Page 48 of Most Valuable Player
Mason nods, expression surprisingly neutral. “And what does Your Majesty require of this humble, filthy peasant?”
The fact that he’s letting me come up with something without needing proof makes me feel like a dick. “I’ll just pardon you,” I tell him. “Because I’m nice.”
Suddenly, he leans over the middle compartment and presses his lips to my cheekbone. “That should suffice, yes?” he asks. “My liege?”
Oh. I think I’m royally fucked when it comes to Mason Gray. I’m not even mad that he’s clearly mocking me, because his tiny grin makes my heart flutter. Why am I suddenly so whipped for this annoying-ass water boy?
Then we pull up to the gallery, and I get it. Mason is the sunshine incarnate. It’s like every shadowy corner and crevice looming withinhis body disintegrates, overtaken by an explosive ray of light that further wrecks my poor, healing corneas. He’s not even smiling, but the world encompassing us suddenly feels like a bright, warm place.
Because Mason is happy. Genuinely.
The building is weathered down but plaited with windows that provide a scenic view of the lake from a section filled with rounded tables and cushioned chairs. Exhibits scatter the shop, providing a winding pathway to the register that allows one to see every station, from photography to abstract to watercolor and so on.
Mason looks like a kid in a candy shop as he yanks me around by the wrist, showing me his favorite works and artists, his dark eyes ablaze. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says at one point, his expression painfully bright.
He’s different here. Unrestrained. “Yeah,” I say, though I’ve already forgotten the question and what painting he’s referring to. Everyone inside recognizes Mason, greeting him with familiar smiles, and he’s so eager to see them that he forgets to cover his own.
I have the feeling this is the closest Mason has ever been to being himself. He loves art. Paintings. Photography. He knows the difference between acrylic, oil, watercolor. As we roam—or as I’m dragged—Mason’s fingers twitch like he’s resisting the urge to find a paintbrush. If I’m being honest…
Maybe it makes me itch to find one, too. And a couple rocks out back.
Then I remember that canvas collecting dust in his bedroom. And I wonder who battered his self-confidence so low, to the point where he gave up on something that brought him joy. I must be pretty distracted because I don’t even realize I’m “studying” until Mason says, “Cameron? Did you forget you can flip the page again?”
I blink at my history book and find that fucker Winston Churchill glaring up at me. Mason’s sitting in the chair adjacent to me, facingthe sprawling windows overlooking Lake Evergreen. He’s leaning his face into his palm, observing me with amusement, the warm golden glow of the sun reflected in his eyes.
“The more you pay attention, the sooner you can get back to doing bench presses or seducing our classmates or whatever else Cameron Morelli likes to get up to,” he says.
“I have many hobbies,” I snap. “I’m more than a meathead with a sizable schlong.”
“Name a hobby that isn’t working out, football, or flirting.”
Shit. I can’t tell him about all the hobbies Iusedto have, because that’s sacrificing another chunk of my image to him. He’s already punched through some of the bricks in my wall, and as a result, he’s received several peeks into who I am. He’s gotten closer to the truth than anyone else just by spending a handful of hours around me. A few years ago, if I’d responded to this question with the truth—finding flowers for my mom, playing board games with my parents, painting rocks—I would’ve gotten beaten up.
If I had known Mason back then, I don’t think he would’ve minded.
My silence must amuse Mason because he laughs into the back of his palm, then says, “Just teasing,” and returns to his work. I do the same, relieved I didn’t have to come up with something, but three seconds later, he’s reaching over and tapping the skin between my knuckles. His expression has darkened.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” he mumbles. “For last night. Trying to force you to kiss me. Making you stay for me.” He curls his knees into his chest, gaze wandering to the lake. There aren’t any boats out, so the water is a cool, reflective plain shimmering under the sun.
“You should pick up painting again,” I blurt.
Mason tips his head, hair tickling his shoulder. “Why do you care?”
“Because you should do things that make you happy, even if you’re bad at them.” Maybe I should keep my trap shut, but I want to drivethe point home. “It’s obvious you like artwork. And isn’t ‘good’ subjective? So something you think looks terrible probably looks amazing to someone else.” I clear my throat awkwardly and say, “I’d hang your half-painted picture on my wall.”
Mason’s brows are high enough to blend into his hairline. Suddenly, he smiles. Eyes crinkling, face warming, cheeks flushing. And I think I’d hang this image up on my wall too, or maybe my ceiling, so when I opened my eyes in the morning, I’d be greeted with sunlight even on the cloudiest days. “Thanks, Cameron,” he says.
But then his hand rises to finger the chain around his neck. The one decorated with aquamarine to make it look like jewelry. The shadows lengthen along his face, dimming his features until he’s a husk of himself. The vibrancy flickers out of his eyes until they become two yawning expanses of dull loneliness.
“Have you been paying attention to what you’re reading?” His voice is back to what I’m used to. “You have a quiz on Tuesday. Are you prepared? You’re three chapters behind. Remember, your football career is on the line.”
The thought doesn’t make it easier to pay attention. The reminder that my entire future is riding on a game a couple of weeks from now is anxiety-inducing enough that I can barely zero in on the pages. And now, I’m just thinking about him.
I want to tear that shackle off his neck, wherever it came from.
Journal #2—August 23
Okay maybe not so soon haha. I’m bad at journals. My boyfriend’s (AHHHHHH) parents had a birthday party for him in their huge house. There were so many people he had to talk to, I was starting to feel lonely. But then he pulled me into his bedroom and pushed me againstthe wall (LIKE WHAT EXCUSE ME HELLO HI) and kissed me! He even used tongue. It was slimy but maybe it gets sexy when you don’t have braces. He let me touch his back under his shirt and I was basically melting out of my face the whole week.
