Past…
“JESUS FUCK. WHAT DID I just say?” the large framed, dark-haired man standing near the cashier shouts to the smaller blond man, who hasn’t left my side since I walked in. “I told you to let the girl be.”
Tears of fear and humiliation are ready to cascade down my reddened cheeks.
The blond man has yanked my ponytail three times, in attempt to coax a reaction. He hasn’t gotten one as so far, I’ve been able to hold myself together.
My dad would come unglued if he knew where I was. Not to mention that I made my way here by myself. Let alone how pissed he’d really be if I ended up hurt and he had no way to find me.
I’ve been in this corner store lots of times, but never by myself.
Our house sits on the outskirts of Silvervale, making this the closest place to find anything on quick notice. The trek here took nearly an hour and it’s early September.
I’m tired. I’m sweaty. And now I’m starting to panic.
When I walked through the front door, I sensed right away something was wrong. The air was stifling, tainted, putting me on edge.
Once I entered, the dark-haired man turned his head in my direction. He smiled and looked over my shoulder to find I was alone. Then he moved his aim back to the cashier, who I know by name as Gabe. A garbled sound came from Gabe and a bite of laughter from the blond.
After I stepped away, I heard semi-muted, harsh, hushed voices. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but honestly, I made every effort to block them out. With liar’s courage, I headed straight for the aisle to pick out what I came here for.
No twelve-year-old girl should ever have to buy their own period pads because they’re too embarrassed to call their ignorant father at work and inform him that Mother Nature has come to curse his only daughter. This teenage dilemma left me no choice but to walk the mile and a half it took to get here.
I’m now regretting every step.
“Calm the fuck down, Cole,” the blond man warns. Using his filthy hand to rub my back, he continues with, “This is a big deal. I’ve met my new girl. Get your ass over here and meet Buttercup.”
When he wraps his arm tightly around my shoulders, a sliver of fear begs me to escape. To run. To get as far away from him as I can.
But I don’t. The man standing stoically near the counter holds my attention captive.
I know him.
Last summer, my dad hired Mason Cole and a small group of builders to construct a large deck and in-ground pool in our backyard. For eight weeks, Connie, Grace, and I were entertained by a variety of men of all ages. Obviously, they had all known each other for a while if the exchange of personal jokes and sarcastic jabs told their history.
I spent my days delivering tall, cold glasses of ice water and freshly made sandwiches my friends and I took all morning to prepare.
Most of the men were appreciative. Some patted our heads, eating what we made, even when they had brought their own lunches. Some dealt out high fives. A few would empty their pockets of change, offering a monetary thank you. Most of them were older, guessing close to my dad’s age.
Except for him.
Even at our young ages, my friends and I became enthralled by all that was Mason Cole.
Our summer wasn’t spent sleeping in and relaxing each morning before heading outside to find something to do. Our time off from school was spent waking up early each morning in anticipation of who was on his way.
We could hear his huge truck coming from down the street. It was shiny, black, and lifted high off the ground. It had those oversized, big lights on the top, too. And steps on each side at the door. Every day he parked in the same spot at the curb outside my house.
We’d watch Mason from my bedroom window as he’d climb in and out of his truck, dressed for work in clothes that were aged with wear, even torn in various places. I was fascinated at how his large body could adjust so swiftly, his muscles moving in sync with each pull of the handle or hefty jump to get inside.
Since he worked at our house, I’ve seen Mason around town a couple of times.
My face flushes, recollecting how many different women I’ve seen him with. He kisses them in public. He touches them in places I’m embarrassed to recall. And they always return his affection. They don’t care who witnesses their exchange either.
Yuck.
“Hands off the girl, Caleb,” Mason warns, this time his tone formidable.
The blond man, now known as Caleb, sneers in protest at the same time he removes his arm from my shoulders, pushing into my stomach to clear me from his path.
In irritation, he voices, “Fuck, but you’re an asshole after your dad takes his fists to you.”
The punishing shove causes my back to smash into the row of cereal boxes, forcing the entire stand to shake. Several boxes on the top shelf sway, tilt, then fall. More than a few hit the floor, echoing loudly with each drop.
As Caleb makes his way down the narrow aisle, Mason offers a small, but reassuring smile. Then he winks.
Both embarrassed and afraid, my hands shake as I bend to pick up the mess.
I confirm Mason’s gotten closer when a pair of dusty black boots come into view. The bottom of his jeans are tattered and frayed, resting against the top of his dirty, black boot laces.
He smells of cigarettes and beer. And something else. Unexplainable, but something definitely him.
“Caleb’s an asshole, but he’s harmless,” Mason gruffly explains, bending to help me gather some of the mess. “Ignore him, like I do, and he’ll go away.”
When he shoves a single box toward me to accept, I look up. My reflection is caught inside the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Each framed with thick, dark lashes. I expected him to be angry at my interruption of his afternoon bullying. Instead, his eyes are quiet—tame. The wrinkles at their corners are fascinating to study.
He’s just as I remembered.
In addition to his eyes, I also notice his teeth are straight and white. His full lips are red. The bottom one is swollen, cut angrily near the corner of his mouth. The bruise around the dried blood has only started to form.
Someone hit him.
Unlike his friend, Mason’s hair is clean. The strands in front are slightly disheveled. He wears it longer in back. The ends nearly touch the collar of his old, worn down, faded Black Sabbath tee shirt, which I’m guessing was once black. He has only one dimple on his left cheek. I’d guess him to be maybe in his late teens or early twenties.
“You good?” he probes, his tone casual and surprisingly sincere.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head and continuing with clean up. “But thank you.”
What does a girl my age say to a man as large in frame and as powerful in presence as Mason Cole?
He’s overwhelming to look at, but with a voice as smooth and even as his, I can hardly keep my thoughts together. I’ve been in the same room with him for all of five minutes, and in that time, he’s gone from bully, to bossy, and now almost sweet.
No wonder girls my age are confused. We’re left to decipher a man’s next mood before we’ve finished guessing the first.
Pulling me from thought, Mason tests, “Do you remember who I am?”
“Yes,” I immediately reply. “You worked at my house last summer.”
“I did,” he confirms with a nod. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s good.”
“He’s a good dad,” Mason oddly compliments. “A good guy.”
My dad liked Mason. I know this because I heard him recommending the crew Mason works for to our next-door neighbor, Mr. Albertson. Though, from where I stood, which was usually hidden away from sight, Mason and my dad’s bond was more of a son and father, rather than friend to friend.
Dad and Mason would catch each other at the end of the day and talk mostly about baseball: what games were on, where the game was being played, who their favorite players were. But they’d talk about other things too.
Per their conversations, I learned Mason liked to fish from a dock, never a boat. I also found out he liked to go to the beach to hang out with friends. And other than sports, he never watched television.
“Yeah, he’s a good dad,” I agree.
Mason surveys my response, his eyes scanning my face. His body relaxes and his lips tilt at their corners when he notes, “You’re quieter than I remember.”
Fascinated with his eyes shining in play, I prompt, “I’m quieter?”
“I remember you always having something to say before.”
“I did?”
“Yep,” he reassures. “Figured you’d have some teenage bullshit to spout about what just happened.”
“What just happened?” I parrot again, not to clarify but to stall.
I know what happened, and I have about ten thousand things I’d love to ‘spout.’ I’m just not willing to voice them to the guy I crushed on for an entire summer. I’ll wait until I get home and call Connie and Grace. We’ll raise hell just the three of us. Who knows, Grace is crazy. Maybe we’ll head out into the streets and look for his idiot friend.
I smile to myself, picturing the three of us slicing open our palms, holding them together, and swearing our vengeance in blood against a creepy guy named Caleb.
That’s what best friends do.
Picking up another box, Mason lifts his chin in the direction of the door. “I’m talking about Caleb.”
“So your friend has a name,” I comment with a sneer. “I was leaning toward ‘idiot’ or ‘dirt bag.’”
“The idiot does have a name,” Mason confirms, clearly amused.
He stands with an armful of cereal boxes, putting them back on the shelf in a ridiculous, nonsensical manner. Some are upside down, some backward, and a few are facing as they should.
With nothing else to say, he turns to face me directly. Giving him my attention, I watch the thick veins of his arm and hand as he pulls out a black, leather wallet from his pocket. It’s hooked to a belt loop, attached by a silver chain. After rifling through the money inside, he hands over two five dollar bills.
“Go on and get what you came to get. I’ll get Caleb out of here.”
“Um—”
What did I come here to get?
“That work for you?” he presses.
Trying not to blush, I take the money from his grasp and offer a quiet, “Sure.”
Mason studies my puzzled expression, then he smiles and says, “My name is Cole.”
“Mason Cole,” I fix. “I remember.”
“No,” he sternly corrects. “Not Mason Cole. Just Cole.”
There’s not one thing I’ve let myself forget about him. I’ve written his name in the pages of my journal countless times. And I specifically remember his name being Mason Cole.
“Whatever you say, Mason,” I dig again.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?” he smarts, his grin turning into a fully-fledged smile.
Countering for good measure, I advise, “I listen when someone has something to say.”
Laughing off my ridiculous reply, he states, “That’s fair,” then questions, “How old are you?”
“I’m twelve.”
His eyebrows furrow, and his mood swings as his lips form a frown. “Why the fuck are you out walkin’ around town alone at twelve?”
“I said I’m twelve. I didn’t say I was stupid.”
“If you say—” he starts.
“I say,” I return. “And if you would’ve kept your pet leashed, I would’ve already been on my way. Now, it’s getting dark so I have to hurry.”
Now there are only nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine things I have left to say.
Crap.
I need to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Dad says I have a way of speaking my mind the way a woman of value never should. He says to always speak your piece but do so carefully, never with the intention to insult.
Mason’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t appear entirely angry, but he does look surprised. Either way, I need to get what I came for and get back home. Back to my friends, telling them who I saw. Back to my journal, to enter this quickly in order to cement it all to memory.
“You shouldn’t be—”
“Mason?” I break in on more of his unsolicited advice. “Can I go now?”
Before turning around, Mason eyes me up and down, zeroing in and smirking at my flip-flops. They’re yellow with a pink flower stuck between the toes. I love them. They’re my favorite pair.
Obviously, now done conversing with a girl my age, he gives permission with, “You can go.”
“Well, thank you,” I utter.
At this, his smile deepens and he orders, “Keep happy, kiddo.”
With stomach-fluttering fascination, I watch Mason extend one arm in the air. His index finger points to the sky and swirls, signaling for his friend, wherever that jerk face went, to follow.
He does as he’s promised. Through the store window, I survey as he and his friend take their positions on their motorcycles.
My need for supplies to fix Mother Nature’s invasion flushes my face. My cheeks are hot to the touch.
“Keep Cole’s money and just take whatever you need to get,” Gabe calls out, looking down at the counter near the register.
He must have seen us talking; the money Mason gave me still hot in my hand.
Noting I need to get moving and do it fast, I grab three boxes of tampons and a couple of packages of pads from the shelf without caring about the quality of contents. I carelessly shove them into my backpack.
As I make my way outside, I don’t chance another look at Gabe. But I sense his eyes on me, watching from his barstool behind the counter. When I step into the humid and warm, early September, Washington air, there are no signs of either man I saw inside.
A pang of loss hits my chest. I would’ve liked to have seen at least one of them again. If only to thank him for the money.