Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.
Prereaders: _ss77_, LuvinJ, Dinx Betas: Perrymaxed, Mac214
Playlist: Secrets by One Republic, Feels Like Tonight by Daughtry, Take My Hand by Dido
Chapter 10: The Day Masen Tells Me
It's Thursday afternoon, and school's out. I'm stuck talking about an assignment with my government teacher. I need some clarification because, honestly, I wasn't listening. I've been way too distracted lately.
This week has been weird. After Masen disappeared with Tyler last Friday, I spent the weekend thinking about my life and came to the conclusion that things weren't going to work. I decided we'd just be friends. And that's fine. It's good, actually, because there's no more limbo, no feeling of 'will he or won't he?' The thing is, now that I've made the decision, he's more confusing than ever.
At lunch today he sat right next to me with a big grin on his face and stole fries off my plate. He was so happy I couldn't even be bothered to be irritated by it. Instead, I swiped one straight from his hand and ate it. Geez, did he look adorable when he registered what I'd done—all surprise, wide eyes, and playfulness. It made me wonder what the hell was going on. I mean, I knew I'd lightened up a bit since making my decision, but this was a bit much.
When he left to use the restroom, Embry shocked me by saying, "I'm glad to see you two all . . ." He wrapped his arms around himself and made kissy faces. What the hell?
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You two obviously made up. S'all good now, right?"
I paused, unable to move or speak, or even blink. Angela hit Embry upside the head and hissed something at him.
I grabbed my stuff and bolted from the cafeteria.
Really? Is that what everyone thinks? Is that what he thinks? That everything's just hunky dory now because we stole each other's fries? Well, it's not.
But . . . so, now what?
I spent the rest of my day trying to figure out the now what part. So far, not much luck.
I put away my study sheet with my notes for government, and then I head to the parking lot. Masen, Alec, and Melanie are playing hacky sack in the grass near my truck. I go straight for my door, trying to get away, but Masen jogs over. "You wanna stay and . . ." He motions to the other players.
"Nah, I'm not very good."
"Well, we're heading to The Wedge . . . Alec's driving, but . . ." Masen drifts off and shoves his hands in his pockets. He wants me to drive him over and stay to watch? I can't believe this. How did this happen to me? Why am I so stupid? And why is he so incapable of figuring this out? Is it because of his parents' influence or because he's a boy or what? Because I know he gets good grades. It can't be that he's lacking in brain cells. Then again, he did smoke pot . . . with her.
The thought of Alice makes my body tense up. The memory of her hugging Masen, legs and all, makes me livid, and I snap.
"You know what?" I say, my tone firm.
"Hmm?" he asks, all stupid and smiling.
"I can't do this anymore, Masen."
"What?"
"This . . ." I say, pointing between the two of us.
His brow furrows, and he takes a step backward, shaking his head.
"I can't—I never—you left me last week just when we were about to—"
"When?" His voice is so quiet. The area surrounding us has grown quiet too, and Alec and Melanie are staring.
"On Friday I wanted to talk to you, and you just—"
"We were done talking. You gave me your . . ." He points up to my bun. Oh, goodness. I gave him a white flag in the form of a pencil.
"I didn't mean to—look, it's fine. We'll just be friends. I just can't do this anymore. I need—"
"What?"
I look down at my Vans, see the writing, and the tears flow. I'm so tired of being angry, lonely, and mean. I can't do it anymore. I hate all those things about me.
"Bella, what?"
I can't answer him. If I do, I'll really start crying.
He moves toward me and lifts my face with both his hands. His eyes shift back and forth. "You're crying." His voice is so gentle, it hurts. I want this—him—so bad, but it won't work.
"I need more, Masen. It's just not enough."
"But—"
"I'm sorry." I pull his hands from my face and, without another word, hop in my truck and drive home, my vision blurry from tears.
Dad's home and eager to go bowling. I completely forgot I asked him to do something fun with me this week, you know, when I was moving on. My life is such a joke.
Despite my awful afternoon, we spend the evening laughing, eating greasy foods, and talking colleges. It's fun while it lasts. When I get home, there's a note attached to the front door. Since we use the garage, Dad doesn't see it, so I sneak out to get it after I'm ready for bed.
In the quiet of my room, the lights low, I open the paper. It's familiar—the color of the lines, the penmanship, the curled corner. It's from his notebook. There's a message on the top that reads, "For you – Masen." My eyes flow down the paper, revealing more of his words . . .
Aching in my delirium
"Not enough" means so much
Though I'm never enough
Thought we were enough
Together
Surrender, meek, pliant
Whatever you need . . .
I'm crying again. My limbs feel weightless, and my heart is numb. I can't hurt like this anymore. I wipe my face with my shirt as I walk to my desk, collecting my phone.
It rings once.
It rings twice.
It rings three times.
And then his mother picks up. "Is Edward coming home?" she says, in lieu of a greeting.
"I—hi, this is Bella Swan."
"I can read. Is my son coming home?"
"I don't—I . . ."
Mrs. Masen exhales in an annoyed fashion. "Tell him I need him here, okay?"
"Um, okay, I—" The dial tone goes dead. And I'm no better off than I was just minutes before. I drive to The Wedge, faking the need for a Walgreens run due to "feminine needs," but it's all for naught. He's not there; none of the guys are.
I return home, forlorn and worried, but sleep comes nonetheless. I have recurring nightmares about cutting Masen's hair. He doesn't say anything. He just watches me with his sad eyes.
Masen doesn't show up at school the following day, and no one knows where he is. It's not unusual for him to miss a day or two here and there. I've never asked him about it before, but based on the conversation with his mother last night, I have reason to worry. If your own mother doesn't know where you are . . .
The day passes, and I'm like a complete zombie by the time the final bell rings.
When I get home, Angela calls to make plans for the weekend. I don't even come up with a good excuse. All I say is, "I can't." She accepts my answer regardless. She really is a good friend.
When I emerge from the kitchen a shadow passes across my front window, and I just know it's him. I let him in but don't speak. He looks okay. I'm so relieved just to be in his presence.
"Where were you? I called you last night, and today you weren't at school."
"Stayed at a friend's. Needed time to think today."
We stand in the entryway of my living room, the cool April breeze still in the air. He looks around at my coat rack and table where we keep our newspaper and keys.
My dad waltzes into the living room, whistling, but stops in his tracks when he notices Masen. "Hey, it's the porch guy."
"I'm Masen. Sorry 'bout that," he says timidly and extends his hand to my father. Dad accepts his greeting, shaking his hand.
"We've all been there . . . when it's worth it, right?"
"Yeah." Masen shrugs. I wish he hadn't when responding to whether or not I was worth it, but I know he doesn't mean it that way. It's habit.
Dad leaves us with a "Don't stay up too late" and a stern look before retreating to his man cave—the den.
"I wanted you to see something," Masen says.
I stare at him with a blank expression. I'm just so shocked he's here.
"Can we go to your room? Or is he gonna—"
I walk away, and he follows me up the stairs. I sit on my bed, and he rummages through his backpack, pulling out his spiral notebook—the spiral notebook. He opens it up and hands it to me.
The pages are filled with notes, poems, drawings, much like my shoes, only these seem more intimate. They're his; meant for his eyes only. I flip through the book, reading slowly, deliberately, trying to see what he couldn't say before.
A kick to my head
A jolt, a spark
A smile I gave freely
Want to kiss the shoes that did it
And keep them on the curb
Dark waves
Curve of shoulder
Pale skin
Breath in my face
Sweetness everywhere
Kindness unsolicited
I look up to see Edward pursing his lips, staring at me in anticipation. It's so good to see him. I go back to reading, turning a few pages.
Fists falling
Flying
Running
Crying
Waiting
Edward!
Edward!
Edward!
My name
An echo in the stale air
Of our live-in tomb
I look at him, tears streaming down my face. He sits next to me and brushes them away with his thumbs. He peers down at the page and speaks up, finally. "I'm named after my dad. My mom screams out Edward when she's taking a beating. I never know if it's a plea to my dad to stop or a plea for me to help her. I just know I hate it. I hate the name. I hate my father. I'm not anything like him. I'm not Edward."
"No, you're not." I tilt my head, waiting for him to say something else. He doesn't, so I continue reading.
Beauty
Truth
Freeing words
No questions
Getting me
Knowing me
Just by my eyes
Does she see?
Really?
Does she see?
"I see you. I know you, Masen, I do. I just wish you'd tell me how you're feeling sometimes. I'm a good listener."
"I'm afraid." His eyes are soft, remorseful.
"Don't be."
"I've been hurt a lot."
"Not by me."
"No, not by you. Never by you."
He scoots closer to me, his arm brushing mine, and reads over my shoulder.
"Hands in my hair
Hands on her hips
Want her in the shower
Panting my name"
"That's true," he adds quietly, shrugging. The shrugging is not so bad this time, and I quite like his blasé attitude about this. My mood completely shifts now that he's here beside me like this. I smile coyly, and he smirks in return. We've always flirted without complication. Why can't we talk just as easily? It would make everything right. He reads more.
"Leaves of green, green
Laughing
Loving
Living
Why can't it be?"
"There's so many questions I want to ask."
"I know."
"But I don't ever do it because I just think you don't want me to."
"I didn't."
"Didn't? But now?"
"Ask."
"Do you want an apple when you're done?" I say, attempting to lighten the mood with my lame joke.
"Sure. I'm always hungry. There's never food in my house."
I frown. His life is so messed up. I regret not giving him something more than a Clif Bar each day. At least it's packed with protein.
"Who's Alice?" I ask, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. I cannot ruin this. This is our chance.
"I—Bella, I'm so sorry about that. I didn't even—I just assumed—she was so mad at me . . ." He didn't answer my question. I really want to tell him how upsetting it was to see her with him, how livid it made me that he laughed with her and let her touch him and everything else, but I don't. Instead, I sit, silently waiting for a response. Masen drags a hand over his hair and lets out a puff of air. "She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember."
I nod mechanically. How could I have ever thought anything else? I know Masen; he would never do such a thing to me. Why did I ever second guess what I knew about him? The last few weeks seem so silly to me now. "I—look, you're being so . . . and I'm just sitting here listening or whatever, but I'm really sorry too."
Masen's shoulders rise with his inhale, and he brushes his lips with his fingertips, thinking over my words.
"I was really mad, like, really mad. I thought you two were together, and I just—I was so friggin' jealous. I didn't know what to do. I got a little mean, and . . . I'm sorry." I chew my lip, waiting for his response.
He tilts his head to the side and runs his hand over my arm. That's good enough for me.
I turn a few pages and request he read another poem.
"I wish
I want
I need to be
But I'm not
And she is"
"I am what?"
"You're Bella. You're sweet and innocent and pure and just—"
"I'm not," I say, shaking my head.
"When you grow up the way that I have, you see things that—know things that . . . trust me—you're innocent and pure compared to me."
"Does that matter?"
"It does to me."
"Why?"
"I don't want to corrupt you."
"Well, what if I corrupt you?"
"How?"
"With my innocence and purity and pretty, bright white halo. I'll cleanse it all away, like a baptism or something."
Masen narrows his eyes, clearly not enjoying my sarcasm, but I mean it. Why can't I corrupt him for the better?
He looks around the room, taking in our surroundings. I realize it's the first time he's been in here. His features soften when his eyes settle on mine, and in a quiet voice he asks, "Do you think you can?"
"I want to try. I deserve a chance."
"Why do you even want me?"
"Because I love you."
Masen freezes and shifts his eyes back and forth over my own. He's scared, I can tell, but figuring things out, assessing the situation. He leans forward and presses his lips to mine. Our kiss is slow, fluid, and full of possibility. When we pull away, he whispers against my lips, "I do too. Love you." He kisses me again, his hands cupping my face, thumbs stroking my skin. The intensity of his kiss makes me lightheaded, so I pull away, needing a break but not really wanting one.
He turns the pages until he gets to the end, reading poem after poem, recounting his ache, his pain while being away from me, feeling so penitent and wanting to apologize, to move on, but unable to say what he wanted. It's heartbreaking.
When he's finished, he stands, walking to my open closet and picking up my Vans. "Did you read them?"
"Every day."
"Did you like it?"
"I loved it. I love it still. Thank you."
He nods and drops the shoes, walking my way again. Before he can get to me, I drop to my knees in front of him. He lowers his gaze and swallows thickly.
With my eyes on his, I pull a pen from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. I lean down, and he exhales heavily. I maneuver from my kneeling position and lay down on the floor, placing my hand on his shoe. He curses under his breath, and I giggle at his earlier assumption. I'm not that easy.
He waits patiently while I write on some of the checkers that decorate his shoe. When I'm finished, he looks down at me, then his footwear, then me again with a gorgeous smile on his face.
"I think you missed one," he says. I've covered some white checkered squares with my name. It just seemed right.
"I'll finish at school or The Wedge or wherever. One at a time."
"Sounds good."
An hour later we're lying side by side on my bed, talking more openly than we ever have. Masen is still reserved, and his answers are short, but he's truthful. I love this side of him. He's vulnerable and trusting. It's enough. He's enough.
I come to find out that Alice is a friend of his family's. When he was eight, his mother was beaten so badly that his aunt and uncle took him in for a while. Alice was their neighbor. He played with his cousins and Alice daily. He visits them every summer and always remained friends with her. He can be honest with her, trust her. He knew her before the sound of his own name became blasphemous.
Alice is his confidante. They email frequently and talk about me on the phone. I never knew I was worthy of being brought up in Masen's conversations, but it seems I am. Then, again, I never knew Masen had conversations.
"Until I met you, Alice was really the only person I talked to. She kept me sane. She—she understands me in a way that—I don't know, she just—"
"No, I get it. She's present. Sort of there for you, even when she's not. I've had friends like that. They're the best kind."
"Yeah, I agree. Only . . . I wouldn't say she's the best kind of friend. I—I kind of like you the best." My stomach drops out in the best way possible. I pinch my lips with my fingers, trying not to grin like an idiot. I know I'm going to fail, so I roll onto my stomach and press my face into my pillow. This is unbelievable.
Masen tugs at my hair, but all I can do is sort of squeak into my pillow. He shifts, the weight of his body moving me slightly in his direction. He settles himself beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. His hand runs over the top of my head, smoothing my hair. I turn my head to peek at him with one eye. He lowers himself beside me, keeping his hand on my head. Our faces are inches apart.
"Why are you hiding?" he whispers, voice shaky.
"I'm not hiding."
He stares at my mouth, then my eyes. "You are."
"You're making me all . . . stupid," I say, not even able to keep a straight face. He laughs at my choice of words, his eyes smiling along with his mouth. "I just can't believe you're—I mean, you're in my room, talking to me. Masen's talking to me."
"I've always talked to you. Just not always—you know . . . out loud." He shrugs, and I shake my head, laughing into my pillow again. "What?" he asks, giggling with me.
"You're really adorable sometimes."
He wrinkles his nose in disagreement. "Am not."
I sit and poke him in the chest. "Yeah, you are."
He hums noncommittally.
"Yeah," I say again, not knowing how else to convince him.
"Yeah?" he whispers, propping himself onto an elbow. I nod. "Well, you're Bella, so . . ."
"So . . ." I prompt, curious to know what he'll say, but I soon forget because Masen's hand is on my thigh. He smoothes his thumb over the top of it before gripping and tugging. I maneuver closer, his fingers stroking the backside of my leg until it's draped over his hip. His other hand slides into my hair, and he pulls me in for a torturously slow and deep kiss. Our hands roam each other's bodies innocently, enjoying their new freedom. We lose a bit of precious conversation time, but it doesn't matter because I've been dying to kiss him like this for so long. Besides, I know now that Masen can be more forthcoming, so our conversations won't take as long as they used to, at least I hope not.
Eventually, we sit side by side, so we're not too distracted by each other's closeness. It also helps that Dad's in the kitchen making a ruckus to remind us that we're not alone.
Masen plays with my fingers as he tells me more about his childhood. His father lost his job and took to drinking to deal with the stress and depression. He never let up, even after he obtained new employment. By then his mother was drinking to deal with the beatings, which only managed to make it worse.
I lean in and kiss him sweetly. He deserves so much tenderness, and I hope to deliver it in spades.
"Bella, I need to tell you something."
"Hmm?"
"I—one of the reasons I was so hesitant about us, about this—I'm leaving. Right after graduation. I'm out of here." He closes his eyes for a moment, clearly worried about the effect his words will have on me.
"Where are you going?"
"Tustin, California. Alice lives with my cousin, Jasper. They have a house—uh—two bedroom. They want me to stay with them. Jasper—he—he knows a guy who owns a skate shop. He's looking for performers. They wanna set up exhibitions in order to amp up business."
"That sounds great."
"Are you okay with that?" He looks down at our linked hands and turns them over, examining them.
"It's a great opportunity."
"Yeah, but—"
"We'll be what we can be . . . until we can't be." Please, let us be, even if just for a moment.
If only we didn't have to deal with parents or school or responsibilities. If only it was just Masen and me, together. But that's a fantasy, and I live in the real world—one that is simultaneously beautiful and tragic, just like Masen.
"I thought I was the poet." His sea green eyes are on mine, a small smile adorning his face.
"You are." I pull my hand from his, so I can scoot back on the bed. He follows me, his head landing next to mine on the pillow. He looks so great there—next to me, on my bed.
We lay in silence, occasionally kissing each other between brief staring matches. I like looking into his eyes. I can see the real Masen—the one he hides from everyone else.
All of our lazing about makes it feel like Sunday or something, only better, much better, because now Masen has become mine. For now, anyway. I just hope I can let him go when the time comes.
A/N: Masen Days Extras are available on my blog: purelyamuse dot blogspot dot com. Teasers, visuals, and peeks into Masen's notebook will be posted weekly (Wednesdays) as a follow-up or sneak peek of a chapter. You can sign up for email updates or follow the blog. Enjoy!
A quick thanks to Modernsafari1 for prereading this chapter. Also thank you to my Twitter peeps for indulging my Masen binges. It keeps me sane.
My prereaders and betas totally get me. They're all so different, but each one does a little something different for me. I need them all and adore them. A special thanks to Perry Maxwell (who's writing Unrequited) for keeping me from falling on my face this week with this chapter. Much love to ya, babe!