Page 36 of Most Valuable Player
Then we got older, and I was fourteen (thirteen?), and this and that happened, and suddenly whatever, now we’re here. Every panic response in my body tells me to run, but I can’t move. I can’t do anything.
I’m pathetic.
“What do you look like that for?” Mom asks, her cheery persona dissolving into a stern glare. “Apparently he hasn’t been able to get ahold of you lately. You should know better than to be so impolite.”
“Oh gosh, no, it’s fine. Sounds like Mason has been busy. I’d hate to think I was bothering him,” he says, offering her a wink.
She squeaks out a laugh and waves her bony hands in dismissal. “No, he really shouldn’t treat you like that! You’re family.”
I keep hoping that if I stay as still as possible, I’ll turn invisible. His eyes stay locked on me, twinkling with familiar kindness and warmth despite their frigid color. “I can’t believe how long it’s been,” he says, still grinning despite my lack of response. “Can we talk in your room?”
He takes a half step toward me, and I mirror him, moving backward. My voice is lost somewhere in the cavity of my chest.
“Mason Gray, come here,” Mom snaps, seizing the crook of my elbow and dragging me into the kitchen, where everyone’s stationed. I want to dig my feet into the ground and pull, but I don’t have the strength.
I probably never will.
Dad stares at the floor, like he doesn’t want to see us interacting. He won’t say anything, because he doesn’t want to argue with Mom. Mom, who’s looking between us with anticipatory eyes. “You’re being ridiculous,” she says after a heavy silence, and she points down the bedroom hallway. “He asked to speak to you in private. Go on.”
If I disobey further, she’ll fly into a rage. The last time I upset her, she made me scrub the grout out of the tile floor in the bathroom with a toothpick. I’d take that over spending a moment alone with him, but the end result will be the same.
He gets what he wants. Always.
So my feet move of their own accord, dragging me down the hallway. His shadow pours over mine, longer and wider, as he follows.
The creaking bedroom door is sharp and knifelike against my eardrums as it swings shut. He’s probably taking in my room. Other than additional pastel paintings gifted to me by the local art gallery, it’s the same. The half-read books, the dusty guitar, the canvas I haven’t thrown away, the capped camera I haven’t used in a year.
“Seems like you’re getting out there.” His words are gentle, not tinged with frustration like they used to be. He props himself on the edge of my mattress, another smile lighting his face. “That’s amazing. You’ve always struggled with socializing.”
I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton balls that are absorbing all sounds and thoughts before my brain can process them. He’s complimenting me.
“Sorry for surprising you. I didn’t know how to reach you, since you’re ignoring my texts—”
“I blocked your number,” I blurt. I hide my trembling fists behind my back, and when he notices, his smile widens incrementally.
“Come on, Mason. If you’re going to say that, you should at least turn off your read receipts.”
My face pales.
“It doesn’t matter. I know you’ve needed space. But it’s been six months, and I miss you.” His eyes soften, and he extends his arm, gesturing for me to approach. I’d rather die than let him touch me again. My muscles respond to the command anyway, guiding me forward, slipping my palm into his. My hands are cold. His are worse.
He grazes his lips against my knuckles, like he’s savoring this moment. I hate how my body responds, stirring fluttery warmth in my abdomen.
“I don’t miss you,” I whisper.
The words sap away my fortitude, and suddenly, tears scorch the edges of my eyes. When he peers up at me, his gaze pained and uncertain, it shatters what little confidence remains. My fingers shiver harder, his touch igniting memories I’ve concealed—the feeling of him wrapped around me while I tried to sleep, the way he kissed my forehead so gently when he left for college, sitting in the darkness of his car because I didn’t want to come home, curling up with him in his dorm and not having to worry about roommates, since his parents paid for a single room. His voice, full of soft reverence.
I watch vacantly as his mouth shifts to the back of my hand, to the crook of my wrist, to the veins of my forearm. “My birthday was a few weeks ago,” he murmurs, cool lips working to my elbow. “You didn’t text me.”
Sorry.I swallow the word. I don’t need to apologize.
“We’ve been friends for years.” He continues in that soft, soothing voice, like he’s trying to lull me to sleep. “We’ve shared so many moments. Don’t they mean anything to you?”
I once promised myself I would never cry in front of him again. Yet beads of water leak down my cheeks, coagulating at my jaw, burning my tired eyes. “Ihateyou,” I choke out, unable to muster the courage to stop him when he reaches up, framing my face in his palm. “You treated me terribly…”
“I know.” He draws me forward, forcing me to step between his propped knees, and tugs my head to his shoulder. “I’ve had time to reflect. The things I said and did…I don’t know how you could forgive me. Yet I’m asking for it anyway.”
The familiarity of this situation is sinking into my bones, dulling my anger. The sharp edges of my resilience are being shaved to useless nubs. The longer his hands caress my skin, the more watered-down I feel, like all my frustrations, arguments, and characteristics are bleeding away.
