Page 117 of Shamed
“You’re . . .” I shake my head at a loss for words.This man. “Thank you.”
If I say it’s too much, he’ll just tell me it’s no big deal.
I wonder if helping is as natural for him as speaking.
We each pick at the snacks he laid out, and though we’ve sat in comfortable silence many times before, it feels deafening tonight, my thoughts particularly wild and loud.
“Will you tell me about your mom?” I ask, looking for a distraction. Plus, I’m curious about the woman who raised this wonderful man. “What happened after she was kicked out of her parents’ home?”
Mase leans back on the couch, puffing his cheeks, then releasing a slow breath. I almost regret asking. Maybe it’s too hard to talk about.
“If that’s not something—”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t know all the details, but I know she went to a friend’s place for a bit, until they found out she was pregnant and asked her to leave. Then she bounced around from shelter to shelter, trying to stay away from child services, because she was worried they would take me away once I was born.”
God, I can’t even imagine having to go through that at such a young age, especially after being assaulted.
Mase takes my hand and rests it on his lap, absently massaging my fingers like this is something we do all the time. In another lifetime, one where I wasn’t the destroyer of lives, maybe we could have.
I swallow, letting his fingers soothe some of the tension in my soul.
“At one point, she was at a group home with other women. They let her stay for free, but she had to do all the cooking and cleaning. But they always had friends over, or friends of friends, and people were constantly coming and going. So, not the best situation. She hated the revolving door of guests, particularly when it was men.”
I turn my hand over and squeeze his. “I get that.”
A sad smile tugs the side of his mouth as he glances at me. “Yeah, I guess you would.”
“Was she living there when she had you?”
“Yeah.” He leans his head against the back of the couch. “She was drawing back then, and managed to sell some sketches, but it wasn’t much. She ended up getting a job at a shitty diner, who paid her cash, just so she could be out of the house more often. After I was born, she had no choice but to keep working to pay for me, and had to leave me with one of the other mothers who lived there.”
“At least she had a bit of help there.”
“Mm, until one of the other ladies’guestsslipped into her room one night and tried to touch her. She screamed so loud the whole house woke up. Then, she packed me up and left.”
The mug freezes halfway to my mouth, and I whip my head around to face him. “What? Oh my god, Mase.”
He nods, chewing on his lip. “She ended up on her parents’ doorstep, and they let her stay for a few months. I don’t remember the details after that, but the next encounter with her parents was when I was four, and I know we were living by ourselves by then.”
“God, I don’t even . . .” I shake my head, not sure of what to say.
He hums, like he understands what I’m feeling. “After those experiences, she hated being around groups of people and found it hard to leave the house. She spent her time at home, drawing and selling her sketches online to anyone she could. It wasn’t until I was in my early teens that the symptoms of her disease started.”
And then he started taking care of her, feeling like he owed it to her for everything she went through. Or maybe he was already doing that as a kid, because I can totally see that, too.
We sit in silence for a moment while I process all he just said.
“So, that’s why you started doing the defense classes, and why you want to open your own place to help women. Your mom.”
The small smile on his handsome face is answer enough, and I have to look away before his beautifully dark and intense eyes bury too deep into my soul.
Leaning forward, I lift the tea to my mouth for something to do, then feel his palm land on my back. Ever since we left the gym, there’s barely been a moment when he hasn’t been touching me.
I don’t know if it’s because he realized that I don’t mind being touched by him, or if he’s just finally allowing himself to do it. Maybe it’s both.
Either way, the guilt continues crawling its way up from my gut to my throat, then into the back of my eyes, where they burn with unshed tears.
This man, indeed.He deserves so much more than he realizes.
