Page 100 of Thirst For Me
I don’t know what to make of that. After we had sex at the cottage, I told him it would be best if he didn’t stay over, and he went home.
“Me neither,” I say. “I did have a realization. Wanna hear it?”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Maybe. I realize that you really meant it when you said I’m a formidable opponent. And you really think that the meme and what Kyle’s family did to me is a crock of shit. You were nicer to me than he was, about all of it.” I’m staring into the fire, and I blink back the water in my eyes that insists on returning. “And even if he’s trying to make up for it now by trying to be nicer to me so he can uphold his opinion of himself, you fixed my ice machine and you didn’t have to do that. It was very cool.”
I don’t want to lay too much gratitude on him all at once, so I add, “I even forgive you for ruining that three-legged race for me.”
He doesn’t laugh like I think he might.
“You are a formidable opponent,” he says seriously.
I take a breath. “June turned me down for the lease. She won’t be extending it. I won’t be staying.”
Mason doesn’t say anything for a moment, and my words hang heavily in the air between us.
When I look at the side of his face, his eyes are downcast. Maybe I want to ask him about the offer he made June, and when that happened, and why he didn’t tell me. But maybe I don’t.
He doesn’t bring it up.
So, I don’t, either.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get what you want.” He looks in my eyes. “You deserved to win.”
I laugh. “It would be nice. Just to win atsomething.”
He glances at the ribbons still pinned to my chest. “I think you win a lot more than you give yourself credit for.”
I look away. “Not at the things that matter.”
Silence falls between us again.
Layne starts playing U2’s “All I Want Is You” on his guitar, and it’s so hauntingly bittersweet, I push to my feet. “I think I need to go to bed. Sleep off the cider.”
I don’t even say goodbye.
I just turn and make my way up the sand toward the beach walk. And I know Mason is with me. I hear him. Ifeelhim.
“You don’t have to walk me home,” I tell him, but he does anyway.
Together, we walk along the path, where paper lanterns made in the kids’ craft tent today now dangle from every possible tree and bush.
“Maybe you could help me out here,” he says after a moment. “So I know whether to offer a shoulder to cry on or just tell you to forget him.” Our eyes meet briefly. “How serious was it? Your relationship with your ex.”
I guess he thinks that’s what I’m really upset about?
But I don’t correct him.
“That is a great question, Mason Grant. I thought it was serious. We were together for three years, but we didn’t even live together. He had his place, I had mine.”
“What’s your place in the city like?”
I think about it and all that comes out is: “Cold. I actually don’t spend a lot of time there.”
The concept of “home” hovers in the back of my mind. Where the hell is mine?
“June said home is the place where you feel most like yourself,” I say. “How fucked-up is it that I don’t know where that is anymore?”
