Page 8 of The Masks We Burn

But with all those nice physical attributes and the massive big-dick energy he carries around, he’s got a mouth worse than mine and doesn’t hesitate to make you feel like you’re blessed just to walk in his presence.

“I’m good, love. You look like the type that doesn’t even know what she wants out of life. The type that will find some cushy husband to settle down with and let him pay all your bills while you flirt with every guy you meet at the gym. So again, I think I’ll pass.”

The memory of him reading me like a Saturday morning comic bores into my brain, sending an uncomfortable sting across my rib cage. Funny how words have the power to embed into you and sit idle, waiting for the right movement before they twist, reminding you they’re still there. Especially when they feed off the insecurities buried next to them.

Even though she can’t see me, I force a thin smile on my face and clench my teeth. “No worries, Remy. I’m sure it will be fine. We probably won’t even run into each other.”

Except for the actual wedding.

I bat the annoying reminder from my thoughts and start my car. Nothing is going to ruin my day after a little self-care and doing something exhilarating.

And that includes the guy who was the only one to ever turn me down.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Blaze, if you don’t move to the fucking right, I’m gonna drop this damn thing,” I huff, readjusting the bed frame yet again, my muscles screaming from the constant fumbling.

A voice calls from the living room, laughter lining his words. “Blaze has no concept of down the middle, which is pretty ironic if you think about it.”

“I’d advise you to stay in your place on the couch, Bellamy,” Blaze grumbles before shifting to the side and letting the wooden frame slide in with ease. This worsens the sour look on his face. He’s not a fan of being proved wrong.

“You’re a boss alright, just not mine. Next time, let Will take the lead. Now, when’s the pizza coming?”

I laugh at this, jutting my head toward the couch where Bellamy sits reclined, a book in his hands. “I like this guy more every time I see him.”

Blaze mumbles under his breath but then decides to just nod. Bellamy is his best friend and teammate on the football team. Also happens to be one of the only things my dad talks about come Saturdays. He and Blaze are a formidable force on the field, and whether I want to admit it or not, watching them out there makes my chest burn.

It feels like a lifetime ago now…

We lower the bed down in my new room and I rub at the phantom ache in my left knee. Thanks to my mom and therapy, I’m pretty mindful, but it doesn’t make it easier when I’m in a room with men like them. To see themhavewhat I watched slide from my hands, like ashes in the wind.

I suck in a breath and knock the mattress down that’s leaning against the wall. It falls onto the platform wooden frame with a muffled whack.

Blaze looks around the space now full of boxes and dark furniture. “I have to admit, you mesh well with the place.”

Grunting, I lean against the wall, checking my phone for the tenth time this morning. “Yeah, it’s pretty dope, honestly.”

Not to feed into a stereotype, but most guys I know, especially college football guys, don’t know what a gem IKEA and HomeGoods are. But Blaze must, as the entire duplex is fitted with espresso wood, black and gray fabrics, and plants.Liveplants. My boy has taste.

I vaguely think how excited my mom will be when she visits and sees the place. Shoving my phone back into my basketball shorts, I can’t help the sigh that escapes.

“No call back?”

I shake my head, ignoring the tinge of disappointment tightening around my ribs. When I called the number Blaze gave me, the man asked for some information, a couple of pictures, and a video of a recent match. Since I don’t box, or do MMA, I sent him something with Blaze and I, but I’m beginning to think it wasn’t enough.

ThatIwasn’t enough.

Ha.

It’s annoying as fuck to be so well-rounded yet lacking in the ways that matter. The ways that eat you up and make you do anything to feel something.

A heavy hand pats me on the shoulder. While it’s meant to be comforting, it only seals the discouragement clogging my throat—as if to sympathize with me that I won’t get the call.

“Come on, let’s find out where the pizza guy is before Bellamy starts more shit. His metabolism is astronomical.”

I huff, giving him the best grin I can muster and follow him to the kitchen. After grabbing a few Powerades, a vibrating in my pocket catches me off guard.

Trying my best not to get my hopes up, I stamp down the light flutter in my gut and excuse myself outside.

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