“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU doin’ here?” Mason scolds, as the front door of his cabin swings open.
The generous amount of wine I’d tasted earlier provided the required liquid courage it took to get here.
The last few days have been frustrating, to say the least. I’ve replayed how comfortable Mason seemed, as he stood in my kitchen—confident and sure. The sound of his voice as he ushered my girls outside, understanding they were about to do one of most painful things they’d ever done in their young lives—burying their pet.
I replayed his promised words of friendship, the desperation of his voice, begging I give him back the pieces of me that I could.
I’ve been overwhelmed in not wanting to feel that pain alone anymore. It’s been brutal and unforgiving.
And unfortunately transparent to those who know me best.
Thomas called this morning from Phoenix. Our conversation was short, prompting him to ask if something more than Duke dying had happened, and if I was okay. His concern was genuine, though maybe a little suspicious. I assured him all was fine, and I’d have the list of items he’d asked me to do in his absence done by the time he got home. He told me he loved me, which in his way, I knew was true. He also promised he’d call back later.
Earlier this evening, standing among a room full of strangers, I finally decided I’d had enough talk of wine. For hours, I expelled too much effort to keep calm. When I couldn’t manage another minute with my own thoughts, I tugged on Connie’s arm and told her I needed to go.
As any best friend would, she knew exactly where I intended to be.
On the way to Mason’s cabin, I sat in her passenger seat, hearing but not listening to the music she played. Instead, I fumed.
So much has been left unsaid between us. At least on his end. I was angry at his reaction to me. Bitter at his distance and disposition. Furious with his ability to rattle the very unstable ground I’ve been walking on since he approached me in that bar.
I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw him and I had little time to prepare. I just knew I wanted to be close to him, in anger or not, and this was the only way to work through the feelings. I needed to be alone with Mason again to prove to us both we were okay.
“Katie?” Mason prods.
Stepping inside, a gray puppy with ice-blue eyes, oversized paws, and wagging tail nudges my leg. He licks my hand and I smile down with remembrance of Duke.
“Damn it, woman,” Mason prompts and I look up.
He’s standing in a pair of black running shorts. He’s not wearing a shirt and a single bead of water treks its way down his chest. His abs are straining under the array of his colorful tattoos. His knuckles are white as they hold onto the edge of the large wooden front door. He smells clean, freshly showered.
His television is on, its volume up loud in the background. The sounds of cheering fans at a ball game echo throughout the room.
I’d forgotten how much Mason loved baseball. How he and my dad would talk about games after they’d been played.
A single bottle of what I know is Mason’s favorite beer sits on a table next to a small, black remote. Until tonight, I’d forgotten what he drank. Not that I’ve forgotten how it tasted on his lips.
A few lights in his front room are on. From what I can see, he’s also alone.
Mason always loved his space. He’s always been a man who appreciated peace and quiet.
“I came over to…” I stop, losing what I had to say.
The aggression in his eyes transforms to humor. He’s going to make fun of me.
“Get your drunk ass in here,” he orders, grabbing my wrist and bringing me farther into his home.
I turn back to find him lifting a single finger to Connie’s sports car sitting in the drive. She honks a quick beep in return.
When Mason’s puppy makes a move to jump, its master shakes his head sternly and commands, “Titan, no.”
Titan does as ordered, but just barely. He sits at my feet, tail wagging, and tongue out to the side, waiting for the attention he feels he deserves.
Looking around Mason’s home, I recognize I’ve never been inside anywhere he’s ever lived. As a kid or adult. The times together we shared were always in my home before he left. And a hotel room after when he’d return.
I always imagined his choice of decor would be manly, though. Which is exactly what this is.
Dark leather furniture decorates the room. A very large, big-screen television hangs on the wall over an empty but exuberant brick fireplace. Burgundy rugs, white decorative pillows, and barren walls make up the rest of his place.
To the right is the kitchen. It’s small with black appliances and clean, black and gray swirled granite countertops.
To the left, there’s a wooden staircase leading up to a loft, which is lined with rails in order to overlook the house. With a small pang of aching jealousy, I wonder if that’s where Mason sleeps. Alone…or not.
On the far wall, a very large bay window looks over the lake. There are no curtains, blinds, or coverings of any kind. Just one of the most breathtaking views I ever imagined. The lake water and its waves glisten and dance beneath the moon’s light. The trees sway to the wind. So soothing and serene.
“I love your cabin,” I say aloud.
Mentally, though, I really love his home. Mason’s house is everything he is.
Dark but honest.
Broody but genuine.
Everything here is him. I wouldn’t change a thing.
“Is that why you drove all the way out here in those ridiculous clothes?”
Looking down, I scan the outfit I wore to the event. A simple, black dress with red belt. One of my favorites.
“This is a nice dress. What are you talking about?” I argue.
“And your hair? You changed that too,” he marks.
“I like my hair this color.”
“The fuck you do,” he all by snarls. “Your husband likes that color.”
He’s not wrong and the truth in this pisses me off. Thomas has always liked my hair blonde. The first time I came home with highlights, he’d doted on how much younger he thought they made me look. I’ve been going back for regular appointments to the same beautician ever since.
Seeming to have lost the Mason that stood at my front door, asking for our friendship back, I tempt, “What is the matter with you?”
“Why are you here?” he clips.
On the way over, I stewed, yes. And I felt every bit of why I was so angry. But I don’t understand his change of mood. Maybe his abrasiveness is because I’m here, uninvited, late at night, after admitting just days ago how unsure I am with or without him.
“Good to see you, too,” I smart.
Exasperated, he pushes, “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
“I came to say thank you for helping with Duke. I know you’re busy, but you didn’t have to—”
“You said that already,” he clips, then utters, “Jesus Christ.”
“I mean, I’m saying thank you for taking care of the girls. They just lost Duke and Thomas wasn’t—” I snap in return.
“Don’t say his name in my house,” Mason demands, his jaw tight and chiseled, his tone deliberate.
“I’m sorry,” I advance, lost for anything to say.
“You have my number. You could’ve sent a text. Yet, you didn’t. Now, tell me. Why are you really here?”
“My God,” I clip. “Are you always this angry?”
“The Katie I knew was a smart girl. Unless that’s all changed too, I’ll leave you to figure it out,” he pushes further, giving me his back and walking into his home.
“Mason?” I call.
He turns with no more anger. His eyes are soft, remaining studiously on mine.
“Baby, I’m here. You’re here. Tell me what’s on your mind,” he gently coaxes.
The open-ended question brings many answers I’m not certain I’ll ever have, so I start with, “Are you safe?” His brows furrow, so I include, “With your job, I mean.”
“Katie…” he trails off without an answer.
Maybe he senses I’m stalling, or perhaps he doesn’t want to share details about his life.
“I worry about everything,” I remind and include, “I always have.”
“I know that,” he admits.
“I worry about you.”
When he says nothing, I look down to his bare feet. Uncomfortably, I think to how I’ve always remembered those too.
“Katie,” he calls.
“I still wonder where you are. I think about what you might be doing. And who you’re doing it with,” I whisper further.
When he doesn’t respond, I look up and stare into his eyes that still haunt me.
Mason studies my countenance, examining carefully before asserting, “I hate that he’s never made you happy.”
“You don’t know I’m unhappy.”
“No?” he questions, taking a small step toward me. His scent consumes, taking us back to years ago when he was mine. “You don’t fuckin’ look happy.”
“I’m happy enough,” I answer honestly.
I’m happy with my girls. I’m happy with my home. Of course, there are pieces of my marriage that will never, can’t ever, be put back together.
Yet, Mason doesn’t know that, financially, Thomas provides our family a stable life. But emotionally, he knows our marriage is unfilled. He knows because I’ve told him. And even if I didn’t, the times we’ve shared since my marriage began, he’d guess because he was there.
Mason’s hand lifts and his thumb moves over my bottom lip, dropping to my chin. The traitorous touch burns equal to hot acid. But as ever, I revel in the sensation. The piercing pain. The everlasting ache. Feeling something from him, even this, is more than I thought I’d have again.
As if reciting what he’s wanted to say for so long, Mason pledges, “If you were mine, not a day would go by when you didn’t feel loved. You’d know you were the only reason I woke up each morning.”
“Mason,” I call with tears blurring my vision.
“If you were mine, I’d fuck all that sadness from your eyes.”
My stomach turns.
“I’d find any reason I could to have you smile at me the way you used to.”
Flutters of excitement progress through my veins.
“I’d tie you to our bed if I had to. Just so you wouldn’t look so fuckin’ lost bein’ anywhere but with me.”
“Oh, God.”
Mason smirks, deep and unforgiving. “And that’s what you’d be gasping in my ear when I fucked you hard in our bed at night.”
“I can’t do this again.”
“Do what?” he questions with surprise. “All you’re doin’ is standin’ in my home,” he asserts.
“I can’t be your friend.”
Mason’s posture stands rigid. “I’ve lost your friendship because I let you go to him. I cleared the fuckin’ way by leavin’ like I did.”
“I forgave you a long time ago.”
“I don’t know how,” he returns. “I haven’t forgiven myself.”
“You feel guilty for choices I made after you left,” I surmise.
“The first, second, or third time I did that?” he strikes and it takes me back.
“We’ve made mistakes,” I counter.
Mason’s life hasn’t moved on since we were us. He’s not standing in his home, living with a woman who loves him. He’s not married. There’s no wife, no children here to carry his name or be a witness to his life.
He’s alone, frozen in time. And by asking for my friendship back, he must hope this is his ticket to freedom. A chained freedom, yet still a freedom all the same. But I can’t be his friend. I can’t stand by and watch his life play out as it always should’ve. Not like he’s done with mine. I’m not strong enough.
“Yes, we’ve made mistakes,” he utters. “Is that why you’re here? To make another mistake?”
Shaking my head but unsure of my answer, I give, “There’s been enough of those.”
“I made you a promise, Katie,” he reminds. “And fuck me, I’m trying to keep it.”
An agonizing sob threatens to escape. An overwhelming amount of sorrow wants to be freed. And here with Mason is the only place it can be. Because he knows. He understands.
I want to go to him, step in close, rest my hand against his chest and kiss his cheek, his jaw, his lips. I want to tell him he’s still the only man who’s ever made me feel secure in a world that constantly spirals from my control.
Instead, I tell him, “I’m struggling to let you keep that promise.”
With both hands, Mason grabs my waist, pushing me until my back collides into the wall near the front door.
For balance, I flatten my hands against his bare chest. Of their own accord, my fingers roam, reveling in the brutal warmth and weighted contours of muscle tucked away beneath his fiery skin.
Mason cups my face. His lips descend, his mouth covering mine. When his tongue sweeps inside, tasting after so long, his determination becomes aggressive.
The gentle bites, desperate licks, and agitated sucks become vehement.
Once we’re breathless, Mason breaks from my mouth. Offering no time to protest, he trails kisses down my neck, pulling the neck of my dress shirt down until the camisole strap threatens to snap.
“Mason,” I call, but not to stop him.
I don’t want him to stop. But I need him to be the stronger one of us. I can’t hurt him again.
I won’t.
“Fuck,” he growls, resting his forehead to mine, his body trembling cruelly with restraint.
Then I lose him.
Mason stands tall, taking a very large step back. His eyes peruse my expression, no doubt finding me exasperated and on edge.
With feigned calmness, he laments, “Go home, Katie.”
“Mason,” I gasp, my chest piercing with regret. Not regret of touching him, feeling him, wanting to be closer. But that he’s sending me away and knowing it’s the right thing to do.
When I don’t do as ordered, he states, “I tell you to leave him, what do you do?”
“What?”
“If I told you to leave him, bring the Katie I once had back to me…what do you do?”
I don’t say anything. I search his eyes for the sweet, kind, and brave person he was for me all those years. But there’s nothing in their depth, but ice. Cold to the bone. Chilled to the core.
“I won’t touch you again. Not until I know you’re mine in a way that’ll never fucking change,” he sneers. “What’d you think comin’ here? That we’d fuck, and I’d agree to walk away again?”
I close my eyes. So much hurt pours from him. The same hurt I know too well, because I wear it too. All too often my heart batters. Every minute of the day my patience is tested.
“You’re not ready for this,” he notes, squaring his gaze with mine.
“Mason, I…”
“Swear to God,” he punishes, closing his eyes and holding them shut as he says, “Free pass, baby. Go home to your family. Your husband and your girls.”
My breathing evens. My senses return. I swallow hard to regain focus. But my feet won’t move.
“And don’t come back here without being clear on why you came. When the only reason you’re standing in my home is because you’re ready to make it ours.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to protest. But looking at him now, the resolve so rich in his heart and mind, I don’t.
“Go on,” he states softly, opening his front door.
As I look out, Connie’s car is still in the drive. The lights are on and the engine is running.
I chance one last look back, saying only, “Keep happy, Mason.”