I muffle my laugh against my hand. I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.
I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose this.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.
It is the only thing that matters.
Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.
But I can’t stop smiling.
I can’t stop smiling.
Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.
After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.
The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.
I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.
God bless car chargers.
When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.
It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.
His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.
Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.
This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.
I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.
But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.
So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.
It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.
I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.
Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.
I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.
I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.
And one early this morning.
She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.