Page 45 of Most Valuable Player
“Put it on your table so the pendant doesn’t get lost,” he continues, coaxing it closer.
I can’t move. I feel like my joints have been screwed into the bed, fastening me in place. It’s broken. I broke it. On the first night. How did I do something so fucking ridiculous? I moan and whine about how he doesn’t treat me well, and when he actually gives me a thoughtful gift, I break it? I’m pathetic, worthlesstrash.It’s just like me to fuck everything up the moment things start to go right.
“I have to fix it,” I breathe, grabbing the necklace. Maybe I can find a DIY video and pull out a hot glue gun. Maybe I can ship another chain here. Though, it’s probably real silver—I can’t afford to replace it. Would he notice if I got a fake chain? At least I didn’t lose the aquamarine—
“What’s wrong?” Cameron demands.
I don’t realize until I swivel toward him from my upright position that I’m shaking violently, tears combing down my face and melting into my flannel top. “I have to fix it,” I sob, though my fingers can barely hold fast to the jewelry. “I have to fix it before he notices or Iwon’t know what to do or say especially when it’s my fault and it’salwaysmy fault, so—”
My voice is choked away when Cameron suddenly slings his arms around me, one hand tugging my head to his shoulder. “Breathe, Mason,” he pleads. “Holy shit,breathe. I’ve got you, okay? You’re fine.”
I hear myself hyperventilating. This paired with the warmth of Cameron’s body brings me drifting back to my senses. I’m clutching him, stubbed fingers digging into the smooth skin of his spine, the aquamarine biting into my palm. I don’t remember how I got myself in this position, but I’m sitting in his lap, legs wrapped unbearably tight around his waist.
“Hey,” Cameron says, and he pokes my forehead, grinding his index finger into it. I manage to zero in on his startled-yet-earnest cerulean eyes, barely comprehending that his face is only inches away. “We’ll fix it tomorrow before we study, okay? It’s late and you’re tired and drunk. So just…”
His finger drifts down, scraping the tip of my nose, the center of my lips, the curve of my chin, the hollow of my throat, before resting lightly against my chest.
“…breathe.”
I give a pitifully shaky exhale. As my breath swirls away, so too does whatever strength I’ve been clinging to. I slump against him, legs slackening. I had him in a death hold. “Sorry,” I whisper, my tears staining his bare shoulder. “I’m a mess…Why are you even here…?”
“You asked me to stay.” Cameron’s palm grazes the small of my back, his pinkie finding a trace of skin not concealed by my flannel. His warm finger tickling my ice-cold waist nearly sends a shudder through me. “Besides, if it keeps you from contacting whoever’s making you feel this way, that’s all the more reason to stay.”
My lower lip trembles. Why is he being so understanding? Shouldn’tCameron still be partying on the beach, shoving football players around and flexing at anyone who looks his way? Why is he sitting here, holding me in his lap like I mean something?
“I like this side of you,” I whisper. “Cameron Morelli.”
I can feel his veins tighten under his skin. He doesn’t respond.
“Would you…?” I swallow with unease, curling tighter around him, shoving my face back in his neck so I won’t feel embarrassed for asking. “Would you kiss me now? I’m just…I could use a distraction, I guess.”
“You’re still drunk,” he mutters.
“I know. I just. I guess I.” I can’t complete a sentence to save my life. I shouldn’t be asking him for something like that. Isn’t it horribly selfish, considering I rejected him so callously last week? Am I not basically taunting him by requesting that? But my head is full of bad thoughts right now, and I want them to slip away. I don’t want to think about him tonight. The other him. Or the broken necklace. Or how he’ll react if he finds out.
Cameron’s index finger, which has been lingering torturously near the skin of my waist, suddenly rises under my shirt, scraping a slow, careful line up the indent of my spine. Pleasant tingles scurry across the nape of my neck.
“What shape?” he mumbles.
I blink blearily, melting further into his chest. “Huh?”
“I’m drawing a shape.”
He’s tracing patterns on my back. He’s mostly using the pad of his finger, but every so often, I can feel the curve of his nail tickling my skin. After a few moments, I whisper, “Square.”
“Right.” He starts to stroke another shape into my back. The feeling is featherlight, but with enough pressure to send goose bumps prickling across my upper arms.
“Triangle,” I guess.
“Mm-hmm.” He keeps going, leaning his head sideways against mine, which is still cozy in the scoop between his neck and shoulder. Unwillingly, I can feel consciousness sliding away from me, quiet darkness seeping into my busy thoughts.
I feel him trace one more shape into my skin before I fall completely under. I’m too far gone to say it.
It’s a heart.
JOURNAL OF MASON GRAY
IF YOU AREN’T MASON GRAY PUT THIS DOWN AND WALK AWAY, BUB!!!!
