How We Deal With Gravity(30)

“Hey, stranger,” Mason says, his feet propped up on the edge of the table. He’s a little buzzed—I can tell. He’s playing with his phone, not really looking at me, but the sloppy smirk on his face shows he’s aware I’m here. He’s wearing an old pair of Converse, black jeans that fit tight to his legs and gather at his shoes, and a V-neck white T-shirt. Even though he smells mostly of beer, I also pick up his cologne underneath—rich and woodsy. I like it. I like it more than I should.

I also like his haircut. I’ve noticed it a few times tonight. It’s short around his neck, like it used to be. There’s still a wave in the top, and it flops a little in his face, but not quite as much as it did before the cut.

He’s watching me over his phone. I can see his eyes move to me every so often, and I just smile and continue on with my work. His attention scares the hell out of me, because I know how quickly it can latch on to someone else. But for now, I give myself this little moment. Right now, slightly drunk, Mason Street finds me pretty enough to flirt with, and damn it, I am.

“Do you ever just stop?” Mason asks, pushing his phone back into his pocket and dropping his feet to the ground. He leans forward on his elbows, looking at me across the table. His arms flex slightly, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his bicep and the tattoo.

“What’s with the tiger?” I ask, changing the subject entirely.

“He was a makeup tattoo. Covering up something stupid I got when I was drunk once in Vegas. You didn’t answer my question.” He moves over a seat, so he’s closer to me, and I shift my tray to my other hip, just to add a barrier. He notices, and his lip curls up on the side in a devious grin.

“I know. I’m avoiding it,” I say back. He’s not going to charm me—this girl can dish it, and take it.

He sits back in his chair, and folds his arms now, propping a foot back up along the side of the table. He’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, and I’m just waiting for him to come back with a second round. I keep loading up my tray, and when it’s full, I turn to leave. I’m almost free when Mason catches up to me and walks me to the bar.

“I probably should have asked that differently,” he says, pulling the tray from my hands and putting the dirties in the bin before handing it back to me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Avery. Not a girl in her twenties, anyways. You just go and go and go. And I was just thinking, you never take time to just stop—and to just be.”

I’m sure the face I’m making back at him isn’t flattering, but really…that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can I just be?

“You know what kind of girl does that?” I say, moving in a little closer just so Mason knows he doesn’t intimidate me. “A vapid one, without a kid, and who is planning a beach-house getaway with her girlfriends. That girl is a fairytale, Mason. Make-believe. Us real women? We have responsibilities—and we put other people first. Because it’s the right thing to do. So no—no, I don’t just ever…stop. Too much depends on me going.”

I can actually feel my hands shaking I’m so flustered by this conversation. All I want to do is smash my tray in his face and race off to the locker area to lie down and breathe. But I can’t.

I can’t, because somewhere in the midst of my rant, Mason grabbed my hand with his, and now all I can freaking focus on is the feeling of his thumb lightly grazing my fingers and how much it makes me want to burst into tears.

“One drink, right before close. That’s all I’m asking,” Mason says, his eyes boring into mine like lasers. “I’m not saying pick up and go backpacking across Europe. I’m just asking you to take a break, for once in your life. Have a beer with the guys and me while Ray closes up. We’ll shoot some pool, or throw some darts. Twenty minutes, and then you can go back to living for everyone else.”

Mason’s hand is still on mine, and my brain is tangled from the many emotions being mixed like a blender inside my chest. Whatever the cause, I nod yes slowly, and slide my hand from his.

“So, yeah? After the show tonight—we’ll hang out? Just for one drink?” Mason’s walking backward, and he’s looking at me like he used to in my dreams. This entire week has been surreal, and I’m capping it off with a far-fetched fantasy. My smile is cautious, but it’s genuine. I’ve taken a leap—and there’s the possibility that I’ll go home to Claire tonight, and cry for an hour. Or, maybe I won’t cry. Maybe I won’t cry at all, but rather...

And I hate that feeling almost more than any other—I recognize it, it’s hope. Goddamned Mason Street has given me hope. He better not crush it.



Mason



I’m not that drunk. I’m pretty sure Avery thinks I’m as blitzed as Ben or the other guys. But I’m not even close. I had three or four beers, which for me is nothing. I’m in full control of this. I’ve watched that girl avoid me all night—and I know she was avoiding me. My mom’s not very good at secrets, and she asked me outright why Avery was so bent on her handling us boys tonight. I told her that Avery didn’t get along with Ben, but I know it’s also because she doesn’t want to be around me. Not after I watched her cry, and almost kissed away her tears.

The lights are coming on, and the jukebox music is the only thing left in the bar. Josh and Matt are nearly passed out at the table. I’m going to have to call them a cab to take them back to their apartment. Ben’s handling his liquor pretty well, but he’s busy flirting with the last girl who performed. I told him she didn’t look like his kind of girl—she was pretty innocent looking, more of a girlfriend kind of girl—but he didn’t care. He never does.