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: Faster by Matt Nathanson, Say It's Possible by Terra Naomi
Chapter 16: The Day Masen Drives Me
I'm grumpy and moody all day at school. The gloomy weather doesn't help either. It's Arizona, so why are there clouds? It's like everything in my life sucks all at once: I don't know what to do about college, and Masen is leaving me for sure. I was holding out hope if I got him to really talk—and I did—that he'd willingly stay, but I was wrong. The gray cover sucks away my remaining will to pretend to be happy—though when I'm with Masen, I actually am. Without him, it's like there's a vise on my heart. It tightens each day, its goal to kill me by the time he leaves. It'll be a slow and painful death, or maybe I could just be struck by lightning . . . in Arizona . . . in May. Seems like it could happen because my life sucks.
Angela's chattering beside me before Economics class begins. I'm not listening. Apparently, I take after my mother. Awesome. She says something about Embry's "banana-yellow pants," and I laugh. It's too loud to be normal; people are staring at me.
What are you looking at, jerks?
"Nothing. Don't be such a bitch," a haughty junior says.
Whoops. I guess I said that out loud.
"Who are you calling a bitch?" A fight? I could do a screaming, yelling match right now. In fact, that sounds pretty good. I stand up, ready to put that bitch-labeler in her place with my words, but Angela grips my hand in hers.
"Come on, we're goin' before Mr. Baker shows up."
"Fine. Whatever."
Angela drags me down the hall toward Masen's sixth period class. I saw him at lunch only an hour and a half ago, and I was happy then. Being around him reminds me he's leaving, so I have no time to waste being grumpy—yet when he's not there, all I want to do is wallow in my misery. It's no good. I feel bad for anyone who's not Masen.
"You want me to get his attention, or do you?"
"I don't even know what we'd do."
"It doesn't matter. You lost it in there. You were gonna yell at a Mallory. That can only lead to one thing, and those sisters are nasty fighters: hair pulling, scratching, you name it."
I tell her I'll just take a break this period, but she won't hear it. She rattles off ideas, one after the other of things Masen and I could do together, but nothing sounds good enough or worth our time.
"Okay, well, is there anything you feel like you have to do before he leaves for California? Or maybe something you want to do for him?"
"I don't know. He can't drive. I guess it'd be nice to teach him how. Maybe then he won't forget me." I avert my gaze from Angela's pity-filled eyes.
She digs in her purse and pulls out a massive clump of keys. She puts them in my hand and curls my fingers around them. "It's an automatic. It'll be easier to learn on than your crazy truck. And . . . there's an emergency condom in the first aid kit."
I laugh, staring at the keys. "I won't need it."
"You might," she says.
"I've been on the pill for two years."
"Bitch," Angela says while kicking my foot. "Dammit, I hate it when a Mallory is right." She sprints back down the hall to our class.
I get Masen's attention, and he has to get a bathroom pass since the bell already rang. He picks it up but puts it right back down when his teacher's not looking. She also fails to notice he's wearing his backpack. Seriously, I wonder if teachers are truly this dumb or if they've just learned to ignore obnoxious adolescent behavior.
Masen and I head out to an old parking lot in a dilapidated strip mall. I become determined to teach him how to drive. It's really stupid and a total waste of our time, but I feel like I should give him something tangible he can take with him when he goes.
He knows the basics but needs a bit of instruction. He practices three point turns, parallel parking, and never fails to use his signals. He also never fails to flirt every chance he gets. He clearly doesn't want to be doing this, but he's humoring me.
"Okay, just swing the wheel around this way and sneak right in there."
"Right in here?" He places his hand on my thigh and inches upward, swooping in to kiss my neck.
"Hey, not too far." I huff, and he catches my double meaning.
He nods, head turned away from me as he attempts to parallel park between two imaginary cars. "Do I, uh, get a kiss for doing it right?"
My resounding silence answers him, but he doesn't give up. He leans in and places a soft kiss against my neck, whispering into my skin. "Silky hair and heat and tongue, want her in the car, kissing my tears away."
I inhale shakily. Damn his words. They make me so hot. I repeat them in my head and then laugh. His head jolts back, and he smiles, eyes curious. "What?"
"You're not crying. No tears. You're trying to get laid."
"I—I'm . . . you—It's fine . . . I'll just drive," he says with a bit of grump to his tone. His lips pout in defeat, and if he weren't testing my resolve so much today, I'd hop into his lap and kiss that pout away. But today my focus is on teaching him how to drive. We can fool around later. I'm sure we will; we always do.
Regardless of his lack of devotion to the task, I have no doubt he'll be good and ready to get himself a license when he moves.
We need some groceries for dinner, so I suggest we stop at the store. The expression on his face tells me he doesn't like that idea.
"I know it's still early, but don't you want to stay for dinner?"
"I do—I just . . . I don't like being cooped up in this car."
"So we'll drop the car off and walk."
Masen agrees, but before we go, he coaxes me into the backseat.
He leans over me with his hand on my lower back, sliding me down. His lips are on mine, sweet and chaste. I need some warming up, I think, so this is good.
"How do you feel about it?"
"Good."
I'm not sure he even knows what I'm talking about because his mouth is pushing my v-neck lower, and I'm scratching his back.
"You're pretty good at this." The weight of his body against mine is so nice. I run my hands over the back of his thighs and pull him forward, forcing him to grind into me. He groans. Payback's a bitch, but in this case, it should be pretty fun.
"Like to practice," he says as I maneuver myself and latch onto his neck, making him squirm.
I push my hips up and lean in, my lips at his ear. "You knew just what to do with that gear stick."
"Bella—" His voice is hoarse, eyes closed tight. He's trying to contain himself.
"Well, you did." This is making me feel so much better. I flip us and pull his shirt up, licking a trail from his hipbone to his belly button. "Mmm, stomach."
He doesn't say anything, though I wait patiently for his response all the while kissing his defined muscles. I am so lucky in so many ways when it comes to Masen.
"Masen, I said stomach." I latch onto his nipple, and he gasps.
"Wh—what?"
"Stomach."
"Sex."
I collapse onto his chest in a fit of giggles. "That's pathetic," I say, catching my breath and wiping the happy tears from my eyes.
"It's—that's—it's all I got."
"Your brain's too busy thinking of ways to get me naked."
"I don't think it's—my brain . . . whatever, something else wants to get busy."
I laugh hysterically, my face planted on his neck.
"It's not that funny." He runs his hands over my back and sighs.
Realizing this is not the time or the place to "get busy," we make out for a few minutes. It's a rite of passage for every relationship, right? I'm just covering all the bases here—my truck has no backseat.
When we arrive at Angela's, she insists on driving us to the store. Masen can't say no, and neither can I, so we're stuck in the car with Angela playing twenty questions. Oh, well. At least Embry's not here; he makes it worse—his curiosity knows no bounds.
"So what were you kids up to today?"
"Just like I said . . . teaching him how to drive."
"Oh, please, everyone knows how to drive. It probably took you five minutes, so what else did you do?"
"Fine, you're right; we had sex."
Angela laughs, but Masen squirms in the backseat and starts playing with the wheels of his skateboard.
"It's a cramped space, but it does the job. Was it fun?"
"I was kidding, Angela."
"Boo!" she heckles, and Masen chuckles.
"What are you laughing about back there? You want her to know all our secrets?"
"I didn't say a thing." He lifts his hands in surrender.
"No, of course not; you leave me to fend for myself."
"You want me to fend for you? Fine, I'll fend for you. Go ahead. Hit me with your worst," Masen says.
"Favorite place?" Angela begins.
"Golf course," he blurts.
"Oh," Angela says, surprised. Her smile grows wide, and her eyes shine.
I glance at him, and all he does is shrug. What have I done?
"Favorite position?"
"Bah! No! Don't answer that!" I bellow.
Masen chuckles and scoots over into the middle of the seat so he can really be a part of the conversation.
"You're no fun," Angela says to me.
"Yeah, no fun," Masen reiterates.
I narrow my eyes but motion for Angela to continue nonetheless. "Fine. Whatever you want to say, just say. I won't stop you."
Angela turns off the radio, really getting serious now. "How long have you been in love with Bella?"
"Mmm, long time. December—probably earlier."
"Really?" I ask.
"Before zoo lights, I think." His forehead scrunches up, and he gets a faraway look in his eyes. He's really thinking about this.
"Aw, how sweet. I already knew that. Next!" Angela makes a turn, then asks another question. "Favorite thing about Bella?"
"Her tongue." No hesitation.
I freeze, mouth gaping open. Angela swivels her head toward me saying, "Oh my Gawd. What have you done to him?"
I drop my head in my hands and moan.
"Already thinking about your tongue. Moaning's not helping me at all."
"Will you shut up?" I say through laughter, turning and swatting the air in his direction.
He shrugs and grins. So cute. "Come make me."
I unbuckle and hop over the seat as Angela smacks my butt.
"Go get him, girl," she says.
Masen pushes his skateboard aside as I plop onto his lap and kiss him to shut him up. His hands grip my lower back, and he pulls me closer, kissing me hard. Yeah, we will definitely have to fool around later.
"Hey, kids, don't make me come back there."
"Go ahead. I've heard a lot about your tongue. Embry doesn't shut up."
Angela cackles as I slump against Masen's chest, laughing. I can't believe he said that.
"Bella's in such a better mood now. Good job, Masen." Angela pulls into the grocery complex and up to the curb.
"Well, I try," he says, then mutters, "I was trying something else earlier too."
Angela bids us goodbye and says, "I never thought I'd see the day . . ." Me either.
Masen steers the cart while I fill it with produce and basics for the rest of the week. He rests his chin on his folded arms which are atop the cart. He looks like a little boy, bored out of his mind until he spies something he likes. My eyes follow his to a massive display of macaroni and cheese.
"Really?" I ask, mocking him. "Kraft is so gross."
"It's so good." He shakes his head, disagreeing.
"I'll make you real macaroni and cheese, okay?"
"Yeah?" His eyes are bright, hopeful.
"Yeah." I gather the supplies I need, and we check out. We only have two bags, so Masen sets me up on his board to push me home. Balancing is tricky, but I do my best, holding the bags to my chest.
It's a short walk, but rush hour slows us down since we have to be cautious of careless drivers. Plus, the cloudy day makes Arizona drivers stupid.
While we ride, the thunder begins to crack, a drizzle falling over us. The soft rain is nice as the air cools. We inch closer to my home, Masen jumping behind me to speed us along, but we can't outrun the rain as it begins to come down in a rare shower.
We're soaked and laughing by the time we're on my porch. We twist our shirts, wringing out the water, but it's no use.
"Let's get you dry," Masen says, and I smirk.
"Let's not." I open the door, heading inside with great speed. I throw the groceries in the refrigerator—bags and all—and remove my shirt while jogging up the stairs. Masen's just behind me, hand gripping the back of my waistband.
We turn into the bathroom, and I push him up against the door, kissing him hard while pulling his shirt up. With a bite of his bottom lip, I whisper against his mouth, "Want him in the shower, panting my name." I turn abruptly to pull my wet clothes off and turn on the water.
Masen groans, following me into the shower, watching everything, touching me everywhere, loving me, and—as expected—panting my name.
-MD-
I'm out of the shower first, so I pull on Masen's damp jeans, folding over the top for a better fit. I walk into my bedroom topless, hair dripping down my back. He follows me, saying something about needing his pants, but I ignore him, picking up a comb on my dresser and running it through my mop.
"As much as I love seeing you in my jeans, and really—um, it's probably like, uh, the—hmm . . . I already sound like a pig, huh?"
"You sound cute," I say, turning to face him.
His eyes squint, and his lips are pinched like he's in pain.
"Okay, I can't—I'm gonna—"
"You're gonna . . .? How about you tell me another poem?"
"No more poems today, and I can't believe you stole my poetry. Thief." He thrusts a finger at me but seems to lose his conviction when he notices he's pointing at my breasts. He's blatantly staring. I follow his gaze and giggle. He is such a boy.
"Will you hand me some clothes?" I ask, putting him out of his awkward misery.
He turns, shaking his head in disbelief, walking to my dresser. He opens my underwear drawer and starts mumbling about that "Lucky bastard, Justin Bieber" and hippies. He's so adorable, but I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Mmm." He lifts his hand from the drawer, a pair of underwear—ones he really likes—dangling from his finger. He's smiling like a pervert; I love it.
I snatch the underwear from his hand, and he smacks me on the ass. I yelp, covering my butt and glaring, but the smile never leaves my face. I can't believe he just did that. Not that I'm complaining.
With merely a towel around his waist, he lies stomach-down on the bed, watching me as I wrench off his pants and get re-dressed.
While Masen's clothes spin in the dryer, we make dinner together. He's wearing a pair of my boxers and a senior ditch day t-shirt. How appropriate.
Just like every other time we've cooked together, we find a good rhythm and always seem to anticipate the other's needs. We don't even talk as we do it. We don't need to; it's comfortable. Something I've grown to love—our agreed upon happy silences.
But the silence comes to an end when Masen blurts, "I feel like I have to—mmm, apologize."
"For what?" I hold up a spoon for him to take a bite.
He chews thoughtfully, then points to the salt shaker. "I just feel like I've been—I don't know, a bit—too . . . ever since we . . ." He motions between the two of us, and I nod. I know what he means, but this is silly.
"You don't have to apologize. I wouldn't just fall into your arms if I didn't have the desire to. I want to, Masen. I want to be with you."
He rubs the back of his neck and licks his lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth.
He doesn't say anything, so I go back to the dinner. I add the salt to the macaroni and cheese and stir it again. He grips the pot for me and places it on the trivet.
"I want to be with you too." He's quiet, his fingers playing with his napkin as he sits down. When I sit across from him, I look into his eyes and see the reserved red-headed kid I met at the beginning of the school year—the one I knew I wanted to get to know. The one with a hint of flirtation and a dash of mystery—the best recipe for boy I'd ever come across, and I had to have a taste. I want to savor it, always.
Masen pulls me from my thoughts and apologizes again. "I shouldn't have said all those things to Angela. I just was—I don't know, feeling silly."
"I don't really care. It's fine."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The buzzer goes off on the dryer, and Masen changes in the bathroom, suddenly worried my dad will show up even though he's still a good twenty minutes away.
We eat salad while the macaroni cools off. Masen starts talking again about our ride with Angela. "I don't think the best thing about you is your tongue. I mean—I—of course I like it, but I just—that's not the only . . . I'm terrible at this."
"At what?"
"At saying what I should—what a boyfriend should—I—you're beautiful, and I never even . . . there's so much I love about you, Bella, so much."
"Oh." Wow.
"I . . . you inspire me. You give me all these ideas, and you let me just be me and never push, and I . . . it's great. You're great."
"Thank you. I think you're great too. And . . ."
"And?"
"Well, I hate to ruin the serious vibe here, but—"
"Please do; I feel like an ass." Masen spears an enormous amount of lettuce and crams it into his mouth.
I giggle and take another bite, thinking about how to say this without sounding crass. I don't really think there is a way, so I just do my best. "I think our apples are pretty freaking awesome too."
"They're so damn good," he agrees, nodding his head. "I've been thinking about something your dad said, and I think he's right."
"What's that?" I take a sip of water.
"Well, I—you're so patient, and you've got this humor about you that's—it's kind of—it's—"
"Stupid?"
"No, shut up. It's disarming or something. But I think it would be perfect for older kids . . . if you taught, I mean. There's so many smart-alecky kids that just get looked over, but you'd catch 'em, and you'd probably also catch kids like—"
"You?" I finish for him.
"Yeah."
"Is that a good thing?"
"You got me to open up."
"But I was interested in you." I purse my lips and think over his words, trying not to take him too seriously, but knowing that I am—and that I'll obsess over his words later tonight.
"You'll be interested in those kids too. Not in the same way, because, um, jail and all, but you'll know, and you can make a difference like you did with me."
"How have I made a difference?" I say, tone disbelieving.
"You have no idea, do you?"
I sit and wait, stunned.
"You're the reason I decided to leave. You—you made me feel like I . . . like I was good enough, worth it to get away. And now the ironic thing is I don't want to leave you."
The garage door opens, interrupting Masen's heartfelt thoughts. Dad walks in, stops in his tracks, and narrows his eyes. Masen is here, and we're unsupervised. Uh oh.
I lie, saying that Masen just showed up. What's one white lie when all I have are a few weeks with the boy I love? The boy who makes me feel amazing.
Dad doesn't believe me, but he also doesn't seem to care as he's stuffing his face with my homemade macaroni and cheese which, as it turns out, is fabulous.
-MD-
At school the next day, we're giddy—not outwardly groping each other and French kissing in the halls—but showcasing our love, for sure. Masen has taken to teasing me by spouting off poems while we walk, making me blush and wish the school day would end sooner rather than later. I don't get my wish; instead I get Masen stroking my fingers in English. Good enough for me.
His eyes are serious as he lays his head on the desk and concentrates on running his fingertip over my hand, slow and methodical. From this angle he looks different. Something's off about his lips. He smiles in response to my staring, and I watch as his bottom lip puffs out, swollen.
I run my thumb over it, and he kisses it. Damn his father.
When we're at his locker after class, I kiss his bottom lip. "I'm sorry about this."
"You should be," he says, filling his bag with the necessities. My mouth pops open in disbelief.
"I'm so sorry. We're you late again? Was he—"
"No, calm down. I'm fine."
I grit my teeth at those hated words.
When he speaks again his voice is smooth yet playful. "Seriously, Bella, you should be sorry because you did it before I had you in the shower, panting my name." His eyes roam my body, flirting on their own. He closes his locker and walks away with a glance over his shoulder—a sexy expression of arrogance—that nearly brings me to my knees. And I really wouldn't mind being on my knees. When will it be the weekend?
-MD-
On Sunday, Dad sits me down to have a chat. I wonder what he's going to talk about but notice the financial aid forms sitting on the coffee table. He pushes them toward me and points to my hair. I pull out the pen and begin to fill them out as he talks.
"You know I don't have much money, but I do plan to help you with expenses. I think if you stay here, you can save a lot of money as opposed to living, um, not here." He looks around awkwardly to avoid eye contact with me. "You are going to live here, right? Arizona, I mean."
"Mmm hmm."
"Good. It's cheap. Cheap is smart. And you don't want to do stupid things as a college student."
"Nope, I don't."
"Porch guy still going to California?"
I level Dad with a look, and he amends his question, swapping out "porch guy" for "Masen."
I reluctantly tell him that yes, Masen still plans on moving.
"He know what he's going to do with his degree yet?"
I assure him Masen has a plan which only reminds me that I don't, and that's depressing.
He sighs in relief and fidgets, rubbing the ring finger on his left hand. "Your mom and I . . . we were way too young when we got together."
"I know."
"And it just didn't work out."
"I know."
"I think if we'd waited a while or went to school first or something . . . maybe we could've worked."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Just make sure you think things through before making any big decisions, okay?"
"Okay." Decisions. I'm drowning in important decisions right now, ones that will most likely affect the rest of my life. I hate being an adult. It's too hard. Part of me wishes I'd stayed with my mom. I could just be a teacher's aid and get paid minimum wage while going to community college. I could easily put off a career choice for at least two years. That sounds heavenly, actually, except for the whole I'd never have met Masen part.
Dad pats me on the shoulder and sends me upstairs to finish filling out the forms. I sit on my bed and write out my date of birth, my social security number, and my address through tears. Am I really doing this? Moving forward, moving on . . . when Masen's moving away? It seems even in my indecision things are happening. I feel powerless to stop them, but I know I could if I really wanted to. Do I want to? I love Masen. That much I'm sure of. But is it enough? Can love get me through difficult times, through uncertainty? I don't know. I just don't know. So I cry. I think of all the advice from my friends, Dad, Masen, even my mother—mulling over it—and I cry. It's all I have the strength for.
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!
_ss77_ is possibly the sweetest person on Twitter. Perry is not only an editor but also a collaborator of the best sort. Mac makes sure my sex scenes use words that don't make her feel icky. She also eats the best meals known to man. This has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that it makes me jealous. Dinx loves Masen, and I love her.
Thank you readers, reviewers, tweeters, and pimpers. This journey is nearing its end, and it is bittersweet to say the least. Thank you for your encouragement and kind words and for loving Masen in every way possible. He loves you too.