Page 48 of Please Hate Me

Before I was barely halfway into my ice cream, Mason had finished hers. The plastic spoon in her hand scraped the cardboard cup as she dug at the remnants of chocolate and sweet cream.

“Here,” I said, extending my bowl to her.

Instantly, she flushed to match the remnants of red streaking across the sky, shaking her head as she sucked on her spoon.

“I had mine, I’m okay,” she assured me, but I shook my head.

“I don’t think I can finish it. You’d be helpin’ me out,” I lied, knowing damn well I could eat two more bowls myself. But the way she smiled as she accepted my offer was worth the lie. Mason was a cutie, that was for sure.

I watched as she picked up one of the salt packets she’d scattered on the table. She shook the paper packaging and before tearing off the top and pouring it on the ice cream like sprinkles.

Mason was a bit… odd, as I had come to find out. I figured the eccentricity came with being an artist.

“So…what’s it like being a c-celebrity?” I choked on the last word, trying to get my mind around it.

She shrugged. “It’s just a job.”

“Wait, ain’t you like… the best at it?” That’s what the person on the radio had said. Mason was a powerhouse, allegedly.

“It’s not hard to be good at something when you’re given enough instructions.”

Mason spoke like she was talking about knitting, not actual stardom.

“I don’t feel like that’s true...” If there were a foolproof guide for fame, we’d have more celebrities and less doctors. Why work hard when people pay you just for existing?

“How could anyone give you a guide to becoming a pop star?”

A bittersweet half-smile made itself at home on her face. She started to pick at the rim of her cup, unrolling it slightly as she thought. That was something else I noticed: Mason spent a lot of time in her head. Nothing was ever a quick response. After living with two chatterboxes and a pair of endlessly talkative toddlers, it was nice to speak to someone a little more thoughtful.

“Are you sure you don’t know who I am?” she asked.

“Well, of course I do. You’re Mason Albright, and well—” I gestured to her rounded stomach. Under the sundress she wore, her bump was barely visible. I wondered if that was intentional.

“I don’t mean that.” Her voice somehow got softer, then softer still, and then she asked again: “You have no idea who I am, celebrity-wise?”

Would it have mattered if I did?

“Not at all, why?”

“Because the more you understand Mason the popstar, the less you’ll understand Mason the person.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but maybe that was for the best.

“I’d like to get to know Mason, the person, if that’s alright with you.”

“Why? I’m annoying.”

My eyebrows raised as I took in her response. That sounded like something Lucian would say about Mason, not something she’d say about herself.

“I uh, well. We’re living under the same roof, and even if I ain’t sweet on you like Soph, it’s best if I get to know ya.”

“You were supposed to forget about us when we stepped off the plane. That was the deal.” There was a nervous edge in her words, one that made me wonder if Lucian had said something to her.

“We made that deal before I knew you’d be living with me.” I wiped the sweat off my hands and onto my shirt. A nervous flutter filled my chest, I just couldn’t pinpoint why.

“And even if I’m not real interested in her, I’m interested in you.” I pointed at her stomach just in time for the black cotton of her dress to wriggle.

My daughter did that. The thought almost made me shiver.

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