Page 58 of Most Valuable Player
“Let me guess—his plan involves touching you?”
I want to protest, but the words are wedged in my throat. Last night comes flooding back in a surge of feelings. His lips on my jaw, his arm around my waist, his fingers on my nape.
“Mm.” He takes my silence as confirmation and steps back, disappointed. I almost follow him, wanting to plead my case. But why should I? He’s not my fiancé anymore, not even my boyfriend. So why do I feel guilty, like he caught me cheating?
The door chimes.
Suddenly, I remember where I am. The foggy bubble wrapped around us pops, and the world swims back into focus, allowing the daylight to flood back into my eyes. I take a shuddery breath of relief—one that he notices—and look over his shoulder.
It’s Cameron.
Chapter Eighteen
Cam
It’s my third stop of the day, so precious water boy better be grateful that I’m so kind and considerate. But if he’s not here, I’m torching the whole gallery and then myself. I’m tired of shipping my ass across Elwood just to return his necklace to him, especially considering I’m missing out on an unofficial practice Darius is currently running in his backyard. He hosts those occasionally to make sure our muscles stay warm—though, it’s rare that more than five or six people actually show up. His dedication to the sport scares even me sometimes. I try not to think about the tingle of relief in the back of my neck at the fact that I have an excuse not to be there.
Is the length of this necklace-related journey my fault for not contacting Mason before setting out on my quest to see him, as my parents indicated when I texted them my frustrations?
No. It’s his fault for being unpredictable and elusive.
First I visit his house and meet his mother. She’s a short lady with apple-red cheeks and a surplus of hair that coils to her neckline. She answers the door with eager eyes, but when she sees me, the excitement dissolves from her features.
“Who are you?” she asks.
She doesn’t look anything like her son. She seems about as thrilled to see me as Mason usually is, which is to say, not at all. “Hi. I’m Cam Morelli. Is Mason around? I need to return something to him.”
She seems reluctant to divulge Mason’s whereabouts. Eventually, she says, “Try Annie’s Brews,” then closes the door before I can utter a thanks.
The quaint coffee shop is lively on this sunny Sunday, overflowing with high schoolers or commuter college students. My eyes rove the vicinity, seeking a beanie or curled-up figure shaky from caffeine overdose. There’s not a single Mason Gray in sight.
He must be at the gallery. Well, I’m here, so I grab him a cinnamon-twist latte with extra whipped cream. Knowing him, he’s probably had five cups this morning. Knowing him, he’s probably craving one more.
So then I’m on my merry way to the local gallery. When I pull up to the parking lot, there’s a single car. Probably a guest, since Mason doesn’t have a vehicle. Did he walk here this morning? Good for him, getting in his steps, but the roads are twisty and winding—it would be safer if I drove him so he doesn’t get hit by some high schooler taking a corner too fast.
I clamber out of the car, sparks twirling in my stomach. It shouldn’t make me this nervous, the whole “dropping something off that he forgot at my house” mission, but my body is reacting like I’m on my way to assassinate my first hit to prove my worth to my father. Or something.
I stride to the gallery door, pushing inside.
Mason’s standing behind the cashier counter in fitted jeans and a turtleneck decorated with fall leaf patterns. He catches my eye, and I almost grin like a giddy fool.
Then I notice he’s not alone.
My stride scrapes to a stop. There’s a tall man behind the counter with Mason. His clean stubble lends maturity to his features, but I think he’s in his early twenties. His skin is smooth, his face strong and squared, his arms thick enough that I can tell he either works out orplays a college sport. He looks like the kind of standard attractive person who’d appear on the front page of a men’s clothing catalog.
The man shifts to see me. His eyes are cool and calm, a frosty blue, but he’s wearing a giant, beaming smile that warms the air. Yet there’s something disconcerting in his stance, lax as it is, and a prickly sensation squeezes my chest.
I think I’ve interrupted something.
“Mason,” I call out, breaking through the ice gluing me to the carpet and pressing forward. It’s a clear path to the cashier’s desk, but my journey there is difficult. Every step makes me feel like my shins and calves are battling quicksand.
“Cameron,” Mason says. His eyes are two cold, empty caverns, devoid of recognition or awareness or…anything. His fingers are curled with such visceral tightness that his knuckles are bone white. Normally I pride myself on reading people’s moods, but the atmosphere around Mason is painfully dull and uncolored—it’s like reading a corpse.
“I brought some things,” I say, glancing awkwardly at the man beside him.
“This is Cameron? The football kid who’sworking outwith you?” The man’s grin widens, still bright and welcoming. So why is it suddenly so cold? The sparks in my stomach have been extinguished, and the air is so chilly I can almost see my breath furling out. I nearly extend a hand to him—he seems familiar with Mason—but keep my arms down. An invisible dome encircles them, and my gut says I shouldn’t pass through.
“Hi,” I say uneasily.
