Page 75 of Please Open Me
She shrugged. “Your girlfriend doesn’t complain.”
… Had I ever come off like this to anyone?
No. No way. I might be broody, sure—but I was otherwise charming. Mattie was just obstinate.
But Mason seemed to like her well enough. And because of that, I couldn’t exactly demand they break up. Even if Mattiewasa cultist.
So I’d have to go the classic route: dig up dirt, find something incriminating, and let the truth do the dirty work. Like any normal, concerned boyfriend would.
I cleared my throat, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. Suddenly, a thought clicked into place.
“Hey,” I said.
Mattie glanced over at me, cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, smoke curling up toward the roof.
“Why don’t you want me lumping you in with the rest of the cult?”
Chapter 19
Mason
I tried not to be a hateful person. Cameron and I had agreed on that during a late-night conversation: in this life, we only had so much energy, and wasting it on hate didn’t make sense. If someone pissed me off, I wouldn’t dwell. Simple.
But there were still a few things I hated.
One: Mommy bloggers who turned their kids into profit.
Two: waking up in bed alone.
And as my fingers grazed the cooling sheets, I realized Mattie was gone. My stomach knotted painfully as I propped myself on my elbows.
The room was dim, lit only by the stained-glass butterfly on my shelf. Royal blue and amber shards stretched across the walls, making the emptiness feel sharper. I pulled my knees to my chest and checked the time.
Just after six. Too early to bother Lucian. Just early enough to bother Cameron. Not that I was sure I wanted Luci’s company anyway. He’d been off lately—more fights with his baby mama, and after that night with him and Seb, I was certain he was using again. I asked, and he swore he was sober, even offered to piss in a cup, then got angry when I didn’t believe him. I hadn’t had the energy to argue.
Curling up with Cam sounded a hell of a lot better than dealing with Lucian right now.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, carpet soft under my fuzzy, aloe-infused socks, and closed my eyes as a sharp, concrete-heavy nausea surged—one hand shot to my stomach, the other to my mouth.
Breathe. Slow. Through the nose.
With Rosie, the morning sickness had been relentless, striking anytime I dared to be even a little hungry. I’d let myself hope this time might be different.Apparently not.
I opened my texts with Cameron. Usually, our threads were me talking while he sent thumbs-up emojis and endless pictures of Rosie. Lately, we’d been sneaking awful photos of Seb back and forth, too—blurry, unflattering, guaranteed to piss him off if he ever found out. I loved every one of them. Lovedthem.
I typed a half-assed request for a granola bar and water, then stopped. I wasn’t pregnant enough yet to ask for favors. Hell, for twenty-six weeks with Rosie, I’d been a prisoner in my father’s house. Meals rationed. Forced workouts. Nausea ignored. I could ignore this, too.
Through spite alone, I trudged upstairs to Cameron’s room.
He sat on the edge of his bed, tugging on socks. Normally, Seb was sprawled beside him, but the bed was empty. My gaze darted to Rosie’s crib—also empty.
“Where’s the baby?” My voice cracked sharper than intended.
Cam’s head snapped up, a lazy smile curling his lips.
“She wasn’t big on sleep last night. Seb took her, they’re probably in her room.” He shifted his legs toward me but didn’t stand. “Come here, Mama.”
The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. Not because of the nickname—he called me Mama constantly, hoping Rosie would too. He said I’d risked everything to get her here, so it was only right.
