Page 21 of Damsel in Defense
My grandmother’s voice floats through my head like a ghost.
You’re capable of anything, Victoria.
Which is true…in theory.
In practice?I should really learn how to ask for assistance.
I may be a capable woman, but I’m also a very tired, very undercaffeinated one with limited upper-body strength and no mechanical skills.I could really go for a large coffee from that place Mason and I went to last week.And a cookie, oh!
“Okay, maybe it’s time for a break,” I tell the empty room.Pushing the instruction manual to the side, I glare at the bolded words on the page.
The manual literally says:best completed with two people.
I slam my hand down on the paper and crumple it before throwing the instructions across the room.“What do you know,” I mutter.
I get up slowly from my position on the floor, feeling multiple muscles strain and pinch as I come to standing.God, I really need to start up my Pilates classes again.My body is starting to feel ancient.
When Grandma died, everything fell to the wayside.Grief was my constant, and self-care wasn’t even a thought in my mind.
Maybe this is a sign to get back to living.I had taken steps recently, hadn’t I?To start getting back on track—mostly career-wise.The deal I made with Mason was totally out of character for me but would have so many benefits in the long run.
“Oh my God!Benefits!”I cry out as I hobble down the short hallway.The idea dawns on me in an instant.“I have a boyfriend.”
A very tall, very broad, very capable fake boyfriend just a few floors up.
And really—what are fake boyfriends for if not furniture emergencies?And opening tight jars?
Yes, this is brilliant.There’s no shame in asking a boyfriend for help.Mason had said he’d support me in whatever I needed.And damn, my back needs this bed frame for support, so that’s basically the same thing.
There’s a spring in my step as I make my way into the kitchen and grab my water bottle.While I guzzle the cold liquid, I head to the front door.I’m not allowing myself time to dwell on this new direction of asking for help.This blip in my toxic independence won’t last long, and every moment counts.
I’m in the elevator and on Mason’s floor a minute later.My hand squeezes around my water bottle as nerves settle in the closer I get to his door.Doubt begins to tickle around the edges of my mind, but I push through.
With a deep breath for courage—and to calm my thumping heart—I knock on Mason’s door, trying not to feel weird about it.
This is fine.Everything is fine.Neighbours help each other.Friends help each other.Ridiculously attractive athletes who sometimes help struggling country stars assemble bed frames help each other.It’s a normal request.
While my head continues to spin with excuses, I knock again.
No answer.
Confused, I wait a second, then knock for a third time.Nothing.
But Icanhear music—something bass-heavy and rhythmic thudding through the door.And voices.
No, that’s not right.Not voices—singing.
I squint, trying to place the familiar beat.Is that…my voice?
Oh my God, I can’t believe this.Mason has my last album’s music up so loud he can’t hear me knocking.The giggle that bubbles up my throat has me forgetting all about my nerves.The more I learn about Mason, the more I like him.
And fuck me if that like isn’t turning into alike-like.That’s dangerous.
I stand there smiling like a fool but not sure what to do next.The thought never occurred to me that he wouldn’t answer the door, so I left my phone downstairs.Hadn’t even bothered to text him—rookie move.
I could go down and get it and text him that I’m coming up.Or…
My mouth twists up as I glance down at the door handle and contemplate my next move.He had said before I should make myself at home.I’m going to stretch that invitation and make that also include letting myself in when I need to.
