Page 113 of Sapphire Spring

“Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Blondie?”

Connor nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, butyou’rekind of full of it right now.”

“Care to explain?”

“Naser, this is the closest to love at first sight I’ve everheard. The problem was, the one who fell felt like he lived in a world where hecouldn’t be honest about how he felt, and so it turned into this contorted,twisted thing thathas tobe healed.”

“I did not spend my high school years in love with MasonWorther.”

“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about him.” Connorgot to his feet. “You’re staying for dinner. I’m cooking.”

Then he headed toward the house before Naser could disagree.

30

Mason’s first dinner at Pine Risewas served in a larger cabin than the one in which he was supposed to sleep. Itwasn’t as terrible as he’d feared. The other new residents he’d fallen in withwere all a different version of humbled and embarrassed about where they’dended up, and that made for a quiet meal, a version of relaxed that felt closeto shell-shocked.

Then all the men on site—about thirty of them, total—formeda procession to the fire pit in the center of the clearing where they tooktheir seats on folding chairs. Tony handed out big, woolen blankets for them towrap themselves in as the temperatures fell. A dome of stars appeared beyondthe interlocking branches overhead. And in that moment, Mason felt as if he hadfinally come to rest inside of his bones, as if he’d stopped moving through hislife at warp speed for the first time in years.

Then they opened the meeting by askingallofthe new arrivals to introduce themselves and share for three minutes.And Mason thought he might barf.

But when his turn came, the words tumbled out of him withoutpause. He gazed into the flames as he spoke so that he could tune out anyreactions from the strangers around him. He talked about being a closeted bisexualfor most of his life, about the type of man he’d been in high school, the wayhe’d tried to make it up to Naser, how badly he’d beaten his best friend thenight before. When the timer went off, he was amazed at how much of it he’dmanaged to get through. Maybe because he hadn’t edited or held back or evenpaused, and his truth had come pouring out of him in a determined but gentle rush.

He’d been himself with strangers for the first time in hislife.

And when he found the courage to look up, he saw onlyunderstanding in the fire-lit eyes of the men around him. Then the othernewcomers shared, and his story fell into place beside theirs. Tales of brokenhomes and kids who wouldn’t return phone calls and partners who’d finally leftfor good.

Back home, on Shirley’s arm, he’d still felt like the newkid, the odd man out who might bolt at any minute, the special project for theold timers. Now he felt like one of the survivors of the shipwreck, which alsomeant he wasn’t alone on the shore.

A few hours later, they were all back in their cabins when Tonyknocked on the door as a warning, then entered without waiting for a response.He made a beeline for Mason’s bunk. “We heard from your old man,” he said, andextended a slip of paper in one hand.

Mason hesitated, even though he doubted Tony would be sharingthe message if it were abusivecrap.

DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO. I’LL GET THE BILL.

His eyes filled.

Coming from his dad, it was practically a Christmas carolabout love of family.

Coming on the heels of their last conversation, it might aswell have had a heart emoji at the end.

Never in his life had his dad told himnotto worryabout something, but that’s what he was saying now.

Mason had gone his entire life without showing anger to hisfather. Now that he had, something had shifted. Was it permanent? Only timewould tell.

Mason went to hand the paper back, but Tony held up onepalm. “Keep it. See if it helps.”

Mason opened the drawer on his nightstand and placed thenote inside. When he looked up, Tony was gone and other guys in the cabin werelooking at him as if they were curious about what had gone down but too politeto ask.

He pulled back the sheets, settled into bed, opened theworkbooks that had been waiting for him on his nightstand when he’d arrivedthat day, and flipped through pages with various exercises asking him to make alist of his resentments—the people, places, and things that made him angry on aregular basis. Worksheets with entry blanks, interview questions. Lots of them.He’d been hearing some version of the ideas within for weeks, but he’d beenlistening out of one ear, like an airplane passenger watching the preflightsafety video with one eye.

He’d do it. All of it. But he knew he’d never get through itall unless he gave himself an incentive. A reward.

Mason opened the spiral notebook and brought his knees upunder the sheet to make a writing surface. They hadn’t said anything aboutmailing letters, and maybe they wouldn’t let him, but they couldn’t stop himfrom writing one.

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