Past…
STANDING ACROSS THE GRAVEYARD, NESTLED beside an old oak tree, I watch Mason shake hands with a few of those left in attendance, bidding them a small smile, a brief thank you, and a casual goodbye.
Mitchell Aaron Cole lived his life as a shut-in alcoholic. He wasn’t much of a father, or a person as far as I could see. So, like me, the mourners who came today weren’t here to say a prayer of peace on his behalf. They were here as support for his only son.
During the service, I stood directly across from Mason on the other side of the casket. There, I could see he was tired. Anyone could. The dark circles beneath his eyes and the wrinkles forming around his mouth served as scars for the loss of a man who never loved him at all.
He noticed I was there and his expression didn’t change.
My dad had told me what he’d heard through rumor: Mitchell was home alone when he died, and no one had noticed he passed until the smell of his rotting corpse caught the attention of his neighbors.
He also told me Mason had been contacted and was making all the necessary arrangements.
I was sad not to hear from Mason at all, not letting me in during such a sad and tragic time. But I wasn’t surprised. Too many years have passed since I saw his face or heard his voice. But it hasn’t been time passed without him in my thoughts.
Fair to my husband or not, I still think about him every day.
I took a chance in coming here, a chance that enough time had gone by, along with enough heartbreak, that we’d be able to finally come to terms with where we’ve ended up.
The lump in my throat and the break of sweat on my fevered skin says, at least for my part, I was wrong.
As I study him across the way, I’m relieved to see him holding up as I expected he would. He’s getting through this as he does everything else. With a strong sense of dignity and self-respect.
When the last of the mourners pass him on the way to their cars, Mason turns in place and looks down to his father’s casket in the still open grave. He slides his hands inside his suit pockets but doesn’t step away.
His thick, dark hair is much longer than I ever remember it being, now just passing the collar of his jacket. The definition of his body hasn’t changed. He’s still built in a way that I remember touching.
I wonder if his heart is still as pure. The same it was when he loved me to sleep and kissed me in the morning before sending me back to my family. To the life I made without him.
Mason looks up, turning his head to find me. A sad smile comes and he walks in my direction. I didn’t only come here to support the man I once loved as he buried his dad, I also came here to see my Adam.
“I was wondering if you were gonna wait around after the service. Should’ve figured you would, just to be a pain in my ass,” Mason playfully berates, bending down to kiss the apple of my cheek. Grabbing my hands and squeezing them tightly, he whispers in my ear, “How are you, baby?”
I smile as he pulls away, then glance up at his towering height. “I’m good, Mason. I’m sorry about your dad,” I tell him, lack of anything else to say.
“My dad was a sick, selfish son of a bitch,” Mason notes, looking toward the open grave behind him.
“He was still your dad.”
“That he was,” he thoughtfully but quietly returns.
Silence falls and we stare at each other, as if seeing one another for the first time.
Mason feels it, too.
He smiles, and asks, “You keep happy, Katie Mae?”
“Yes,” I return. “I’m happy.”
I have two healthy, happily growing, beautiful daughters. A home I care for and a close-knit group of friends who know me well enough.
I also have a husband who loves me in ways he’s able.
We’re never passionate, because whatever pulled us together before has long since gone. Marriage and family have become just another responsibility.
“Are you happy?” I ask Mason, hoping he lies.
I’m not sure I could handle hearing he’s miserable and not being able to do anything about it. I also don’t think I can handle hearing he’s happy with someone else.
“Good enough,” he answers, without answering at all.
“When do you leave?”
“I’m not leaving,” he informs, and I twist my hands to free them. My heart tatters in a frantic rhythm, and my mouth opens for needed breath as he continues, “I’m stayin’ in town. My mom’s good in San Diego. She got remarried. He’s a great guy. He loves her, which is all she ever wanted. My sister has her shit together. So, I’m not leavin’. I’m stayin’ here.”
My stomach twists, aching with recognizable pain.
Mason will be here. In this town. With me.
But worse.
He won’t be with me. He’ll continue to be out of reach.
“Where will you stay?”
“Gonna gut the inside of my dad’s cabin and rebuild. It’s paid for and it’s quiet.”
“So you have a plan.”
“I do.”
Reservation digs deep. Unwanted images of Mason and a woman living in the cabin he rebuilt for them. Kids. Bicycles. Swing sets. A daughter. A son. A happy home made for the promise of a happy family.
“Mason…I—”
“Adam’s here, isn’t he?” Mason queries.
“Yes,” I return.
Selfishly, another pit of sadness forms, wondering if Adam would’ve liked Mason if he’d had the chance to know him.
“He’s on the other side of that hill.” I point. When I give him my eyes, a cold rushing breeze covers my cheeks. “He’s buried next to Thomas’ grandfather.”
“Want me to go with you to see him?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I went before the service, but thank you.” Thinking further, I manage the courage to tell him, “I got your sympathy card. It came in the mail the day of his funeral.”
Mason’s lips curves, his eyes shine as he asks, “How’d you know the card was from me?”
“Your card was the only reason I smiled that day.”
“Glad for that,” he tells me. “I wanted to come back for the funeral but wasn’t sure—”
Cutting him off, I express, “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Mason nods. “I should get going,” he tells me. “I have a lot of shit to get done.”
“Okay.”
As he starts to turn and walk away, he doesn’t touch me, but our eyes never lose contact. Our shoulders brush and I reach out to grab his wrist before he’s able to pass.
Standing next to one another, with our bodies facing opposite directions, we still.
Silently, but able to convey so much.
Together, but both feeling consequently alone.
Each lost in our own life’s chaos, but tethered to one another in this moment with quiet understanding.
“Same hotel,” Mason whispers to my confusion. “Crimson Eyres.”
“What?”
“Same room…” he continues and my body tenses, “407.”
“Mason, I don’t think—”
“I can’t be alone tonight, Katie,” he tells me.
Guiding me by my shoulders, Mason turns us back to one another. His finger traces the high of my cheek. He studies this with fascination.
Mason’s voice is shaky, but he gets out, “Just to talk. I need your voice.”
Oh, God. But I can’t.
“I’ll be in our room all night.”
Our room.
“Decision’s yours,” he tells me, drawing closer. “But I’ll be waiting.”
I close my eyes slowly, as the wind pushes the familiar scent of him to me. The touch of his lips to my temple sets fire to my skin.
I can’t go to him.
Another night in another man’s bed would threaten to undo all the resolve I’ve built since the last time we were together.
But this isn’t another night…at least not mentally, emotionally.
And this isn’t another man…this is Mason.
“I need you, Katie,” he gets out on a tortured whisper. “Come back to me.”
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Mason grinds out through clenched jaws as he tears through my body again and again.
Ravenous in touch.
Desperate with need.
Raw in circumstance.
Carnal with desire.
“Mason, honey, I’m close,” I tell him, fisting his hair with one hand, and holding him closely with the other. My legs are wrapped around his waist, caging his body to mine.
I’m fighting not to let go.
“Find it, baby,” he directs, sweeping his finger across my clit.
“Wait,” I beg.
Thrusting in and out with fevered drives, Mason growls, “Baby, you’re close.”
“I don’t want this to stop,” I counter, scoring my fingernails into Mason’s back.
I don’t want this to end. Once it does, I have to leave, go back to living empty. This is all we have.
“Find it, Katie,” he demands again.
My body tenses, writhing violently beneath his. He’s there, he’s taking me there.
I’m not ready for this to end.
“Swear to Christ, baby,” Mason hisses. “I’m close. Let the fuck go.”
Let go.
An exotic mix of ecstasy and denial pierces my ears as I cry out my release.
Let go.
Mason’s drives continue—again and again—harder and harder.
Let go.
My hips move in sync with his. My lips touch his jaw; my tongue tastes his neck. When I bite his skin, Mason succumbs, forcing himself into me as far as he can go.
Then, still inside, he roars through his release.
Our breathing is labored and a slick sheen of sweat covers our skin.
Mason had barely gotten the door opened before I stormed inside. I was pissed. Of course I wanted to come here. I wanted to see him, touch him, feel him. I was pissed because Mason invited me, knowing I couldn’t stay away. I never would.
With my anger bubbling, I shoved at his chest with enough force to send Mason one step back. My lips hit his with desperation and he took over.
I’d made the decision he’d hoped I would.
Aiming to keep this light, my voice is easy, my tone sarcastic, I ask, “Are you going to get off of me?”
I understood Mason’s avowal the last time we were here, in this room together. Because when he opened the door, and I caught sight of him standing there alone tonight, my heart fluttered.
I felt home. Not to a place or a time. Not a wish or a memory. A person encircled my life, shaping it to his.
Shaking his head with his mouth settled at my neck, he returns, “Not movin’.”
“Mason, I need to—”
“Stop talking,” he insists. “I’m still inside you. Just shut up and be here with me.”
Running my fingers through his hair, I listen to his breaths coming steady and even. Moments later, he pulls out carefully, flips to his side and positions my arm over his waist, tangling my legs with his.
“I can talk now?” I clip, pretending to be annoyed.
Mason doesn’t respond to my question, or anything at all. His gaze studies the black screen of the turned off television.
With our reflection glaring back at us, I bite my bottom lip before it threatens to quiver.
The view shows the covers drawn up over our naked bodies. My head rests on Mason’s shoulder. His arm is securely wrapped around my back. Our hands are held together, resting on top of his chest.
Beautiful liars. That’s what we are.
Beautiful because when we’re together it’s always that. Liars because we know the truth—the vision of us together isn’t real.
My eyes close and I start to move. I need to get dressed, get home, be alone to clear my head.
Mason protests, pulling me back, likely full well knowing what’s on my mind.
Once he’s satisfied I won’t move, he uses a matter-of-fact tone to start with, “When my old man beat on me, he was always drunk.”
Oh, God.
Mason’s never talked about his abusive relationship with his dad. At least not with any vivid detail, anyway. I always assumed, of course, as anyone might, his dad punished him for merely existing. And he indulged in this practice often.
“But no matter what I took from that son of a bitch, when he’d start, I knew eventually he’d wear out and have to stop. I also knew the wounds he inflicted would leave scars, but I’d use those to be stronger when he came at me the next time.”
As my heart patters against my chest, my face flushes, and my lips starts to tremble.
“He hurt me, Katie,” he croaks.
“I’m so sorry,” I utter.
Mason doesn’t acknowledge the sentiment. Rather he powers on. “But this? Me sending you to him again? This won’t wound me; leave a scar, this will fucking kill. There’s nothing I can do. This isn’t physical torture. The beating I’m about to take when you walk out of here and back to him will be an emotional war I can’t win.”
I slam my eyes shut, blocking the view, to utter, “Mason.”
“I have no defense other than how much I love you, and that’s being used against me.”
He’s right, but for us both. Mason will be as he always is, unreachable, but living in my thoughts.
“This is all I can do. What we’re doing right now. I can’t…” I stop to catch my lost breath, then plead, “An affair would—”
He hesitates, but agrees, “I know.”
“I never wanted to hurt you—”
“I’ll stay away,” he promises, before I’m able to give my pain and worry more voice.
The same pain becomes almost too much to bear. The same worry he won’t be able to do as he’s promised.
Tears fill my eyes.
“Katie,” he calls. I look up, resting my chin to his chest. With a heavy heart, he reiterates slowly, “I’ll stay away.”
“I can’t do this again,” I explain. “You’ll be here, Mason. Home. I can’t…”
“I’ll stay away,” he promises again. His words come as a cadence, said through an uncertain whisper. It’s not stated as an oath only to me, but to himself.
A sob escapes my chest.
Memories come forth.
Mason runs his hand over the back of my head, his fingers sifting through my hair. He waits as I surrender everything.
Sadness for my marriage.
For Adam.
Sorrow for Mason.
For the future we wanted, but never got to have.
For us.
“I’ll stay away,” he tells me again, kissing the top of my head.
“Thank you,” I tell him, breathing deeply. “Because I don’t think I can.”
“I can do it. For you,” he assures, his voice nearly breaking. “But fuck, baby, if it’s not gonna be the hardest thing I’ll ever do.”