hiding your new girl from us?”
Mason shut his eyes, and I had the strangest sense that he was trying to hurdle over some sort of conflicting emotion. He drew in a slow breath, and his guitar, which hung by a strap on his
shoulder, swung forward as his chest expanded. In his exhale and with his eyes still closed, he said, “This is not my girlfriend. This is Maggie, Ben’s friend. She’s blind.”
His words were overly measured and overly quiet and overly enunciated, and I could hear implied air quotes when he said “Ben’s friend” and “blind.” Which totally
infuriated me. Why did Mason always have to think the worst of me? Why couldn’t he
ever
give me the benefit of the doubt?
I focused my gaze in the general vicinity of Tattoo Guy, and, forcing a smile and doing my best not to speak through my teeth, I said to the boy, “Nice to meet you. And you are...?”
I knew Mason’s eyes were open now because I could feel the heat coming off of them. And I couldn’t care less. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this sort of outrage
clawing its way out of me—years ago, maybe, while fighting with my mother?—and it left me feeling dangerously out of control.
Tattoo Guy, looking oddly entertained by the animosity in the room, smirked and said, “David Slater. Pleasure to meet you, m’ lady.” He swooped a palm out in front of himself
and bowed theatrically, as though he were so grandiose that even the blind could see him.
The pierced-up kid rolled his eyes at David. Clearing his throat, he held both arms out, like he was a gift or something, and announced grandly, “But more importantly? I’m Carlos
Santiago, keyboard virtuoso.” He cuffed the shy-looking kid on the shoulder. “And this is Gavin Alexander.”
Members of the Loose Cannons. I recognized their names, even though I’d never actually seen them.
I nodded a shocked hello.
Mason threw the guitar on his bed. The strings made a discordant sound when they struck his pillow. Then he said two words, and two words only. They were directed at me through tight lips:
“Get out.”
That was when I knew I was going to tell Mason the truth.
Right now.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take his accusations, and I couldn’t take his holier-than-thou attitude, and I couldn’t take his snide tone. I’d spent the
past several months learning how to be a person again, for Christ’s sake. Learning how to match my clothes, pour my own milk, find my way to my goddamn room. I’d had to figure out how
to
live
. And Mason? He had everything and he didn’t even give a shit.
I straightened my spine, leaned forward, stabbed an index finger in his direction, and said in a low, menacing tone, “You think you know what’s really going on, you arrogant,
self-absorbed sonofabitch? You have
no
.
freaking
.
clue
.”
He grabbed my hand and leaned toward me, daring me to continue. We were too close to each other—a couple inches. Energy ricocheted fiercely between us, and there was something burning
behind the amber flakes in his eyes, something I’d never seen before, an ache and a fury.
“There you are, Thera! You get lost?” Ben bellowed from the doorway, breaking the spell as he swung into the room. “Oh, hey, guys.”
Mason’s grip sprung free from me and we both took clumsy steps away from each other.
There was an awkward silence, which then stretched into a painfully awkward silence. David cleared his throat, the corners of his lips turned up, and then offered his fist to Ben and said,
“Hey, broseph.”
Ben, crutches and all, gracelessly fist-bumped David, and then he said to Mason, “Please tell me the band didn’t come here to rehearse.”
Mason sighed and knuckled his forehead. “Gavin’s neighbors complained about the noise last week, so, yes, we’re rehearsing here tonight.”
Ben lifted his chin. “I hereby complain about the noise,” he proclaimed, and Mason scoffed. Ben leaned toward his brother.
Mason shut his eyes, and I had the strangest sense that he was trying to hurdle over some sort of conflicting emotion. He drew in a slow breath, and his guitar, which hung by a strap on his
shoulder, swung forward as his chest expanded. In his exhale and with his eyes still closed, he said, “This is not my girlfriend. This is Maggie, Ben’s friend. She’s blind.”
His words were overly measured and overly quiet and overly enunciated, and I could hear implied air quotes when he said “Ben’s friend” and “blind.” Which totally
infuriated me. Why did Mason always have to think the worst of me? Why couldn’t he
ever
give me the benefit of the doubt?
I focused my gaze in the general vicinity of Tattoo Guy, and, forcing a smile and doing my best not to speak through my teeth, I said to the boy, “Nice to meet you. And you are...?”
I knew Mason’s eyes were open now because I could feel the heat coming off of them. And I couldn’t care less. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this sort of outrage
clawing its way out of me—years ago, maybe, while fighting with my mother?—and it left me feeling dangerously out of control.
Tattoo Guy, looking oddly entertained by the animosity in the room, smirked and said, “David Slater. Pleasure to meet you, m’ lady.” He swooped a palm out in front of himself
and bowed theatrically, as though he were so grandiose that even the blind could see him.
The pierced-up kid rolled his eyes at David. Clearing his throat, he held both arms out, like he was a gift or something, and announced grandly, “But more importantly? I’m Carlos
Santiago, keyboard virtuoso.” He cuffed the shy-looking kid on the shoulder. “And this is Gavin Alexander.”
Members of the Loose Cannons. I recognized their names, even though I’d never actually seen them.
I nodded a shocked hello.
Mason threw the guitar on his bed. The strings made a discordant sound when they struck his pillow. Then he said two words, and two words only. They were directed at me through tight lips:
“Get out.”
That was when I knew I was going to tell Mason the truth.
Right now.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take his accusations, and I couldn’t take his holier-than-thou attitude, and I couldn’t take his snide tone. I’d spent the
past several months learning how to be a person again, for Christ’s sake. Learning how to match my clothes, pour my own milk, find my way to my goddamn room. I’d had to figure out how
to
live
. And Mason? He had everything and he didn’t even give a shit.
I straightened my spine, leaned forward, stabbed an index finger in his direction, and said in a low, menacing tone, “You think you know what’s really going on, you arrogant,
self-absorbed sonofabitch? You have
no
.
freaking
.
clue
.”
He grabbed my hand and leaned toward me, daring me to continue. We were too close to each other—a couple inches. Energy ricocheted fiercely between us, and there was something burning
behind the amber flakes in his eyes, something I’d never seen before, an ache and a fury.
“There you are, Thera! You get lost?” Ben bellowed from the doorway, breaking the spell as he swung into the room. “Oh, hey, guys.”
Mason’s grip sprung free from me and we both took clumsy steps away from each other.
There was an awkward silence, which then stretched into a painfully awkward silence. David cleared his throat, the corners of his lips turned up, and then offered his fist to Ben and said,
“Hey, broseph.”
Ben, crutches and all, gracelessly fist-bumped David, and then he said to Mason, “Please tell me the band didn’t come here to rehearse.”
Mason sighed and knuckled his forehead. “Gavin’s neighbors complained about the noise last week, so, yes, we’re rehearsing here tonight.”
Ben lifted his chin. “I hereby complain about the noise,” he proclaimed, and Mason scoffed. Ben leaned toward his brother.
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