finance district down here. Shit. How could I have been so stupid to come here with Mason?

"Ellie! Are you even listening to me?" Brooke is asking when I finally hear her. "Did you return his call?"

"You told me not to call him back!" I exclaim in as much of a whisper as I can.

When I look up, Mason is standing a few feet from me holding his Leather Over Lace shopping bag, waiting for me to finish my call. He's on his phone, scrolling through stuff, trying not to look at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly think he'd turn all Norman freaking Bates on you because of it. And now he's calling me? I don't know what to do, Ellie. I told him you weren't in Wilmington, that you were at work all day which is, apparently, not true at all!" she squeals. "Now hurry up, and tell Mason to bring you home."

Taking a deep breath, I exhale as slowly as I can and immediately wish I'd brought my cigarettes. "Okay, Brooke. It's fine, okay? Just ignore him if he calls again. Don't even answer the phone. Realistically, he's not going to do anything. He's mostly talk anyway. You know how he does." But even as I say the words to ease Brooke's mind, I realize I don't believe them myself. I flashback to the night of the concert, him grabbing my arm, the many times before he'd done the same and worse.

"Just come home already, please," Brooke says, her tone having calmed a few notches. "I'm serious— he sounded batshit crazy."

"I will. I'll be back in no time. Thanks for the head's up," I say before ending the call.

"Everything okay?" Mason pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as I join him.

Turning my phone to silent, I drop it back into my pocket. "Brooke's just in a constant state of crisis these days," I say, shaking my head. “Nothing new.”

For a second, he studies me, and I can tell he doesn't quite buy my defense, so I force a smile as we emerge from the shaded building and head out into the heat of the afternoon.