What is happening?
“No?” he asks, disbelieving. He runs a rough hand down his face. I catch the slight tremble in it. “Jesus Christ. Why do you even have this? Do you fucking watch it? Do you and your mates sit around and get off on this together?”
I gape at him, expecting him to recoil at his own words. To apologize and take them back, but he doesn’t. He stares at me with nothing but disgust and anger swelling in his eyes. Maybe a hint of sadness. A shred of what I’m feeling.
I’m having a nightmare. This can’t be real.
I ball up my fists as tears spill onto my cheeks. “No, we don’t. I have it so he doesn’t have it. I took it months ago, after it was filmed, months ago. I’ve never watched it. What is wrong with you?”
He gestures at the T.V., bending to get closer. “I just watched you getting fucked by someone else. You. And you’re going to ask what’s wrong with me? I just saw another man having his hands on you, his dick in you, and the woman I care about more than anything getting off on it. I just watched you fucking come!”
“You were never supposed to see that! I forgot I even had it. Jesus Christ,” I cry, wiping at my face, my entire body trembling. “I don’t even remember that guy’s name.”
I regret it the second the words fall past my lips.
I know how this sounds. Careless. Even worse than that.
His eyes widen. Mouth slack as he straightens a bit. “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better, Brooke. You make these tapes with just anyone, yeah? Are there more in your room? Or do you keep them out here for everyone to watch?”
Flinching, I look away. “Stop,” I plead, whimpering quietly against my hand.
Please, stop.
“Christ. Did you . . .” Mason’s harsh voice trails off. He moves to turn away but I grip his shoulder, forcing him to look at me.
I know. I don’t know how, but I know what he wants to ask me. And if he has the balls to think it, he can fucking . . .
“Say it,” I urge, my lip quivering, my rage consuming me. “What were you going to say? Say it!”
My hands push and pull at his chest. I can’t decide what I want, him closer or far enough away I can’t hit him. I’m so mad, so shattered. I want him to comfort me and then stand there and take my abuse.
“Fucking say it, Mason!”
Fat tears stream steadily down my face.
He looks down at me, his own eyes brimming now. “Did you tell me all of that just so I would fuck you?”
“What do you think?” I ask him, but I can’t hear my own voice. It’s so quiet compared to the blood rushing in my veins. To my heartbeat pounding in my skull.
I want to scream and scream. I want to wake up.
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
Mason looks away. He doesn’t say a word, but the answer I hear is so fucking loud it rings in my ears and reminds me just how real this is. I’m not stuck in a dream, or a nightmare.
I’m awake. I’m awake and I’m alone. Drowning.
I cry silently, my shoulders shaking. “I did,” I whisper, grabbing his stare, which goes from shock to crippling grief in an instant.
Why? I’m only confirming what he thinks.
I tilt my wobbling chin up to get closer. “I did. It was all a lie. All of it. Everything I said to you. Everything I gave. When I chose you . . .” I sob, sniffing and weeping in my sorrow.
I don’t even care. God, let him see me like this. Let him see what he’s done.
He nods, turning away and wiping at his own face now. “Fine.” He moves with purpose toward the door, his feet heavy on the carpet.
I follow behind. “You think it. It must be true. Nothing mattered to me. Our dates and that night in the tent. Yesterday and the day before and the day before that. So go! Leave! Get out knowing you meant nothing and I hate you! I will hate you for this!”
He pauses at the door, his head lowered and his hand gripping the knob. His shoulders lifted in tension. His back shaking.
This is it. That one second we have to take everything back. To tell the truth and admit our wrongs. To forgive and move forward.
To make this nothing more than a nightmare.
Reach for me. Reach for me. Take me. Don’t let me go.
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Nothing, but a whimpering cry.
Without a sound, without giving me another look or word or pleading glance, Mason swings the door open and exits the condo.
Probably for the last time.
I dart across the room and fling myself into bed, letting my tears fall. I cry for hours, clutching at my pillow, biting and screaming into it until my voice cracks and my throat burns.
The pain, God, the pain in my chest. This ache. I feel like I’m dying.
How could he say those things? How could he even think them?
Mason.