Page 69 of Z For Butterfly Man
“But he didn’t let you. I know. I was there.”
“Why didn’t you tell them what really happened? You could have exposed our secret, thrown Shane under the bus to save yourself.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he leans back in the chair. “No one would’ve believed me anyway.”
“You could’ve tried.”
“Blue made me look guilty. The photos, the timing, the way he set it all up. You told the truth, and he made them all think that you were just scared of me. He had them all wrapped around his finger. Blue, their fucking golden boy.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? If I’d just listened to you…”
“You can’t keep beating yourself down like that. And this?” He points at my slit wrists. “How could you do this to yourself, Reagan?”
“How could I not?” The words sit heavily on my tongue. “After what happened… You say it’s not my fault. How come I was the one who got punished for it all?”
He just stares at me.
“You got a slap on the wrist and got exiled. Big deal.” My voice cracks. “I got kicked out of the clubhouse because it wasn’tsafefor me anymore. As if my home was ever safe.”
Mason’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“The beatings came back.” I close my eyes, but that doesn’t stop the memories. My mother’s fists. Her boots. The belt. The words that cut deeper than any physical wound. “If I thought I had it bad before, it was ten times worse. She punished andblamed me for everything. For being a whore. For ruining her reputation. For existing.”
“Reagan—”
“And Shane.” His name tastes like bile. “He stopped protecting me. Stopped standing up to my mother. Stopped caring. Shane, who swore to protect me no matter what, who promised to take care of it all, he’s the one who told Prez to kick me out of the clubhouse. It’s my punishment because I refused to lie to save his ass or give him the freedom to fuck whoever he wanted from the club bunnies without my knowing or nagging.”
As if I wanted anything to do with him after what he’d done.
As if I could bear to look at him after—
Something inside my chest cracks wide open. The pain is so visceral, so consuming, I have to press my hand against my sternum to keep from breaking apart. I swallow hard, forcing down the grief that threatens to drown me. The loss that has no name. The pieces they ripped out of me.
“Reagan.” Mason’s voice is gentler now. He pulls the chair closer and sits, his elbows resting on his knees. “Listen to me. What’s done is done, but you have your whole life ahead of you. Summer is almost over. Junior year is a few days away. You’ll have two years to get your diploma and get the hell out of there.”
A broken, bitter laugh scrapes out of my throat. “Two years. You say that like it’s nothing. Like I can just suck it up for two years.”
“I know it’s not—”
“You don’t know anything. Two years might as well be two centuries.”
Mason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He sets it on the table beside my bed.
I squint at it. “What’s that?”
“Key to my place. If things get rough—rougher than you can take—you can crash there anytime. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. You need a place to go, you’ve got one.”
I stare at the key like it's an alien. “Why are you being nice to me? You don’t owe me anything, Mason. If anything, you should hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Reagan. You did nothing wrong. It was all his fault. You gotta start believing that.”
I reach for the key, turning it over in my palm. The metal is cold, solid, real. “Thank you, Mason.”
Pity drops from his gaze as he nods. I hate this feeling, being pitied, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, I see something else written all over his face.
