Page 62 of Most Valuable Player
“It’s not,” I snap, scooping his face up. I notch my thumbs in his temples, hoping the warmth in my palms will melt some of his ice. Hoping he’ll look at me, rather than through me. “Tell me what you want. There must be something.”
His right hand has been rooted on my chest, but he loses the strength to keep it up, because it collapses into his lap, joining the other. “I want someone to…” It almost sounds like he’s choking on the words—like he’s afraid that if he speaks them in full, he’s going to be punished. He’s blinking faster now, and I realize that despite his unwavering expression, his eyes are wet again. Suddenly, he shoves his hands over his face.
“You can say it,” I assure him, my thumbs moving to stroke the backs of his fingers.
“Ridiculous,” he rasps.
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“Pathetic.”
“It’s not.You’renot.”
Mason’s fingers claw into his own face like he wants to rip it off. It’s causing his skin to flare red, so I gather his wrists and pull so he can no longer conceal his expression. His eyes and nose are cherry red and his face is drawn with such visceral pain that it drives a stake of nausea through my stomach. “I want to disappear,” he croaks. The water becomes too thick to blink away. Several shimmering droplets escape his lashes, sliding down his pearly cheeks.
Those agonized words are like shivs to my heart. I tighten my grip around his hands, working my fingers through his, digging them deep into his skin. “You’re not allowed to,” I mutter. “You’re stuck here, and worse, you’re stuck withme. So tell me what you really want, or I’ll keep holding you hostage. Like in the corn maze.”
The reference jogs him, and his glazed stare sharpens.
“You said you want someone to…what?” I prompt.
He looks at his own hands wrapped in mine for several seconds. One more blink causes a torrent of tears to scour his cheeks. “I want someone to be gentle with me,” he cries.
I stand there quietly.
“I’m tired,” he chokes out, bending his head forward and resting it defeatedly against my collar. “I make everything worse, no matter what I do, no matter how many times I try to change, no matter how often I say I’m sorry or that I’ll be better or that I’ll make it up to them. I can’t smile right. I can’t walk right. I can’t wear the right clothes or say the right things or bruise the right way. I want…I w-want someone to not be so angry with me…I want someone to be gentle…when they look at me and touch me…and kiss me…”
He takes two fistfuls of my jacket and pulls, like he wants to bury himself in it. I oblige, leaning into him, gathering him against my chest because I’m not sure what else to do.
“It’s scary, wanting to kiss you,” he whispers.
“Why?” I mumble into the top of his head.
“Becauseyou’regentle.” His voice is frail and nearly incoherent against my jacket. “But you’re also fake. Is this an act, or do you mean the things you say? Are you kind because you want something, or because you’re genuinely kind? If…if it’s all a lie…”
“It’s not.” I tug him away by the sides of his head so I can peer into his eyes, my own stinging with water as well. He feels so lonely, so tired, so beaten. Seeing him like this is agonizing to me, because I get it. Maybe not to his extent, but this helplessness, this desire for such a simple thing—for someone,anyone, to just be kind…
I understand.
“It’s not a lie,” I tell him, cradling his damp face in my palms. “I promise. Let me show you.”
He deliberates for half a second before losing interest, the emotion fleeing his face as quickly as it came. His hands fall limply to the counter at his sides, and he says, “Okay.”
Suddenly, I understand why the laundry list of reasons I like him didn’t faze him. I understand why my words aren’t helping. I vividly recall the moment he winced away in my basement yesterday.
I promiseis something he’s heard before. Probably several times. I’d wager that every time someone has offered that to him, they’ve inevitably broken it.
I move in again, fingers threading through his onyx locks. Mason’s eyes slide shut and his head arches back, preparing to receive another kiss. And I want to.Desperately.But I don’t think that’s what he needs right now.
So I press my lips gently to his forehead.
Mason’s body seizes up, like I’ve electrocuted him. For a long, arduous moment, the world is still. I stay rooted there, refusing to budge, trying to pour as much warmth and comfort into him as I can. Hegives a pitifully shaky exhale as I shift my lips to the top of his head, nestling them into his hair. I think, maybe, I’ve startled him again.
He chokes on a quiet sob. His hands drag along the counter, and I wonder if he’s going to lift them to grip my wrists. To hold my palms against his face, maybe. Or to wrap his arms around my back.
I won’t ever know for sure.
Because his fingers stumble over a silver chain.
