"Come on!" I shout, leaning against the steering wheel as an old man in a Cadillac takes forever to make a left turn. Jacking the air conditioner to MAX, I need to cool my furious little ass down before I get there. After passing 9th Street, I worry I won’t be able to find the gallery. I've never even heard of it before. And then the thought hits me. Bridgit could've been bullshitting me. Lying about his location just so I'd leave. But as soon as I pass Stuart Street, I see a ritzy shop front with an arch of silver balloons and lime green streamers.
"Oh, God," I mutter as I double park my car beside a Mercedes-Benz Wagon. Off to the side of the archway, I spot Mason with a camera around his neck, snapping photos of a glamorously elegant woman with silvery blonde hair. She's wearing a tight-fitting and short navy dress and is holding a giant pair of scissors. A ribbon-cutting ceremony? Are you freaking kidding me?
Blood still boiling, I grab my neon parking ticket from earlier and get out of the car, slamming my door as loud as I can. It echoes down the street which draws a few stares from onlookers, but I don't care. Sticking the ticket underneath my windshield wiper, I reason that there's no use in being fined twice in one day. That'd be a record. Even for me.
"Hey!" I call as I approach the white-bricked facade of the art gallery. The entire building is nearly made up of all huge windows on the storefront. Mason doesn't hear me, so I repeat myself with more emphasis. "HEY!"
Turning toward me, Mason drops his eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and horror. I wonder what my own face looks like, but I guarantee it's not pleasant.
Marching over to him, I immediately start to feel underdressed. I'm wearing ripped jeans I threw on without even showering this morning and the remnants of last night's mascara. Not to mention, I had no time to run a brush through my wild hair. My black T-shirt is faded and torn on the sleeves, and my decent pair of Chuck Taylors are still full of sand from the beach Saturday night, so I’d slipped on a ratty pair. As I approach Mason who's rubbing elbows with this fancy woman, I become acutely aware of just how out-of-place I am right now.
"What is your problem?" I ask.
Mason opens his mouth, but words seem to fail him because he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry, was I not being clear?” I say, my tone bordering on demeaning. “What’s your problem?”
"Mason, who is this girl?" the silvery blonde woman chirps. I look at her and notice that she's even more impressive close-up, her face smooth as a baby's butt. Precisely the type of woman one would expect to throw a silver archway and champagne type of opening for her art gallery.
“Sorry, Marcy,” Mason answers. “Miss Stone is an acquaintance and—”
"An acquaintance?" I interrupt, nodding my head. Fine. If he wants to play it this way, right as rain by me. "An acquaintance you said you'd meet at nine o'clock." I rip the paper out of my bag and shove it at him. "Do you know how hard I worked on this?"
"Miss, we're in the middle of my opening here. It’s once-in-a-lifetime, and you're causing a scene. Don't you think you can bother Mr. Matthews another time?" She gives Mason a coy smile which causes my internal temperature to spike.
"Are you kidding me?" I can feel the venom dripping from my words, and even as I realize how shitty I'm being, I can't bring myself to stop. "Is this real life right now, Mason?" The disastrous side of me is pleasantly surprised to see his eyes dart between the two of us, not knowing which one of us to appease. And for the short time I've been aware of his existence in the world, this is the first time I've seen him nervous.
"Do you mind giving me just a minute, Marcy?" Mason gives her an apologetic smile as the rich bitch flips her hair behind one shoulder with a graceful sweep.
With a wide, solid grip, Mason grabs my elbow, the same one John had taken so firmly
at the concert last week. Guiding me back toward the street, Mason pulls me, leading me by my arm, his voice strained and hushed as if I'm some villain child of his. "What are you doing here?"
Shaking out of his grip, I throw my arms over my chest. "You freaking flaked on me. Do you know how hard I worked on this?" I wave the stapled sheets of paper in his face to be facetious.
"Look, I can explain—"
"I don't want your explanation," I whisper angrily. "I want your eyes to read my words. To tell me I did a good enough job for you to run this."
"I can't right now, Ellie. Zephyr is covering our advertising budget for the next six months, so this is a pretty important opening."
Nodding, I scoff. It makes sense now. "Right. I forgot it's all about the money with you," I say with a considerable eye roll.
“It is all about money when you’re running a business, yes, Ellie,” Mason snaps causing me to flinch. “Honestly, I didn’t think you would even show this morning.”
"What makes you say that?" I ask, my voice softer, edging toward offended. I look over and see Marcy staring at us with her hands on her hips, impulsively tapping the point of her stilettoed foot against the smooth pavement.
"No offense, Ellie. But you're sort of unpredictable," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Instinctively, I pat my back pocket feeling for my cigarettes until I remember Mason disposed of my last one. That was right before he kissed me. For the second time. Asshole.
“You don’t know me at all,” I say defiantly.
“Yeah, you’ve reminded me,” Mason quips. “And whose fault is that?”
I stare at him until I find a piece of light in the browns of his eyes. My anger starts to dissolve as I try to decipher his weighty expression— creased brow, clenched jaw, his cheeks red with morning sun. He looks almost accusatory, which is ridiculous given that he was the one who stood me up.
"Can you just read it really quick?" I ask, holding the paper out to him again, this time more gentle.
He looks back toward Marcy who raises her perfect eyebrows and holds her hands out in a questioning gesture. "I'm in the middle of a—"
"Please?" I whisper hard, pulling away from him, my heart heavy with embarrassment for even showing up here. "You said you'd do this."
Mason stares at me in disbelief. “Seems like that was a mistake.” Snatching the papers from my hand, he begins to skim the piece as I stand on the sidewalk in front of him in anticipatory silence.
When I sat down to write last night, something felt different. Both the passion I'd felt from the music and the soul-permeating connection with Mason at the Boxley Brother show the other night had fueled the entire piece. I wrote the words wanting to bring that same fire and spirit to Stars Over Southport. This press release, though not perfect, will at least get people excited about the festival.
"Sorry," he says, not even finishing it. With a sigh, he holds the papers back out to me. "I can't publish this."
"What?" I say, my heart cracking open. I mean, I know I'm not the most exceptional writer, but not once had it crossed my mind that my words wouldn't be good enough for him.
“I can’t publish this,” he repeats, still holding the papers out to me but I don’t take them.
"What do you mean? There's nothing bad about it. It's emotional and informational and interest—."
"Exactly. Emotional is an accurate word for it. Way too emotion for The Anchor. Our readers would hate it."
"No," I say aloud, not really speaking to him. Shaking my head, I feel my stomach clench in upset. I could get sick here on the sidewalk. "No, your readers are bullshit," I say talking more to myself.
He grimaces with a chuckle. "You're not wrong. But take this line," Mason says, clearing his throat. "The bands featured play an eclectic range of soul-numbing pieces that engage every piece of the listener's humanity into a single set. It's not just a festival, but an experience and an opportunity to see yourself in others around you, to engage with your surroundings, and to find answers for questions you didn't realize were being asked."
The words he reads sound foreign to me. I blink at him.
“It’s too muc
h,” he says, driving the point home.
I wonder whether or not Mason understands my inspiration for the segment, or if I even understood it while I was typing it. Despite everything, despite how much disdain I have for him in this moment, I know he gets it. Because that's what I felt as he sat there beside me in front of the Boxley Brothers.
"Fine." Grabbing the papers from his hand, I turn away heading for my double-parked car. As tears begin to rise in me, I sharply inhale to suppress the emotion. But as I grab the parking ticket from under my windshield wiper, I feel a steady hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t be upset,” Mason says, his face pulling down into a frown.
"I'm not," I lie, but the wavering tone of my voice is a sad, honest betrayal.
“You’re a good writer.”
Scoffing out of embarrassment, I shake my head. I had one freaking chance to land press for the festival, and I've blown it. Still trying to blink away my tears, I shrug. "I just thought you, of all people, would get it."
"I do," he says, reaching up to wipe an escaped tear from my cheek. "I promise, I get it."
"Well," I say, pulling away from him with a forced smile. "Sorry for ruining your fancy event with my emotional writing," I whisper, lilting over the words. Opening my car door, I turn to him for one last glimpse before I promise myself never to get involved with Mason Matthews again. "I won't bother you anymore."
When I climb into my car and lean over to pull the door shut, Mason steps toward me, blocking my car door from moving with his hip.
“I’ll write it,” he says quietly.
"What?" I feel my phone vibrate and realize it's nearly 9:30. Hank will fire me if I don't leave now.
"I'll do it. I can't publish what you wrote. But I'll do a release for you. I'll take care of it."
Looking up at him, I stare in blank confusion. "Why would you do that?"
“Because I’m sick of covering shit like this.” He jerks his head toward Marcy and her fancy balloon arch.
Still in disbelief, I lift my eyebrows. "If you could've done it, why ask me to write it at all?"
Mason runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he says. "I guess because it gave me a legit reason to see you again."
I continue to stare at him. I'm filled with the rage of him making me jump through hoops just because he wanted to see me again and the softness of how endearing that is.
"You still owe me a favor," Mason says pointing at me, his charming, self-assured smile returning. "Maybe two now."
I take a deep breath, regaining my composure, and press my hot cheek to my steering wheel. "What kind of favor?" I ask relieved, suspicious.
“Let me take you to dinner,” he says with all the sincerity in the world.
But after a stunt like this, is he serious? I search his eyes for some sign of banter, but his eyes are intense and warm, unnaturally wide today. "You're joking, right?"
"I'm not," he answers, straight-faced and pointed. "What do you say?"
"I say you've got to be kidding me," I stammer. "I'm forever grateful for the release and everything, but I'm not looking for anything like that. I mean, you and I. We're just friends and—"
Mason's laugh echoes down the sleepy street. "You kiss all your friends like that?" he asks.
"Uh, you kissed me if I remember correctly," I sneer, trying not to get too defensive. "And what if I do? That doesn't change things."
“You don’t.”
I blow a puff of air out and cross my arms over my chest. "You don't know me at all," I tell him for a second time this morning.
"And whose fault is that?" Mason smiles, his dimples becoming apparent. He glances back over his shoulder to where Marcy is standing, chatting with another woman and sipping champagne with a raised pinky.
"I need to get going. The fancy folk are waiting."
"So do I," I say, trying to pull the car door shut again. But Mason doesn't move.
"Press passes. You got any?" he asks.
"Yes. They're not ready yet, but I'll send some once everything's finalized. Only since you're serious about covering it."
"Good."
I don't know what he's lingering for, but it annoys me that he won't just spit out whatever it is he's trying to say.
Turning the key in the ignition, I start the car to give him the hint that I need to scoot or else risk Hank firing me for good.
"Wait a second, Ellie." He scrubs a hand over his jaw and lifts an eyebrow. Squatting down, he's suddenly eye level with me. "I think I'm going to need to call in that favor soon."
Chapter Twelve
Ellie
"This may come as a shock to you. But it's been a while since I was a sixteen-year-old girl," I say to Mason as we walk through The Cotton Exchange in Downtown Wilmington. The exposed brick building is open to the outside through connected shops, nestled side-by-side into an enormous, historic brick building. A warm afternoon breeze wafts between us as we weave through a group of locals.
"I realize that," he says, placing his hand on the small of my back as he guides me through the door of the next shop— a tiny boutique called Leather Over Lace. "But you were a high school girl much more recently than I was."
Though he probably doesn't mean the gesture as something romantic, it feels nice to be close to him like this— enjoying each other's company less dramatically than had preceded us.
The ride to Wilmington had been quick. To my complete surprise, we’d spent it in enjoyable conversation. We talked mostly about Stars Over Southport as I fielded his questions about the volunteers, vendors and bands, how everything is going to be set up, and who this Charlie guy is that's running it. I figured I'd pretty much run the festival into the ground with him lately, so I was surprised that his questions kept coming.
"Plus, I think Beth would appreciate your," he clears his throat, "aesthetic."
Turning, I stare at him, a beguiling grin on my lips. My current aesthetic is my white, dusty converse sneakers, a heather navy T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a frayed pair of high-waisted jean shorts. My wild hair is pulled up into a loose top-knot, and I have a touch of mascara on my eyelashes. That's it. A real looker, if I do say so myself. "Aesthetic?" I ask sarcastically. "Really?"
He laughs. "You know what I mean. You have that cute, carefree hipster vibe going on. And Beth happens to be in her hipster phase."
"Hipster?" I quietly accuse him as I finger a few of the miniature clay ring dishes that line the shelves to my right. If this is his idea of hipster style, he must be blind to it. "Is that what you think this is? A phase I'm in?" I chuckle.
With a ridiculous grin, he shakes his head.
Moving to the accessory table, I eye the different rolled-up belts. "I can't believe of all the possible favors in the world, this is the one you ask of me." I pick up a pair of round, metallic sunglasses and try them on, turning to him. Peeking over the shades, I flash him my eyes. "What makes you think I'll find a better birthday present for your sister than you can?"
"You seem creative. You also said no to dinner, so you didn't leave me with much of a choice."
Overtop the rack of indigo-dyed tops, I watch as Mason edges toward the back of the boutique where two teenage girls are giggling and inspecting a shelf of Wilmington-made wheel thrown coffee mugs. He skims the rest of the pottery and moves over to the jewelry displays with the effortless grace of someone who doesn't realize the effect he has on the people around him. A group of chattering middle-aged women parts leaving Mason to move past them with ease. The girl at the cash register stares at him adoringly, a little smirk plastered on her lips. She walks around from behind the counter and meets him by the display of summer scarves hanging on the wall.
"Do you need any help today, sir?" I hear her ask.
Losing myself in thought, I thumb through a rack of crocheted and leather vests over in the corner of the shop. John had been the same as Mason, attracting female attention wherever he went. But there is one subtle difference. John was
never oblivious to the attention. He thrived off of it.
Pulling an interesting cream-colored lace vest from the rack, I head toward the mirror in front of a makeshift dressing room that's drawn with a paisley curtain. Holding the crocheted vest up, I cock my head at myself in the mirror. It's cute, and I love the fringe on it. But I'm pretty sure I have something similar at home.
Suddenly, Mason appears behind me in the mirror. Swooping his arms around me from behind, he wraps me up with a tight hug and places his chin on my shoulder causing every single inch of me to freeze. "Play along with me," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "I told her you were my girlfriend." In the mirror, I see him throw his glance over toward the cashier girl who had offered him help just minutes earlier. She rounds her side of the counter and is playing with a swift tack gun. When I inconspicuously glance over at her, she's not even trying to hide her stare.
"I like this," he says loud enough for the girl to hear, a hint of naughtiness in his voice. "This looks like something my beautiful girlfriend would love." He pulls the vest from where it's clutched at my chest and holds it out in front of us still on the hanger.
Though this isn't real, I can't help but smile lopsided at him as he locks eyes with me in the mirror. I am speechless, completely robbed of all my common sense. But his gentle hold on me, the tender depth of his eyes— it urges me to keep up with his charade even though this feels nothing like one. At least not to me. Pulling myself from my stalling reverie, I grin a little harder. "It is," I say sweetly, feeling the tiniest pang of guilt for enjoying this so much. "Your girlfriend does, in fact, love this vest." The words sound foreign rolling off my tongue. Your girlfriend. But something about the phrase feels satisfying— like tasting honeysuckle for the first time as a kid in the deep shade of summer. Mason's girlfriend. The words taste like they're mine, like they belong to me.
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