Page 75 of Most Valuable Player
Mason
It’s the only way I could think to convey the bulk of the story without going into a convoluted ten-hour ramble about everything. It’s hard for me to even think about it without wanting to self-detonate. Let alone explain it aloud.
I hug my knees, wishing the heat of his car would penetrate my skin. Our seats are drenched—I hope it won’t ruin his interior. The beach and lake are devoid of people, the sand soaked and the rain bouncing off the waves. Cameron’s chest puffs up with a deep, silent breath, and he arches his neck against the headrest, gazing at the ceiling. His face has been surprisingly neutral, considering how expressive he usually is.
“Something happened.” He tilts his face sideways to observe me with calm eyes. “He crossed the line and you broke your engagement. Is that it?”
Ah. It’s only natural he’d ask. I’ve long since stopped being emotional about it, but my stomach still plunges with nausea.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Cameron tacks on, but I shake my head.
“It’s fine. You know the rest, so there’s no point in hiding it.” His right palm rests on the compartment between us, and I scoop it up to give myself something to focus on, fiddling with his fingers. He’s chilly, too, after our time in the rain, though still warmer than me. “It was alittle over six months ago. One night, we were at his parents’ place, drinking and watching movies. And drinking. And drinking.”
The hazy blur of lights from their theater room swirls before me. I don’t remember which film we were on—only the sensation of his hand on my knee.
“He kept pouring me liquor,” I mumble, sifting between his soft knuckles like I’m looking for something. “We’d just gotten into an argument about something. He was mad. It’s all I can remember thinking about.”
Cameron’s hand tenses. Slowly, his fingers curl in around mine, squeezing.
“I…uh. Woke up in bed.” I clear through the bothersome hitch in my throat. “I was wearing my clothes from the previous night. But something was off. It was like my body knew something my mind didn’t.”
I don’t know why the words want to evade me now. Why my voice quiets, like it’s new, terrifying information I haven’t thought about every single day since it happened.
“Liam walked into the room from his shower. He didn’t realize I was awake,” I whisper. “He came to grab a shirt. I saw his body. There were…scratch marks. It was like…”
I fall silent, unable to push through the words. I can still see it. Feel it. The weakness of my limbs and tenderness of my bones, the ache in my head from blacking out. The flash of apprehension in his eyes when he noticed I was awake. The way I had to pretend not to notice anything, like I was fine and this was fine and everything was fine, because what would he do if he knew that I knew what he did?
“I didn’t say anything for a few days,” I say quietly. “But I kept thinking about it. I would lie in bed and get this uncomfortable feeling,wondering if he’d come through the door. The thought of him…scared me.”
I pause, tracing the valleys between Cameron’s fingers again because I don’t know what else to focus on.
“I felt like I was good at knowing what might trigger him. He was a threat, but an anticipated one. I knew what he’d do when he was angry and what hewouldn’tdo. But the way that night happened…how he kept making me drinks after our argument, even though he knew I couldn’t handle that much…I mean, I guess it’s partially my fault too for continuing to drink—”
“It’s not,” Cameron says sharply. It’s the first time he’s spoken in the last couple of minutes, and it startles my head up. “He’s the adult. He knew what he was doing. It’s not your fault, Mason.”
I can’t help but wince from those words, how straightforward and brutal they feel. I’m sure they’re right. Even if they don’t feel right.
“Anyway,” I whisper. Moving on, because I don’t have the strength to deliberate my own innocence right now. “The point is that his anger wasn’tin the moment. It was calculated. That was when I realized for the first time that I needed space. I broke things off because all I could think about was…”
My eyes are moistening again. I can still feel the way my body protested movement. I can still feel chunks of his skin dislodging from under my nails as I washed my hands, blood staining my fingertips because he forgot to rinse that part of me off. The thick, pungent tension as I lingered in his house the following morning, pretending like I didn’t want to scream as panic swallowed me whole, trying to find a casual excuse to leave that wouldn’t make him suspicious.
Because if he could do something like that, what else was he capable of?
I feel like the breath is being choked from my lungs, so I kick thedoor open and sputter out, “Fresh air,” then stumble into the rain I’ve been trying to dry myself from for several minutes. My flannel clothes immediately become drenched again, my hair flattening and icy coldness plunging deeper into my veins. I stumble down the slope leading toward the soggy beach and kick up wet, muddy sand, allowing the grains to sneak into my tennis shoes and scratch my feet. It’s a miserable feeling, yet I deserve it.
Because Imisshim.
The warmth of my tears coagulates with the frigid water pummeling my head. It’s pathetic. How can I miss someone who hurt me so much? As time passes, and I’ve learned what it means to be alone, I’m realizing how difficult it is to not have someone there. Someone who makes you their priority. Someone who choosesyouabove all else.
And Liam did. Despite his flaws, he chose me, showed up for me, listened to me, cared for me. I relied on him when things were difficult. Beingwantedfeels good, even when it straddles the fine line between love and possessiveness.
It’s why I’ll go back to him.
All he has to do is keep pushing. Does it matter if he hasn’t changed? What’s a little pain if it means being with someone who will always pick me at the end of the day? Maybe I’ll be afraid, but I’ll be secure. What awaits me after high school is a sprawling house, free time to indulge in hobbies, arms snug around me at night. Even if his love is unstable or poisonous or covetous sometimes, it’s still love, isn’t it?
Things are always better more often than they’re worse.
I clung to that line from my journal. When I was on the ground, my cheekbone throbbing. When he left to go back to college, and the tension leaving my body was so overwhelming that my knees collapsed. When he would lock the doors the moment we were back in his car, and I knew I was in trouble.
