Large hands squeeze my shoulders. “Brooke.”
My stomach drops. I look up at the person holding onto me, but I don’t need to. I know that voice. That low, relaxed voice. It pours over me like sap sticking to a tree. My bones suddenly feel heavier.
Mason studies me with parted lips and absorbing eyes. “God, I’m . . .” he pauses, moving his hands down my arms, squeezing gently. “It’s really good to see you.”
I blink up at him. “You’re here,” I whisper in disbelief, looking all over his face, waiting for him to vanish and for this to be just another layer of my nightmare. A cruel joke my heart is playing on me.
“Where else would I be?” he asks, smiling a little. “It’s Tuesday.”
My lip quivers. I don’t know what to make of this.
He’s here. He’s here, and he’s touching me. He’s smiling. The man who wouldn’t listen to me, who would barely look at me three nights ago.
The man who believes I never loved him and that everything I said was a lie. He’s here.
I wished and wished and wished for this, and now I suddenly can’t breathe.
I step back and his hands fall away.
“I can’t do this,” I utter, pushing past him and darting across the street.
I don’t know how to do this.
“Brooke!” Mason’s voice calls out behind me. He sounds urgent. I know he’s following.
And I run faster.
I pass the coffee shop, dashing in between people walking on the sidewalk. Knocking into several of them and blurting out an apology between hasty breaths.
Mason calls out again behind me. He sounds closer.
Tears sting my eyes as I push myself to move, to not let him catch up.
What am I supposed to say to him? I want to collapse into his arms and I want to scream into his face. I want him to hold me and I can’t stomach the thought of him touching me. I’m so confused. He isn’t supposed to be here.
Why is he here?
My breath is stolen from my lungs when my toe catches on something. The crack in the sidewalk. I don’t see it. I go down hard, smacking the concrete with my hands bracing my weight and my knee dragging along the cement.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” I cry, rolling onto my side and pulling my knee to my chest. The pain is instant and unforgiving. Flesh is torn open. My hands burning and cut up from the concrete, blood beading on my palms, but my knee, Jesus, my knee feels like it’s on fire.
“Fuck! Ow. Ow. Ow.”
Mason crouches down beside me, a bit winded. Concern tightening his features.
“Shit. You all right? Let me see. Come here.” He tries to slide my jeans up my leg, my bloody knee visible through the hole ripped in it.
I brush his hands away, sitting up and wincing. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s n-nothing.”
Mason grabs my ankle. “Brooke, you’re bleeding. Let me just check it. You hit the ground pretty hard. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to see your leg and make sure this isn’t serious.”
My chest shudders. I drop my hands to my lap, my palms burning.
“You already hurt me,” I quietly reply, surrendering and slowly stretching out my leg for him.
His lips pinch together. We stare at each other, and he looks like he wants to say something in response but he doesn’t.
Using gentle hands, he pulls my jeans up my leg and over my knee, making sure to keep the material away from my broken skin. He bunches my pants on my thigh.
I inhale a sharp breath when his warm hands hold my leg, his thumbs pressing and sliding around the tender area.
The world blurs around us. Heat blooms at the base of my spine.
God, this shouldn’t feel good. I’m injured. This really fucking hurts.
Focus on that, Brooke. You could’ve died. The sidewalk almost killed you.
This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. You’re not enjoying any part of this.
I repeat that mantra in my head as he continues to examine my leg. Thoroughly examine it.
He massages my ankle, my calf. He pops my sneaker off and presses against the bones in my foot.