Page 21 of The Masks We Break

Amora’s face twists in disgust, and even then, it’s still gorgeous. “Bitch, stop. Why the hell wouldn’t you read it?”

“Hits too close to what I always read. I need some escapism, some fantasy. A vampire that will fight a pack of wolves for a bookish mortal. Something to make me forget life for a while.”

I flop on the couch next to her, picking up the remote and turning to our recorded shows. We always watch the latest episode of Attack on Titan on Wednesdays since our schedules are swapped nearly every other day.

Amora leans back, her face softening. After last weekend, when I’d crawled into her bed, she’d shown me mercy and let me work through my disappointment in silence. It wasn’t until I was finally dozing off that I heard her whisper,“Whatever is wrong, don’t beat yourself up about it. We all make mistakes and are entitled to a pity party every once in a while.”

I always wondered if it would be awkward to room with someone who used to like the same guy as me, but it became quickly apparent, Amora just wants what’s hot and moves on to something more fun soon after. It's also becoming obvious that my preconceived notion of the high school version of Amora was way off. She’s not only fun, she's the dose of real and uplifting you didn't see coming.

“I get it, girl. I’ll go grab the popcorn. Get comfy.”

I nod and fall into the back cushion, closing my eyes against the burn of fresh tears, refusing to succumb to them. What frustrates me the most is that no matter the amount of casual dating I did during the two years I hadn’t seen Blaze, I still thought about him. Still compared the guys to him, and here I go, doing it again.

Maybe it’s thewhythat makes me so angry.

Why I can’t figure out what it is that makes me always come back to him. I feel like I’m the only person in the world that doesn't know how to let go of something that’s not meant for me. That thought mixes with the frustration leaving me overwhelmed and right back here. On the verge of tears and exhaustion.

A secret part of me hopes that Ricky can help. I know it isn’t the best idea, using someone to get over another, but at this point, I feel like ripping my hair out in frustration.

It’s then I remember my phone and hop up to dig in my bag. I have one missed call and two texts.

Doctor Humphrey: Miss Solace, I've emailed you twice this evening with no response, which has resulted in my texting you. I've sent you a link to sign up to view my electronic paper submissions. This needs to be completed tonight.

Doctor Humphrey: There are 73 submissions thus far, and these will need to be graded by Sunday. No exceptions. Please refer back to our conversations if you need to be reminded of your position, Miss Solace.

I hold down the side button and turn my phone off. Not tonight. Tonight, I plan to enjoy the show with Amora, watching rabid giants who eat humans but can't digest them.

TWELVE

“How are classes, son?” My mother takes a ginger sip of orange juice, glancing at me over the rim of her glass. Her dark eyelashes nearly touch the edge of her thin eyebrows.

“As to be expected,” I answer, taking the last bite of my eggs.

Satisfied, she returns to her drink, ending the conversation. It’s been some time since I’ve been at our family table, and while I do enjoy seeing my mother now and again, I no longer feel comfortable here, though I’m not sure I ever did. The air is more suffocating than I remember, and having only been in my father’s gym for practice, I also don’t recall the room being so little. It’s as if the walls are pulsing, constantly growing smaller, trying to squeeze the life out of its inhabitants.

I clear my throat and peer at my father, who I’m sure is reading the stocks on his iPad. The scene is familiar. One, I endured every meal I ever ate at this table. Mother asking the bare minimum, hoping it’s enough to fill the status quo of being a mom, ignoring my latest bruises and cuts. Father’s nose stuck in a device, ready to throw his drinking cup across the room at the slightest inconvenience, then giving mesixminutes to clean his mess. His favorite number used far too often, and despite my best efforts, the digit has stuck with me.

If anyone were to look through the tall glass windows that frame the backside of the house, they would find a picture-perfect family, enjoying a meal together. But if they look longer than a second, they would see so much more.

Even still, I can never bring myself to complain. What does it matter to the starving children of the world that my mother has never read me a bedtime story or that my father has never thrown me a ball? I have food in my belly, a place to sleep, and millions of dollars at my disposal. I should be grateful.

And I am, truly.

Grateful to my mother for showing me that affection isn’t needed to rear a child and make them successful. Grateful to my father for teaching me that the ways to become a man mean discipline and perfection without the useless need of emotions.

For the past twenty-one years, I’ve done fine with that. I never longed for anything more than success and self-satisfaction. So why is it that there is a dull ache in my chest?

Why is it that every time I catch the sight of my reflection, my eyes drift to my lips, and I think of her? When I hear her laugh as she enters her apartment, I have to stifle a smile?

Or when I saw some douchebag talking to her in the parking lot, I had to bite my knuckles to keep from marching over and connecting my fist with his jaw. What kind of an asshole doesn’t walk a woman to her door?

These thoughts are disturbing, irrational, and most of all, distracting. And distractions of any kind are bad. I need to focus on dethroning the devil, which is no easy feat.

I slip my phone out of my front pocket and send a quick text to an old fling. It’s been weeks since I’ve indulged, and I know that’s why I’m feeling... perturbed.

Not a second passes before she agrees to meet tonight.

A knot unwinds in my neck, and I find my food tastes just a little better. Yes, this is the exact thing I need to pull me back into reality.

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