Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.
Prereader: _ss77_, Dinx Betas: Perrymaxed, Mac214
Playlist: She is Love by Parachute, Find a Way by SafetySuit
Chapter 14 The Day Masen Begs
With Masen's impending departure just four weeks away, we spend as much time together as possible. Most of our free hours are spent under our tree at the golf course. It's kind of become our spot. We like it there. We also like to fool around there too.
Late one evening we're caught up in each other on the green. His finger trails circles on my belly as we talk. It's hard to be coherent when he's touching me, but I'm doing my best.
"I really want you to meet him—really get to know him," I say, drawing in a breath when he lifts my shirt, and his lips replace his finger.
"I will."
"When?"
"Don't know."
"He still calls you porch guy."
Masen drops his head, and the feel of his giggle makes me squirm.
"It's not funny. I want him to know you. Now he just sees you as someone trying to defile me. I want him to like you. "
"Like me? I'm just a skater. He won't."
"He would if he could see how we are together."
"How's that?" he asks, resuming kisses on my skin.
"We're . . . you know . . ." Concentrating while he's doing that is so hard, so I go for broke. "This is important to me. If you wanted me to meet your parents, I would."
Masen ceases his kissing and flops onto his back, his arms spread wide. Crap. He's been shutting down a lot lately. I think with our inevitable parting, it's harder for him to open up or stay open. And I understand. It would be much easier for him to leave if we weren't on such good terms. At least, I think so. This sucks.
"Masen?"
He doesn't respond other than a quick blink of his eyes.
"Do you want me to meet your parents?" My voice is soft; I don't want to push him.
In a flash he's sitting up, eyes fierce, voice stern. "No."
Geez, that was a fast no. What does that mean? Does he not want us to meet at all? If I'm being completely honest, I'd kind of like to meet them. Call it morbid curiosity. "Never?"
He drops his head and curses under his breath. "Let's go. I'll take you home," he says quietly and pulls me up by my forearm.
He carries his skateboard, making me feel utterly rejected. We walk in silence. We haven't done that in a long while, and it's unnerving. When we've reached my door, I hug him close to me and give him a goodbye kiss. As I work the lock he surprises me by saying, "Friday?"
"Dinner with my dad?"
He nods.
"Okay."
He gives me one last kiss and skates down my driveway, heading home.
Friday rolls around, and Dad is kind of pissed. Maybe not pissed but overwhelmed or just freaked out. He's something, that's for sure.
"When's porch guy gonna get here?"
"Soon," I say, setting the table, all the while worrying Dad is going to do something stupid at dinner. Just as I place the last fork, there's a knock on the door.
I answer it and throw my arms around Masen immediately. He winces, and I pull back, noticing a large bruise and fresh scab on his lower neck and collarbone. I want to ask him about it, but I don't.
We walk hand-in-hand into the kitchen, and my dad looks us over. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to figure out if we're having sex. He's so nosy. I glare at Dad, and he shakes Masen's hand, lifting a brow at me when he notices Masen's injury. I shrug, and he lets it go.
Dinner drags due to the silence. And here I worried about my dad's questions all for nothing. I think we'll get through dinner unscathed, but eventually Dad starts talking.
"So what's in California?" he asks.
"Family and school."
"What do you plan on doing?"
"Mmm." Masen finishes a mouthful of potatoes and answers my dad. "I've been accepted to The Art Institute of California—um, good design programs . . . art classes."
"It's a degree?" Dad's asking lots of questions, but he's being kind about it. Sort of talking to Masen like he's family, which is nice. I'm certainly glad he's not interrogating him or making him feel foolish for moving away. And while I don't want him to leave, I think it's the best thing for him to get away from his parents, so he can start living his life.
"Graphic design—Bachelors of Science."
This isn't news to me, but my dad knows nothing about Masen. He seems pleased by his answers, glad he has a plan. He's not too happy I haven't chosen a college yet—let alone a degree—so, of course, he has to bring it up.
"It's good to hear a young kid who knows what he wants. Bella knows, but she won't pick a school."
"I don't know," I mumble and take a large bite of my chicken.
"You've been telling me since you started kindergarten you wanted to teach just like your mom."
"I just can't see myself around all those runny-nosed kids. I don't have a lot of patience."
"That's not true," a male chorus consisting of Masen and my father rings out.
"I think you're patient . . . patient with me." Masen gives me a soft smile.
"If you can live with your mother and put up with her, you can certainly deal with a bunch of kids." Dad switches his gaze from me to Masen. "Bella's mother is a bit nuts." Hearing my dad talk to Masen so casually throws me for a loop, and I giggle.
Masen laughs with me, then adds, "I kinda like a bit nuts."
"I do too," Dad says. "She was a lot of fun when we were kids." My dad gets a wistful expression on his face, then goes back to his meal.
All of this talk about the future has me feeling young, inexperienced, and unsure. Why does Masen know so much about what his future holds and I don't? Does he know himself better than I know myself? Or is it just that he's being pushed to move on with his life? I'm not sure, but it's certainly got me thinking about what I want—all aspects of what I want.
"I know I could do it, but I don't really want to."
"You don't want to do anything. Bella, wanna see a movie? No." Dad's getting obnoxious now. "Wanna go on a trip? No. Wanna order pizza? No." He drops his fork, signifying his displeasure. "You're just a grumpy teenager."
"Hey, I'm an adult now. Take it back." I throw a green bean at him, which he picks up and eats.
Masen shakes his head as he watches our back and forth.
"It's the truth. She's boring. I don't know how you put up with her."
"I don't know how I put up with you," I sass back.
"Smartass."
"I get it from you," I say, popping a green bean into my mouth.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"There's no problem. I'm just giving you a hard time, Dad."
"No, I mean, the problem is you're too nuts and smartass-y to teach little kids. Maybe you need the older crowd. Junior high, high school, maybe. They'd keep it entertaining."
"Maybe . . ."
Masen refills his plate, getting seconds, which makes me smile. I'm so glad he feels comfortable here and he's having a good time with my dad. At least, I hope he is.
We finish dessert, and just when I think we're free and clear of my dad's obnoxiousness, he speaks up again. "You get in a fight?"
"Dad!" I'm appalled.
"No," Masen says, then sips his water.
My father is not deterred by my outburst. "Did you do that on your skateboard?"
"No."
"Someone hit you?"
"Yes."
"You hit them back?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"No reason to."
Dad presses his lip to his nose in contemplation. "If someone hit you and then threatened my daughter, would you hit them back?"
"Absolutely." Masen's green eyes zip from my father's to my own, and I know he's completely serious. It's kind of arousing to hear him talk about defending me, but at the same time, the thought of him in a fight is terrifying.
"Good man, Masen." I take note that he used his real name. Finally. Dad walks his plate to the kitchen and puts it in the sink. He turns to address us again. "Well, this was real good. I'm going to watch a game and pass out. Don't stay up too late, and stay in the living room." Again with the inappropriate air quotes.
"Sure," I say, shaking my head at his dorkiness and motion for Masen to hand over his plate. Instead, he takes mine and loads them in the dishwasher as my dad watches, seemingly impressed.
"Well . . . night," Dad says and shakes Masen's hand again before heading to the den.
We clean up and park ourselves on the couch. I'm dying to know what Masen thinks about my dad; he won't say much even if I ask, so I don't bother. Instead, I fidget nervously with my hair and worry my lip.
"You nervous?"
I shake my head.
"What's with all the . . ." He moves his lips around, making funny faces. He's quite relaxed, which shocks me. I never seem to know what's going on with him, despite what he thinks.
"That was so uncomfortable."
"Dinner?"
"Yes, dinner. Weren't you there? Sorry about my dad."
"I thought it was fine. He's a great guy. Good food too," he says, running his fingers through the ends of my hair, which is down for a change.
"Thanks," I mumble, still frustrated.
"Are you upset?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Because of this?" He points to his neck and adds, "It's nothing. I've had much worse."
I drop my head into my hands and want to cry. I wasn't referring to his injury at all, but rather my own discomfort during dinner. Who cares if I'm patient? I'm obviously selfish, and I don't know what to do about it. The simple fact of wanting Masen to stay here—mostly for me—makes me feel sick to my stomach. I push my self deprecation aside and focus on him. He's dealing with much bigger problems than I am.
"What happened?" I ask. I realize it's the first time I've actually verbalized my desire to know about one of his injuries.
"Mom made dinner tonight."
"And?"
"She hasn't made dinner since my dad's birthday."
I motion with my hand for him to elaborate.
". . . Two years ago."
I raise my head to meet his eyes. No one's made dinner for him in two years? "And you came here tonight?"
He shrugs.
"You could've cancelled."
"No, I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"I just couldn't. I wouldn't do that. Not to you."
"But—"
Masen silences me with a tilt of his head. "My dad was already . . . it doesn't matter. He would've—it would've been worse if I had stayed. Trust me."
Poor Masen.
I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest. He strokes my hair and sits in silence while I try not to cry. My dad stomps into the living room. He clears his throat, and I sit up. He gives me a look that says, Say goodnight, Bella.
With much persuasion on my part, Masen lets me drive him home. We hold hands the entire way. The drive is short, but it doesn't matter; I want him with me as long as possible. We get out of the truck, and Masen plays with his skateboard, moving it around with his foot. He stops abruptly, pulls it up, and leans over to kiss me goodnight. I feel desperate to stay with him, so I tug his shirt, pulling him to me, making my intentions known with my mouth. He drops his board, places his hands on either side of me on the truck, and allows me to seek solace in the heat of his lips. It's really hot, but also probably really inappropriate. I don't really care though.
"I'm sorry," I say. I'm not even sure what I'm apologizing for—for being selfish, for getting him hit, for forcing him to let me drive him home. All of it, I guess.
He presses a kiss on my forehead. "I'm not."
Suddenly his front door opens wide, clanging against the brick of the house. A massive silhouette of a man is standing in it. "Is this her?" a gruff voice asks, and Masen shifts protectively, standing in front of me.
"Get in the truck, Bella." Masen's tone is severe but quiet.
"Come with me," I whisper into his ear. I'm so alarmed I'm shaking.
His father takes a step out of the doorway, the outside light revealing him. He's huge and intimidating, and I can't for one second imagine Masen being able to get away from him. I grip his hand and tug at it, pleading with him to stay with me.
He turns his head and whispers, "Meet me at the green." He rips his hand from mine and steps toward his abusive father, saying, "Go home, Bella."
"Oh, your girlfriend ruins our family dinner, and I'm not good enough to be introduced to her?" his father sneers. I can't stop watching their exchange. My hands turn to fists, and for the first time in my life I want to attack someone.
"No, you're not," Masen says brazenly, and a sickening smack crackles in the air. Masen folds like a rag doll and swivels his head to me, mouthing, "Go!"
His plea jolts me into action, and before I know it, I'm driving away from his home, tears streaming down my face. My mind is in a state of panic, and I'm lost, unable to find my way to the green. I slow my pace and stop to look around for a street sign, but everything is blurry due to my wet eyes. I find my way eventually and sit, waiting beneath our tree, making myself as small as possible and trying to cry as quietly as I can.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the rumble of skateboard wheels crunching over the asphalt of the parking lot. I'm up and running without a second thought as Masen skids to a stop when he sees me. He doesn't move but tells me he's sorry again and again. He looks okay. I hope he's okay. "Are you okay?"
He nods.
It's then that I lose my composure. I crumble into sobs and throw myself around him with complete abandon. "You can't just—people shouldn't ever be treated like—I don't want you to—please don't go back there, just—" I don't complete any of my thoughts. It's not possible because my head is clouded with images of Masen falling to the ground. Why was he falling to the ground? Why did his dad hit him? His dad? What is wrong with his dad? What father could do such a thing?
My tears falls ceaselessly, and I stuff my face into Masen's neck, wiping any moisture from my eyes and nose on his shirt. He doesn't care; he just holds me tight in his arms, but it's not enough. I need more—more assurance, more connection, more Masen.
I kiss his cheek, neck, and collarbone where his injuries reside. Someone needs to make him better. Someone needs to take care of him. Today someone is me.
I slide down his body and wrap my fingers around his, then pull him to our spot beneath the tree. I sit down, never letting go of his hand and yank him toward me. He lets his board go free; it rolls a bit before stopping, but he doesn't seem to care. He's focused on me, on my eyes. He's searching them, seeing if I'm okay. I'm not. I've never been this not okay.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I can't bear to hear him ask about me. I'm fine, physically. Irrevocably changed because of what I've witnessed but fine, nonetheless. "Are you—"
I stop him, pressing my lips to his.
It's panic, it's distraction, it's careless—it's what I have to do. It's the right thing. It's the only thing that makes sense right now because we make sense. Nothing else in the world does.
He lays himself on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms. I pull off his shirt, making him collapse. I don't care. My shirt is gone in a flash, too, and our hands and mouths become frantic.
His tongue in my mouth begs me to go further. I'm so glad he wants this, too, because I need it to cure my lost innocence. In fact, I think it will cure anything. Masen and I together—like this—is the antidote to the poison we're a part of.
Desperate and yearning, we rid ourselves of our clothing and roll around in the damp grass. I grip his neck and crush my mouth to his as his body slides over the top of mine. With his hands on my hips and his face hidden in my neck, we make love for the first time. Panting and kissing and pushing and pulling bring us both to release. Out of breath but slightly calmed, I kiss him, slow and deep, keeping the connection between us.
My hands fall from his hair and run down his back as we continue to kiss. Tears fall from my eyes, and a small sob escapes my lips.
"Bella, please . . . shh, don't cry. I'm okay. Please, don't cry." He wraps his arms around me and holds me, shushing me all the while.
He makes me feel so safe, which only makes me feel guilty. Who's making him feel safe? Has anyone ever made him feel safe? I force down my sadness and wrap my arms around him, hugging him back.
"You're okay. We're okay. Okay?" he asks, voice soft and soothing.
We hold each other silently, my breath finally normalizing. I feel so much better, more at ease. Masen does that to me. He calms me. I don't know how he can after all he's been through, but he does.
With his legs wrapped around me, his chest pressed against my back, he kisses up and down my neck. I sit up straighter and pull my shirt back on, while his hands run underneath it, kneading my skin. With his lips at my ear he whispers, "Come with me."
I whip my head around to face him and kiss his warm lips.
"To California," he explains. He looks directly into my eyes. He's serious.
"You want me to live with you?" It's barely a whisper.
He nods and kisses my lips softly.
"I want you with me. The thought of leaving you here with these people, in this town, and my parents . . . I just—come with me." He's pleading, begging. He said he never begs anyone. I guess things change, or people do when the circumstances are right.
"I . . ." I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. For once I'm the quiet one with nothing to share. He casts his gaze downward before gathering his own clothes and getting dressed. Even though my truck is here, he pushes me home on his skateboard—one hand on mine, the other on my back, like always. It seems right to give him this, to let him bring me home. I wish he could stay with me.
We stop at the curb, and I play with my fingers. "Will you please . . . don't go home tonight. Can you stay with Tyler?" I can't look at him. If I do, I'll start crying again.
"I'm sure it'll be fine." What will be fine? Going home? Or staying with Tyler?
I don't have it in me to voice my questions, so I nod.
He walks me to my door and kisses me goodbye. The movement of his lips tells me he really wants me to move to California. It's sad and full of longing. I feel exactly the same way. I want to be with him too. I don't want to hurt him, God knows he's been hurt enough, but what would I do in California? Go to school, I guess. That was the plan here. And I suppose community college is community college if I choose that route. But what would I tell my dad? What would I do about money? I'm just a kid. Masen might be ready for the real world; he's had to grow up fast, but I haven't. We're just so different in that respect. Moving with him would be the scariest thing I'd ever do, and I just don't know if I'm ready to be on my own.
He pulls away but comes right back in again and kisses me, then says, "Just think about it."
"I will." I already am.
I stay on the porch and watch him skate away while tears flow down my face. How can I possibly go with him? How can I make this work? I wrack my brain trying to figure it out, but it seems impossible. We're too young, too immature, too clueless to live together playing house. The thought makes me jump to the image of Masen falling to the ground in front of his home. Thinking about what he might face if he returns doesn't do me much good, and I cry harder. I wish there was something I could do to help him. I want to be with him, I do, but I don't know if I can.
After calming myself, I enter the living room to find my dad sitting on the Lazy Boy, glaring at me. I sniffle, and the tears run freely again. His features soften, and I sit on his lap like a small child, wrapping my arms around his neck. I really do depend on my daddy at times. "I love him so much," is all I can say.
Dad rubs my back and simply says, "I know, kiddo."
I wake in the morning with a throw draped over me and a Post-It on the side table. It reads, Hang in there. Summer's almost here, and before you know it, you'll be moving on.
I wrap the blanket around me and close my eyes, attempting to go back to sleep—attempting to change the course of my life. Sleep doesn't help one bit. When I wake, I'm just as confused as ever, and my life still blows. But my Dad's words stick with me. Maybe he's right; maybe I can move on, but I don't want to.
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!
Perry Maxwell, my beta, will have her story, Unrequited, on The Lemonade Stand poll this week. Check out her amazing, gut wrenching story and then vote! Leave her some love too.
I owe a big ol' thanks to my amazing team. I adore you all.