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: Listen to Your Heart cover by DHT, If I Could Stay by Terra Naomi

Chapter 15: The Day Masen Wants Me

I spend my Saturday moping, stuck in my head. My stomach churns when I imagine fists flying and landing on Masen, but then I remember the owner of those fists is a loser in every sense of the word. He thinks he's won, but Masen is the real victor. I know this by the way he held me underneath our tree, by his sweet and gentle ways. He's loving, in spite of the way he's been treated. It's amazing, really.

And me? I thought I knew who I was, but I guess not because if I knew myself, I'd make a decision right away, wouldn't I?

It's after dinner when I call Masen, worried his mother will be pissed off if she answers the phone. Because it's the only way she ever answers the phone. To my surprise, I'm greeted with kindness and courtesy.

"Hello?" she answers, voice soft, cordial.

"Hi, can I talk to Masen?"

"Sure, he's just in his room. Let me get him." I don't hear much but assume she's moving through their hall, not that Masen's room is at the end or something. I wouldn't know, having never stepped foot inside his house. "Edward, phone. It's Bella."

Masen's, "Thanks, Mom," is muffled in the background.

Then she speaks quietly to him, the receiver lowered, I guess. "Let's run and get groceries when you're done, okay?"

"Okay." There's a clink and a shuffling noise, then Masen's on the phone. "Hey."

"Hey, your mom sounds different. Good different."

"Yeah, she's trying. She's, um, it's been a while."

"Oh, good. I'm . . . that's good, right?"

"Yeah, this is the longest she's been sober since I was . . . I don't even know."

"Mmm." I wait for him to tell me about this development with his mother, but he doesn't, so I continue. "Well, Angela called, and everyone's hanging out tomorrow. Dinner, I guess. Do we want to go? I mean, I do."

"Sure."

"Okay." I stare at my corkboard, building up my courage to ask what I've been dying to ask since leaving him last night. "How was your night last night?"

"Good. Ate dinner with my girl and did some other stuff. That—that wasn't so bad, either. Better, even. Did—I mean—did you have a good time? Like, did you, um . . . because we can always . . ."

I close my eyes, thinking about the night before—the good portions of it—and giggle at the cuteness of Masen's question. "Don't hurt yourself, Masen."

"Shut up. I've been thinking about it nonstop, and you make me . . . all nervous. I—I kinda want—I mean, I want it to be good for you. So, uh, was it? Good?"

"It was so good."

"Good." His response is brief, but his voice is filled with pride. The smile on his cute face must be reminiscent of when he masters a skating trick—excitedly happy yet humble.

I switch the phone to my other ear and push my back against the headboard, readying myself to try questioning him again. I just go for it. "Where'd you stay last night?"

"Home."

"And did . . . are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Was your dad—did he—"

"Bella, I'm fine. I skated for a bit, thought, roamed. He was passed out by the time I got home. I wish—I mean, you don't have to worry about me."

"I do."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Okay." His voice is quiet, like he's getting ready to fall asleep, but I know he's not. He's just pulling away from this conversation. I've got to figure out how to help him to talk, even when he feels uncomfortable.

Not wanting to cause him any more pain, I barrel on, telling him more about our plans for tomorrow before saying goodnight.

The following day Masen and I meet our friends with the basic idea of dinner and a time and place. We end up at a doughnut shop having Chinese take-out and playing Name that Tune. I love how laid back they are. Their mere presence in my life helps me remember I don't need to be so uptight. I can have loose plans and go with the flow—perhaps even when it comes to the difficult decisions looming ahead.

-MD-

It's Monday, and Masen and I haven't talked about California since he invited me. There's a little bit of awkwardness between us, but we push it aside. We don't have time for that.

We chat about Ms. Robinson's final essay as we walk down the hall hand-in-hand to get to the cafeteria. Masen's totally finished, and I'm a bit jealous for several reasons—the main one being that he knows what he wants to do with his life.

The boys finish their lunch quickly and head outside to skate, leaving us girls to ourselves. Angela slides over to me, and we watch the boys through the dirty window. My thoughts are focused on my dilemma: whether to go to California or stay in Arizona. It's killing me that I don't know what I want to do.

"Okay," Angela says, thumping my knee, "what's up with you?"

I wiggle my foot nervously, my flip-flop dangling from my toe. "Nothing."

"When's Masen leaving?"

"Right after graduation. Next day, I think."

"You miss him already, huh? And he hasn't even left yet."

I nod, concentrating on Masen as he flips his board over and lands on top of it. He throws his head back, laughing at some trick Alec bombs. After witnessing how his dad treats him, I'm amazed he even has the ability to laugh, the ability to be happy at all. I'm in awe of him.

Just last night Dad asked if I'd done my laundry yet, and I got all pissy because it was my laundry and none of his business when I did it. After I was done throwing a bratty tantrum, Dad informed me he wanted to use the washer and didn't want to get in my way. I have it so great, yet I lash out over stupid, menial things. And Masen . . . Masen has every right to go off the deep end, to genuinely hate and mistrust people, but he doesn't. Yeah, I'm in awe of him. I wish I was more like him.

"Have you talked with him anymore about it?"

"No, but . . . um, he asked me to go with him." I gnaw on my thumb, trying not to tense up just thinking about the decision laid before me.

"Oh my Gawd, that's so great! And Alice is okay with that? Wait, are you okay with living with Alice. She did hug a bit like she was . . . well, you . . . but you said she was with Masen's cousin, so never mind. Oh, I'm so excited for you."

My chair squeals against the linoleum as I turn to face her. "I haven't decided yet; he just asked."

"Okay." She says the word long and drawn out, like she's so baffled by what I just said. She's trying to control her expression, keeping it neutral, but I can see it in her eyes: she's confused. I am too. I wish this was an easy decision to make, but it's just not.

"I've never . . . this is a big decision. It was already tough trying to figure out a way for him to stay here, but deciding whether or not to go with him is just . . . I don't know if . . . you think I'm stupid."

"No, this is a big deal. This is life changing. I get it. I just know what I would do, that's all. But you're not me. You're Bella."

"Whoever that is." I look away, frustrated with myself.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know . . . just ignore me. I'm in a funk."

"Clearly." Angela pulls on my ponytail, getting my attention. "Look, don't move because he wants you there or because I would go if Embry asked me. Go because you want to, and no other reason. You have to be smart about this."

"I'm trying to be." I sound so pathetic, voice soft and unsure. I hate this.

"Good. I mean, you did just get together, and there's no guarantee you'll stay together. You don't want to be in California by yourself if that's not where you want to be."

"I hadn't even thought about that. It's like my brain's not working anymore."

"It's working. It's probably just in overdrive or overheating. You need to reboot. Like, take stock of your life, figure out what's important to you, that sort of thing. Then you can weigh your options and make a good decision."

"I worry that . . . I'm losing myself. I don't want to be that girl—the one who drops everything for a guy, but Masen's not just some guy. I just . . . I don't feel like I know what I want, but I do know that I love him." I close my eyes, picturing Masen hunched over his notebook, writing. He turns his head to peek at me, sweet smile on his face. It makes me smile too.

"Sometimes . . ." Angela starts but stops, rooting around in her bag. She pulls out a piece of gum. "Sometimes love isn't enough, but I don't think you're losing yourself. I think you're growing, and Masen's to blame for that. When you're not stuck in your head, you're glowing and stuff. It's sick to watch. You two are so happy together, and you complement each other. I always thought you were sweet and whatever, but the way you've gotten Masen to open up—even in front of us—is amazing. I never thought I'd see him lose his shy persona or be, I dunno, free."

"You haven't," I say, shaking my head, thinking about how goofy he really is.

"Dammit, see . . . that, that right there . . ." She thrusts a finger in my face, and I laugh through my nose. "That ridiculous look of I-know-way-more-about-him-than-anyone-else is what makes you two so great together. And I'm sure he knows you better than anyone else as well. I'm making no sense. But I guess what I mean is I see that in you too—you opening up, I mean. I don't think I would've gotten half of what you've told me in the last few weeks before you started dating Masen. He makes you better. And you were already good before him, just so you know." She throws her gum wrapper into her bag, an exclamation point to her words.

We watch Embry skate by the window and get reprimanded by a teacher. He looks apologetic but flips her off once her back is turned. Angela shakes her head yet smiles at her man's antics.

"When I was ten I wanted to join orchestra. I couldn't decide which instrument to play. My mom thought I should play viola, so I did."

Angela gives me a look like I'm crazy, but I continue anyway.

"I hated it. I wanted to quit. I was terrible at it, but I played it until I graduated middle school."

"Okay."

"I don't make decisions. I do what people tell me to do. I—"

"Okay, stop. That's total bull."

"That story is true."

"How many times have I tried to get you to tell me about Masen in the bedroom?"

"I don't think—"

"Just listen." She faces me fully and grips both my knees with her hands, making sure I'm paying attention. "And how many times have I tried to get you to watch scary movies with me?"

I don't respond; I don't think I'm allowed to. She's kind of in her bossy mode. I mostly see her this way with Embry.

"My point is a viola is dumb. It's not really related to your personality. When it matters, you do what you want, and you wanted to play in the orchestra. You made that decision, right? So you might listen to someone's advice, but who doesn't do that?

"You've never told me anything about you and Masen that you didn't want to, and you've never watched a single scary movie with me, or let me cut your hair, but that's beside the point. My point is—gosh, I talk too much—you know who you are. You don't let people bully you. You're just feeling insecure, and I get that. This is a lot to take in. I think you just have to figure out what you want and go from there."

"I don't know what I want."

"You'll figure it out."

"I want someone to tell me what to do."

"No one can do that for you."

"It sucks."

"I know, but you'll manage. You've got that hottie to help you out too."

"I don't think he'll be much help. We haven't even talked about it since he asked me."

Masen skates closer to the main entrance and pops his board up. He walks with it behind his back, head down, coming our way. Coming to get me.

Angela speaks up, pulling my attention from Masen. "He'll help; it just won't be in any way you expect him to."

"Thank you . . . for this, for talking me out of my chaotic mess of a brain."

"You're welcome."

Masen steps inside the cafeteria and keeps his gaze on me, waiting. The bell's going to ring soon. I stand and throw my backpack on. I lean down and give Angela a one-armed hug, whispering, "We did it on Friday."

She coughs loudly while I exit with Masen, smile on my face.

-MD-

My mind is much calmer after talking with Angela and thinking through her words for a couple of days. Now if only my hormones would behave. It's been several days since Masen and I had sex, and I'm completely fixated on his body. It's bad. Real bad. I find myself watching him differently. The reach of his arm across our table in English becomes erotic. The way he bites into his Clif Bar becomes erotic. The way he pulls my pen from my hair becomes erotic. It's exhausting trying to pay attention in school because I'm so focused on him, so I stop trying.

After a particularly boring day at school we head to The Wedge. He sits with me instead of skating. It's a first. I don't mind, but I wonder why he's chosen to do so. Perhaps he's just feeling the weight of his departure date on his shoulders. I know I am.

I work on a math assignment as he finishes up a paper for history. Every time I peek at him, I meet his eyes. It's distracting, and the more I do it, the more it befuddles me, but it also makes me smile. I really want to get out of here and drag him to my room to put a smile on his face in return, but I'm not sure how he'd feel about that. So instead, I chat with Angela.

When we start talking, Masen hops on his skateboard and joins the guys. As soon as he's gone, Angela starts berating me. "What are you doing?" she says, hitting me with an errant twig.

"What are you talking about?" I ask through laughter.

"Gawd, he totally wants to go home with you right now. If Embry gave me even one of the looks Masen has given you today, I'd throw down under the bridge, not caring who watched."

"Ew." She swats me again. "Seriously, what looks?"

She rolls her eyes and points toward the bridge. From this far off, it's hard to tell, but I'm fairly certain Masen's eyes are on me. "See?" she says, sounding boastful. "Just take him home."

"I . . ."

"Oh, wait, is your dad home?"

"No, he doesn't get home until dinnertime today."

Angela jumps to her feet, shouting, "Masen!"

She's always yelling. What is she doing? She better not embarrass me.

He skates to us, doing a complicated aerial over the stairs before landing at my feet. "Hi," he says, his lips curling into a grin, and I finally see it. His sea greens are lit up. He's showing off. He's flirting. He wants me.

"I'm going home. I might . . . uh, have some apples there. You comin' with me?"

"Yeah," he says and nods.

I snag my bag before mounting his board. I'd like to be mounting something else. He pushes me, and his hand on my lower back feels so much more present than it usually does. My mother always said, "Sex changes everything," and she was so right.

When we get to my home, Masen seems tense, shifting his feet from side to side and running his hands through his hair. I wish he would just ask if he could come in, but he won't. I simply hold his hand and pull him inside, up to my room.

I remove my bag and unbutton my shirt. Masen sits on the floor and pulls off his shoes. As I unzip my jeans, he tugs off his tee. He's completely silent while unbuttoning his fly and walking toward the bed. He's stunning in nothing but his leather choker and jeans, kneeling on my comforter, waiting for me.

I stand before him, nude and ready. He pulls me close by my waist, his thumbs making a small circuit on my lower back. His fingertips graze up my bare skin and run the length of my neck. With an expression of awe, he reaches higher still, pulling the pen from my bun, letting my hair fall freely across my shoulders. He smiles shyly and presses his hands into my hips, beckoning me to the bed.

In a less frenzied state than our first attempt, we make love on my twin bed. His breath and hands wash over me, his lips trailing warm kisses across my nude, exhausted body.

I lie face down, my head turned to the side, resting on my crossed arms. His fingers swirl on my lower back, and I sigh at the lightness of his touch. "We could have this everyday, you know." His voice is calm and reassuring.

He pulls himself up beside me, tucking his arms under his chest, his face across from my own. I play with his choker, enjoying the leather against my fingertips. We're barely touching, but it doesn't matter. We're closer than we've ever been.

"I want that. More than anything. To be with you," he says. I can't respond. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Instead, I kiss him and pull my hair into a bun grabbing my tie-dye pen from my nightstand to secure it. I get dressed and, in the process, gather his things and start handing them to him. He pulls his tee on, and I can't keep my eyes off him as he yanks on his pants. He is so hot. Who knew it could be so exciting watching someone get dressed? I stop my staring, and when I give him his shoes, I playfully tug them away when he reaches out his hand.

He tackles me to the ground, and I laugh hysterically, releasing the shoes. He puts them on, sprawls out on my floor, looking comfortable and so right in my space. I pull my pen from my hair and draw his feet into my lap. He sits up and watches me as I add another Bella to his shoes. He bends his knees, so he can be closer as I work. He points to an empty checker and says, "Bella," then points to another, repeating my name over and over again until his Van is covered in my mark. It's absolutely adorable and leaves me wanting more than anything for his shoes to be true—for him to stay mine, for him to stay here with me.

I have to ask him for the things I want, the things I need. Angela's words come back to me, and I think about what she said about us knowing each other better than anyone else. I like what she said, but the truth is we're both still holding back. I'm not sure why, but I'm determined to stop that behavior right now. We have to let go, or we'll never make it together.

"Masen?"

"Hmm?" He looks up, takes my pen from me and spins it between his palms.

"I want to talk with you about something, but I . . . I need you to, um, not shut down on me."

"I shut down on you?" He's completely serious and looks so disheartened.

"You, um, sometimes I say something, and you just close up, and then I close up, and it doesn't help either of us."

"I . . ." His eyes focus on the pen, and he rolls the ballpoint across his finger, drawing a decorative B. "I'll try."

"Okay, I . . . well, what I want to say is . . . I've been thinking about it a lot, about me going to California, and I just—is there any way you'd consider staying here?"

Masen squirms and repositions us, pulling my legs into his lap. I'm not sure why, but I think the distraction will keep him from shutting down. At least, I hope. He pushes the hem of my shorts up and starts drawing his name on my thigh. The feather light touches of the pen and his fingers feel amazing, and if I weren't trying to have a serious conversation, I'd most likely try to proposition him again. There's something highly intimate about the way he's branding me; I hope he'll do it again, so I can fully appreciate it.

I wait while he gathers his thoughts, but he doesn't say anything for a long while.

"We talked about this." He's so quiet, head down, fixed on his artwork.

"No, we didn't. You wouldn't let me talk about it. I need to talk about it."

"Okay . . . talk."

"I . . . the idea of packing up and moving terrifies the hell out of me, to be honest. I feel so not ready for that. Like at all. And I know why you want to go, I do. I understand it, but I . . . I sound so selfish. I'm so sorry, but I just can't imagine you not here. I can't imagine you not in my life, and I love you, and we just got together, and I don't want to lose you. Is there anyway you'd be willing to stay? For me? With me?"

"I . . .this is . . ." He runs his hand through his hair and over his face, elongating his features in a display of his discomfort. He still hasn't looked at me, eyes trained on my thigh where he embellishes his name.

"I could talk to my dad. I think if he knew what was going on he'd be willing—"

"I don't—I've made up my mind. I have to get out of here. I can't just—I . . . dammit." His shoulders slump, the pen clinks on the floor—the sound equal to that of a jail cell closing. He splays his hands on the floor on either side of my legs. I pull him down so he's lying on my thighs and run my hands through his hair, trying anything to keep him talking. So far, so good. Well, better than our first attempt at discussing his departure.

"You could stay on the couch, or we could convert the garage or something. You wouldn't have to—"

"I can't stay in your home. You can't mess up your relationship with your dad for me."

"It wouldn't be like that. We'd—"

He cuts me off by squeezing my thighs as he wraps his arms around them. At least he's not shutting down; he's trying. We both are.

"What if—what if we get our own apartment? We'd have to find jobs, and rent is steep near ASU—if that's where we go—but we could manage. People do it all the time: school and work. We could make it happen. We could . . ." I trail off as he goes limp on my legs. He's completely given up or something.

"Bella." His words are muffled by the material of my shorts, but they're there, so I strain to hear them. "I can't. There's too many—my dad is everywhere. I'm done with Arizona. Done with this . . . life."

My throat constricts, and I don't try to stop my tears. Masen sits and smoothes his hands over my hair and down my back. I fall onto his chest and cry into his shirt.

"You know I don't want to leave you, right?"

"Yeah," I say weakly.

"Yeah?" he asks, a playful lilt to his quiet voice.

"Yeah," I say, lifting my head and kissing him through my tears, sad smile on my face.

My heart was raw to him, and he still shot down my ideas—but he hadn't shut himself off, which was good. I'm devastated but happy to know we can have an open and honest conversation where we both get to say what we need to say. I wonder if the fact that Masen was post-bang made him more open to have this talk. I think so. I'm going to pocket that information for a later date. Really, it's nice, but it also makes me sad. Just as we're letting go—just as we're beginning to see the full extent of each other's character—he's on his way out the door. Out of the state, actually. And I'll be here, unless I muster the courage to go with him.

I call my mother after he goes home for the night. I hope to get some advice about my predicament but discover, as usual, all my mother wants to do is talk about herself, her life.

"So, Phil's been temping at that insurance place. It's the one on Roker, remember?"

"Sure," I say, no interest at all in what she's saying.

"Well, a third grade spot opened up at Steiner Elementary. The teacher went into labor early. She's not gonna finish out the year. He's been offered the spot, but he's acting all dumb because it's not the grade he wants, and it's a few weeks before school lets out. But who cares? I don't get it. So stupid. He's a teacher. He should teach."

"What grade does he want?" I ask, trying to be conversational.

"Oh, fifth grade, like everyone else. It's coveted, but sometimes you just have to get your foot in the door. This is a great opportunity, and he better not blow it just because he's scared. Oh, hey, remember that therapist I was going to? The one with the bad wig?"

"Stimple? No, Sven?"

"No, Stevens. Geez, Bella, it's not like I've been to ten counselors."

"It's not?" I laugh at my own joke, and she huffs.

"You've been around your dad too much."

"He would disagree. He thinks I'm spending too much time with my boyfriend." Perfect segue, Mom. Take it.

"Oh, how is he?" Thank you.

"He's good."

"Good, so anyway . . ." Oh, no. Opportunity's gone now. She trills on about her therapist, and I do my best to listen. "So I gave Phil the same advice Dr. Stevens gave to me: sometimes you have to feel the fear, and do it anyway."

"And what did he do?"

"He's making tentative lesson plans right now, just in case. Isn't that great? I should be a counselor. Maybe someday I'll go back to school. Speaking of . . . you decide yet what you're going to do?"

Mom and I chat about my options for college, and she's helpful in the sense that she's taught several grades and can tell me the pros and cons of each. Her advice in that regard is invaluable since I'm still trying to figure out what grade I'd like to teach, or if I'd like to teach at all. But as far as her future career as a counselor . . . I can't see that happening; she can't listen for shit. Not that I was any better at listening to her tonight. Then again, I've been preoccupied with my own problems. I need to cut myself some lack.

After dinner, Dad and I clean up the kitchen, and he stops me before I head upstairs.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine." I'm not. Give me some advice. Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do.

"You're awfully quiet tonight. Are you still mad at me about . . . look, I'm sorry I was pressuring you about college. I just want what's best for you. Lots of college students don't choose a degree right away."

"It's fine, Dad." I sound like Masen. Oh, dear.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I say and smile, wanting more than anything for Masen to show up at my house again and stay the night. I need him to calm me down, to tell me it will be okay, but it's just not possible. He can't come over in the middle of the night. My dad would go ballistic. If we lived together we could have every night to ourselves. Masen was right about that. Maybe he's right about some other things as well.

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!

Unrequited, written by Perry Maxwell is on The Lemonade Stand poll right now. Check out her amazing, gut wrenching story and then vote! Leave her some love too.

_ss77_ cracks me up with her comments and is dying for the final chapter to read. I'm sorry! Perry keeps Bella in check just for me 'cause "this here love is true, yo!" The catatonic, beautiful Mac makes sure I write everything in a fresh way. Dinx finds my itty bity mistakes, yet somehow manages to leave me so much Masen love in her emails. I love you all!