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: Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional, Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute and Lady Antebellum

Chapter 12: The Day Masen Confides in Me

This month proves much better than the previous two. While February and March were filled with tension and drama, April is filled with levity and love, and it's about frigging time.

Masen and I have been official for two weeks and only public for one. We expected an onslaught of questions regarding our relationship, but it wasn't too brutal. Angela caught up with me on my way to class a few hours after we kissed the first time in public and said, "I'm coming over after school today," and I didn't argue.

I folded my laundry while she sat on my bed, staring.

"So . . ."

"We've been together for a week."

Angela popped up on her knees, shrieking. "A week!"

I laughed as I put away a pair of shorts. "Yes. And the thing is . . . we have so little time. I just wanted it to be us for awhile, you know."

Her smile turned to a frown, and she asked, "What do you mean 'so little time?'"

"Masen's moving to California after we graduate."

"Oh my Gawd."

I sat beside her on the bed, my folded shirt forgotten, wadded in my lap. "It's—I try not to think about it, but it's always there."

"What are you gonna do? Has he asked—I mean, are you going with him? Please tell me you're going with him. Masen has never been this happy. I mean, never. And he sure as hell can't stay here if there are better opportunities for him there."

"I know," I said, flopping onto my back and covering my face with my shirt. "This sucks."

"Okay, well, you've already got accepted to schools, right? ASU and U of A?"

"Yeah, but I wasn't even sure if I was going to do that because money is tight. My mom's a teacher; no money there. And Dad's air conditioning and heating business pays the bills, but we don't have tons of cash. I was hoping to get local scholarships and grants . . . I don't know. Everything's up in the air."

"Have you thought about California schools?"

"Of course. I Googled a few, but there's just—it's so expensive. And my dad's not going to give me his blessing and send me off to live with my boyfriend. I don't know if he'd help me at all. And it's not like Masen's parents will help."

"So? So you'll live in a roach infested hovel, eating ramen, and your plumbing will suck. But you'll be together."

"I think—I could do that. Maybe . . . I don't know. I'm just—"

"It's terrifying, I know. My mom and I are so close. I can't imagine going anywhere without her. I really depend on her, but you bet your ass if Embry decided to go to a college in Timbuktu, I'd say, 'Let's go.'"

"I wish I was as sure as you."

"You might not be now, but maybe with time . . ."

"We don't have a lot of that."

"You'll figure it out." She dragged my basket over, and we folded my clothes together quietly. "Do you love him?"

I tried not to smile but failed miserably. I nodded.

"How can you not, right? He's so adorable."

"He is, isn't he?" We giggled and forgot the clothes again. It felt good to talk this out with her. I've needed this.

"Do you think you'll . . ." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Who says we haven't?"

The look of surprise on her face almost trumped her shout of "Slut!"

"I'm kidding. And I don't know. We haven't talked about it."

"Is he a good kisser?"

"To quote you . . . oh my Gawd."

"Yay!" She bounced a bit on the bed as she cheered for my good fortune. "Well, there are two options. One, keep it tasteful and loving and part without consummating. No mess to clean up when he leaves . . . except for your shattered heart. Or two—which is so much better—you could screw like rabbits starting now, and don't stop until he leaves. In fact, I'll go home; let's call him now." Angela hopped off the bed and grabbed my cell from the dresser, dialing his number. I wrestled her down onto the floor and snatched it out of her hands. I was on top of her, straddling her waist, my hands holding hers down.

"Do you have a camera? The boys would love this!"

I just adore her. She left with a hug and a soft smile. It's so great to sort through some of my feelings with her. Our talk really got me thinking about living in the moment and enjoying every second.

I pulled out some paper and made a calendar, marking the day Masen and I first got together and the day we'll graduate. I posted it on my corkboard.

On the one hand, I'm glad I made it because it helps me to live each day with Masen to the fullest, but, on the other hand, it also reminds me just how little time we have—eight weeks. And it's already been two. Our time is running out, but we try not to let that get us down. We don't talk about it. Instead, we talk about everything else and just enjoy each other.

At school we hold hands in the halls and sneak kisses at lockers. Just as I suspected, the elementary skin-to-skin contact throughout the day helps to keep my raging hormones in check. I no longer want to fondle Masen every minute of every day, so that's progress. At least, a little bit.

In addition to basic—and tasteful—PDA, he pushes me around school on his skateboard when the teachers aren't looking. It makes me feel cherished, like I'm skater royalty or something. Essentially, we're happy, but in the back of my mind I know we have an expiration date. So in order to make the most of our time together, we ditch class regularly.

My dad is not happy when he gets a phone call from the school regarding my absenteeism and drags me into the living room for a father/daughter talk. I'm already dreading it and hope I can keep my inner-brat from emerging full force. The sooner we're done, the sooner I can meet up with Masen and do something fun.

"Why aren't you going to class? They say you missed two classes this week and one the week prior."

"Senioritis," I say, shrugging. I guess I picked up one of Masen's nuances. Oh well.

"Not good enough. And also a lie. I know for a fact you've been hanging out with that porch guy. He was here that one night, and I saw him skateboarding the other day. He looked all . . . happy." My dad uses air quotes, and I struggle not to laugh. He actually looks disappointed at Masen's newfound bliss, and I couldn't be more pleased since I'm the one who put his smile—or whatever led my dad to believe he was happy—there. That's so cool.

Dad and I have a showdown of wills. I'm not going to say anything in response to that and incriminate myself. Your honor, I plead the fifth.

I'm not backing down. He knows I won't, so he goes all interrogator on me and starts with the questions.

"Are you dating this porch guy?"

"Masen."

"Whatever."

"Define dating."

He gives me his no-nonsense glare.

"Yes, he's my boyfriend, but there's no need to freak out because it's only temporary—he's moving to California after we graduate. I'm not too happy about that, but I'll deal with it when the time comes. I'd appreciate it if you'd cut me some slack, so that I can enjoy my time with him while he's still here."

"He's moving?" Dad's voice is a bit softer than I expect it to be. "That's—well, that's just—what a bummer, kiddo."

"Yeah," I say and smile inwardly, wishing Masen could be here to nudge me or wink or do something playful with that yeah.

"Well, you need to go to class. I understand you want to spend time with your, uh, porch guy, so bring him around, I guess. I trust you here. Here, of course, meaning when I'm here, Bella, to supervise." Again, he uses air quotes. Is he insinuating that he won't supervise us? That doesn't work. My dad is so old and foolish. "He's not to be in this house with you alone, PBJ time included. Got that?"

I salute like a brat and walk away to his repeated "Got that?" aimed at my back.

"Yes, Dad. I got it."

The following day I invite Masen over after school. I'm in direct violation of my dad's rules as he's at work, but I need to give Masen some time to adjust. I want him to feel safe in my home before throwing him over to my father for questioning or whatever. After all, the first time Masen knew my dad was coming home, he bolted. Then when he met my dad, he did so out of obligation. I figure trying to make him feel more comfortable here is the right thing to do.

I realize how correct I am—Masen's kind of jittery after I tell him about the conversation with Dad. I calm him by sitting close and running my hands over his fuzzy, growing out hair. It's just starting to curl a bit at the ends. It looks pretty cute.

When he's relaxed, he starts talking. I'm still trying to get used to his openness. I like it, but it's startling at times.

"My mom . . . she—she knows I'm leaving." I wait for him to continue, fiddling with a patch of hair that's sticking up on his head. "Alice has been calling a lot lately, trying to make plans . . . you know . . . stuff for later. Mom overheard some things, and she's been a mess about it."

"I feel for your mom—she's losing you. That'll be hard on all of us, but that was kind of sloppy of Alice. She should know better. That stuff can get you in trouble." I respect his relationship with Alice, but I'm not sure I'll ever understand it.

"It's fine." I hate when he says that; it's not fine. "You would actually like Alice if you got to know her. You know . . . Alice screamed and yelled at me after—well, and during—Alec's party. And the entire week after. Used shouty caps in email too."

"Is that why you decided to give this a try? You never really said what changed your mind about us." I pull my hand from his hair and rest it on his shoulder.

"No, I was going to give up on staying away from you, anyway, but I would've waited a bit, and . . . seeing you cry at school sorta did me in. I realized that I—I never wanted to see you that way again." He shrugs, his right shoulder moving under my hand. "She wasn't happy that I made you upset at all . . . and neither was I. She threatened me, told me I couldn't live with her if I screwed this up. I never told you, but she went home the night of the party 'cause she was so mad. She couldn't believe you didn't know who she was. I guess it was pretty dumb . . . keeping her a secret from you, but most everything was a secret then."

"Pretty dumb," I say, nodding. I wish Alice and I had met under different circumstances. But we can't take back our first impressions. It's kind of sad, really. I would've liked to talk with her about Masen. I never will now. My image of her is tainted. Plus, I'll probably never even see her again.

"My other cousin, Rosalie . . . she doesn't want me to move to Tustin." Masen turns his head and looks directly at me. It's hard to concentrate when he does that. His eyes say so much, even if he doesn't. He's hurt by this.

"Why's that?" I manage to get out.

"She's really mad at me. Last summer I—I promised her I'd stay, and I didn't."

"That would be really hard." I know I would be devastated if he promised me he'd stay and then left anyway. I don't blame Rosalie for being upset.

"Her boyfriend hates me."

"He doesn't hate you; he's just trying to protect her."

"Mmm."

We sit in companionable silence for a minute. I relish the fact that he's confided in me today. I never expected him to be this forthcoming—ever.

The silence stretches. I think he's done talking, but he surprises me by continuing our earlier conversation. It seems I've accomplished my goal, and he does feel comfortable in my home. I hope it continues when my dad's here too. I really want them to get along.

"A few days after I promised Rosalie, my mom called. She was crying and started begging. Said she missed me and needed me home, that she'd—she'd die if I didn't come back. It's almost as if . . . like she knew I was planning on staying." He shakes his head, looks down at our hands, and runs his thumb along the inside of my wrist.

My heart breaks for Masen and his mother. She might not make the best decisions when it comes to her son, but she's still a victim. I wish there was a way they could both come out of this situation on top. Unless his mother gives up drinking, I don't think that'll happen.

"I just—she's my mom. I love her. She was great before she started drinking. Used to play board games with me all the time, sing to me, and make me snacks. I just can't forget that. I felt like I owed her."

"By getting hit in her place?" My words are quiet, but my question is bold—one I've been dying to discuss too. I'm worried he won't answer, or worse, withdraw. He surprises me again.

"My dad—he's—he's huge. If she were to—and I wasn't there to defend her or get in the way—I don't think I'd ever forgive myself. At least, that's what I felt at the time."

"And now?"

"Now? I dunno. It just feels like—if I don't go now, I'll die here . . . fighting." He gets this far away look in his eyes, like he's reliving the moment he decided to leave, when it all became so clear to him. He shakes his head and smiles. "I deserve more than that, I think."

I smile back. "So much more than that."

His grin widens, and he pulls me into his lap, running his nose along the length of my neck. "You smell good," he says, words muffled by my skin.

"Thank you," I say. We sit quietly for a moment, his hand finding my bare back and sweeping under my shirt. I shiver at the contact, losing concentration, but manage to continue talking. "I don't mean to sound cruel, but I hope you don't waste time worrying about her. When you go, I mean."

"Won't have time for that; I'll be spending all my time missing you." His words are so sweet and make me want to cling to him and beg him to stay, but he has to get out of here. He just has to. He will be so much better off with family that will actually take care of him for a change.

"For what it's worth," I say and adjust myself to fully straddle his hips, "I'm glad you came back to Scottsdale." I kiss him lazily and then feel his smile against my neck.

He runs his hands up the length of my back and hooks them over my shoulders, pulling softly, exposing my neck. His tongue is smooth on my skin as it swirls up to my ear where he whispers, "Yeah, me too."

"I know it's early, but are you hungry?" I ask, my voice shaky and quiet due to my body's inability to speak and get kissed by Masen at the same time.

"Always," he says, punctuating his words with a bite to my neck. Oh, boy. Biting turns to sucking, and I'm two seconds away from ripping his shirt off and doing whatever I want when he stands up. I'm giggling as Masen carries me—my legs clutching his waist, my arms wrapped around his neck—toward the kitchen. He sets me atop the island and pats my hips. "What's to eat?" His grin is contagious, making me smile like a fool even when he turns his back and rummages through the refrigerator.

He pulls out chicken and vegetables, and I hop off the counter to help. I gather spices and sauces and put some water on for rice. He dices; I season. He cooks; I taste. We work so well together as we make our impromptu stir-fry.

"Why do you think people bother with white rice?" he asks, dishing some brown rice into my bowl. "More?"

I nod, and he gives me another scoop. "I dunno. It's got no flavor."

"There's nothing to it. Bland and boring and pasty. Not much nutritional value either." He scowls at my bowl as if it were full of white rice.

"You've thought a lot about this," I tease, grabbing forks before we sit down at the island.

"I just know about protein. Brown rice is more filling, better for you."

"My old neighbor—at my mom's—was pregnant and obsessed with getting enough protein. She got me hooked on Clif Bars. So, uh, is there something I should know about? You pregnant?"

Masen shakes his head and holds his hands up, telling me no. We eat in silence for a moment. He gives me one of his mushrooms when I search my bowl and discover I'm out. Could he be any more thoughtful? I wonder what I could do to make it up to him, and my mind goes astray, imagining him shirtless in my room. He interrupts my fantasy saying, "My aunt taught me about it—protein and cooking and whatever. Every summer she was freaked out by how thin I was. Wanted to make sure I knew how to feed myself the best, I guess."

"That's smart."

"Yeah," he says and looks to me immediately, our eyes locking, smiles involuntary.

We finish dinner while talking about our families. I recall some ridiculous tales about my mother, and he tells me more about his extended family in California. They sound like a really put together family. I wish I could meet all of Masen's family. Maybe someday I will. I could figure out a way to visit . . . someday.

Masen notices I'm in my he's-leaving-me funk and kisses it away. Unfortunately, or fortunately, he also kisses away many of our inhibitions. Before we know it, the dishes are forgotten, and we're upstairs in my room making out.

His shirt is crumpled on my floor, and I straddle his hips for the second time that day. My hands rove over the plane of his chest, and I realize it's the first time since I cut his hair that I've seen him shirtless. The natural lighting in here is so much better than in the bathroom. As a result, I can really see his skin, his imperfections—his scars.

My surge of hormones subsides and instead of groping him, I run my fingers delicately over each one. Masen sighs beneath me, chest falling with his exhale. He closes his eyes and relaxes his head to the side. I trace the raised bumps and old injuries, and when I'm through, I lower myself and press my lips to the marks of violence on his skin. Masen's quiet beneath me, but he flinches and tenses from time to time. Eventually he brings his hands up to rest on my hips—maybe to remind himself that it's me touching him, and he's safe. I finish with a slow and delicate kiss to his lips, and a barely audible, "I love you."

With that, Masen flips me over and takes control, moving me where he wants me, all the while kissing me deeply. No words are spoken; none are needed.

I wonder what it was like for him to go without a gentle touch for so long. I'm so grateful he's giving me the chance to caress him this way, to make him feel good, even if it's just kissing.

The sun sets—and he needs to go—but I can't seem to give him one goodbye kiss. One turns into two, which turns into us sitting on my porch steps with my hands wrapped around his shoulders, making his departure difficult.

He's telling me he needs to go, but I'm being foolish. Hell, I'm being a teenager and enjoying my carelessness. I like being Masen's girlfriend.

-MD-

Masen shows up to school, and his cheek is swollen with a swirly bruise of mottled green and purple on it. I vow to never make him late again. I can't bear to think that he was struck because of me. I kiss his bruise better, and he smiles, assuring me it's fine. It's not fine. Not at all.

I'm in a foul mood all day, and my moroseness carries over at The Wedge. Angela notices and elbows me hard in the ribs. "Hey!" I bellow. "That hurts."

"Yeah, well, watching you blame yourself hurts."

We don't say anything else, but a moment of understanding passes between us. I wonder how long she's known about Masen's home life.

I decide to be happier for his sake, so when he suggests we hang out at the golf course I agree with enthusiasm and even attempt to propel the skateboard there myself instead of having him push me. That doesn't go so well, but I do get to grab onto Masen's chest when I fall. It's fun.

We lay under our tree, his head on my stomach, his hand wrapped around mine. It's perfect.

"Why a pencil?" he muses out of the blue.

"What?" He twists my hair around his finger, his question suddenly making sense. "Oh, my mom is kinda, erm, flighty, and she always lost all of our hair ties and things, and I just had to get creative. There's almost always something long and thin you can shove in your hair. It just became a habit, but I do it a lot more here because of the heat. Everyday I think, I'm leaving it down today or I'll fix it today, but it somehow always ends up in a bun."

"I love it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says and purses his lips so I'll kiss him. Of course I do. It's a good one too.

"Tell me about that." Hearing him talk—actually discuss something—is my favorite pastime now.

"Um, well, your hair smells good, so when you whip it around, it's like it just permeates the air, and yeah . . . I like it."

"What else?" He's in a great mood. I usually don't push for more, but today I think I can get away with it.

He sits up, captures my other hand and entwines our fingers on his lap. Our eyes focus on our finger play while he talks. "When you slide out your pencil or pen or whatever, your hair falls around your shoulders, and it makes me think of what it'll be like when we . . . you sure you want to hear this?" He dips his head low, smiling shyly. Of course I want to hear this, so I nod.

"Well, I think about you and me . . . under this tree, and I imagine you beneath me, your hair wild and pencil free. It's usually the last thing I think about before I go to bed."

"Me too," I admit.

He sputters, "W—what?"

"You don't think I imagine us that way together?"

"I don't know what you imagine." His tone is so surprised, as if I haven't been doing my damnedest to kiss him every second since we've been together. He has to know I want him. Doesn't he?

"Yes, you do." I place my hands on his pecs and straddle his hips before pressing him down onto the damp earth.

"I do?" His voice is higher than normal, but his eyes show me how excited he is by my words.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Of course." I lower myself over him and lick his earlobe, grazing it with my teeth. He smoothes his hands over my back, then rests them on my hips. We kiss for a few minutes, enjoying our new position.

When I pull away, he takes a moment to whisper, "You were supposed to say yeah."

I fall asleep shortly after that and wake to find Masen's backpack under my head. He's sitting cross-legged with his notebook in his lap, drawing or writing something swoon-worthy, no doubt. I kneel behind him, wrapping my arms around his neck and give his cheek a peck.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were tired. It's fine."

"This is nice," I say, pointing to his notebook. He's drawing a siren with a long, intricately decorated tail. It's beautiful. He pats my hand in thanks. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer."

"Yeah." He doesn't look up, just continues his work.

"Did you and Samantha ever . . ."

Masen jolts his head to the side, his eyes fixed on mine. Well, that got his attention.

"You know about her?"

"Angela."

He frowns, and I wait patiently for him to respond. I want to ask so many questions, it's ridiculous.

"Were you in love with her?"

"No," he says quickly, then goes back to his siren.

"So, did you . . . make love to her?"

"You can't make love to someone you're not in love with."

"And you can't avoid the question forever, unless you just don't want to answer it. That's fine too. I can be patient."

"I know. I love that." Masen finishes up his sketch and sets down his notebook. He lies down on his belly, and I follow. He picks at the lawn.

He stares at a long blade of grass in his hand and tears it in half before speaking. "Yes, we had sex. She insisted on it. She insisted on a lot of things. She was a very insistent person."

"Sounds—"

"Annoying," Masen finishes, and we both laugh. "What about you?"

"I'm not annoying. I'm lovable," I joke, and he knocks my feet with his, silly grin adorning his face. "I had a boyfriend for about six months junior year. He took me to prom, which I didn't even want to go to. Anyway . . . we didn't really dance, but we had a hotel room." I wiggle my eyebrows, punctuating my words.

Masen's brow furrows, and he gnaws on his lower lip. "What was his name?"

"He's not dead. His name is Nick."

"Don't like him." He shakes his head in disgust. He's so freaking adorable.

"Didn't expect you to."

Masen rolls onto his back and plays with the ends of my hair. "Do you think before I leave we'll . . . that we might . . ."

"Share an apple?"

"Yeah, exactly," he says, tugging on my hair playfully, drawing me down to him and into a brief kiss.

"I'd love to share an apple with you."

"Yeah?" His eyes light up with excitement.

"Yeah, maybe even two or three or . . ."

He pushes his tongue into my mouth and pulls me on top of him, and I forget what I'm saying. It doesn't matter, though, because he's grabbing at my shirt and asking permission for something . . . I'm not sure what. All I know is I say yeah as many times as I can, making sure there's no communication problems.

On our journey home from the golf course, we're silent, though we keep glancing at one another and smiling like love-sick fools. Generally speaking I'm opposed to love-sick fools but not today. Today they're at the top of my I-love-you list.

He walks me to my door and peppers my face with lingering kisses intermingled with occasional apples and yeahs that leave me breathless and fill my dreams with more Masen—much, much more Masen.

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!

Readers - reviewing and non-reviewing, tweeting and non-tweeting, blog reading and non-blog reading - you are so fun. You make me laugh constantly. I'm so happy that I get to share this story with you, and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

My prereaders and betas are so hard working. They've been through the outtake, chapter 12, and Her Name is Bella this week and are still talking to me. I know! I never say enough about Dinx, she proofs this stuff at the last minute before I post. She catches all of those double spaces and missed articles that slip by everyone else. She always leaves me Masen love in my email too. She's awesome. They're all awesome. Without them this story would be full of crumb buckets. Ignore me, I had a long week. Have a happy Masenday!