Page 18 of I Choose You

He’s reluctant to let me go, but I’m quick to my feet as soon as he moves out of my way. Leaving him in the kitchen, I sprint to the bathroom and turn the lock. My back presses against the wooden door, and I suck in breath after breath. I move to splash water on my face, then grab the hand towel to dry my skin and blot away the wetness. My flushed cheeks are the first thing I notice when I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Dark brown hair is piled high on my head in a messy bun. My freckles, almost the same color as my hair, pepper my bare face. I tuck my plump lips into my mouth and rub them together. What the heck is wrong with me?

I’ve never reacted to Mason the way I have recently. We’ve always carried out a purely platonic relationship. He’s dated over the years, and I’ve never been green with envy. We’ve never looked at each other with such lust. We’re the epitome of best friends, having never crossed the line in all the years we’ve known each other.

All these thoughts come racing in, and I can’t get a grasp on them. I pace the bathroom, asking myself why it seems as though we did just cross a line. No. I cradle my head in my hands. This is not happening. I don’t need my heart suddenly complicating my life. Not when I’ve trained it—warned it away—from the needy desire I just left on the kitchen floor. Because where there is lust and attraction, there are commitments.

And where there are commitments, there is no Mackenzie Jones.

Whatever just happened between Mason and me ends now.

8

Mackenzie

Jessie’s is short staffed. Two of the volunteers are out with a stomach bug, and to make matters worse, I woke with a sore neck. It’s not surprising, considering I can’t get comfortable at night. My scrambled thoughts are wearing me down more and more, thinning me out. At night I obsess over what happened in the kitchen with Mason. The way he looked at me avidly. The way my body ignored my reluctance because of how good it felt to have a man’s hands on me. It’s all so foreign and misplaced. I’m waiting for the universe to pluck it all away and say sorry, didn’t mean to put you through all that.

It hasn’t happened yet.

It’s a sick, sadistic joke.

One that I can’t allow to worsen. Mason and I have been there to pick each other up through disappointments and celebrations. He knows my pet peeves. I know his favorites of everything. I can’t allow the urge to want to kiss him to take over. “Snap out of it, Mackenzie. You don’t do relationships or commitments. The absolute last person you need to have a thing for is your best friend who just so happens to be high tailing it out of Maine in two months’ time.” I huff out an irritated moan after quietly scolding myself.

I should be at my desk sorting through the applications from the Pups to Pets event, but I’m in the kennels instead, cleaning out the crates due for rotation. It’s a shitty way to continue the week and makes me wish it was already noon on Friday, so I could pack up and use my half-day like I always do by driving the two hours back home to visit with my mom. However, my day could be worse. I could be locked in a room with Mason or underneath him on the kitchen linoleum while wondering if he still has the same six pack from playing college soccer.

Why does my mind have to go back to the one game he pulled his shirt up and swiped the sweat from his face? The way his sweat glistened on his skin apparently ingrained itself in my subconscious.

God, I need a distraction.

Rosco’s blanket gets pulled from his kennel with my glove-clad hand. He finally calmed down and isn’t shitting all over the place. He drinks his water and eats. Outside of his initial issues, he’s adjusted well. The smell of wet dog lingers in the air as I get down on my hands and knees to scoot into the crate. I spray the floor with animal-friendly cleaner, the distinct scent of tea tree calming me. My submarine yellow elbow-length gloves glisten as I wipe away the grime.

I’m out of the crate and tossing dirty rags into a spare bucket when the door at the end of the room opens. One at a time, the rags flop into the bucket and smack together as Nelly approaches.

“I’m still basking in the glory of you pulling the short end of the stick.” Her voice is perky and upbeat and the opposite of my own. At the start of the shift, Nelly and I broke a popsicle stick to see who’d be cleaning kennels or working the front desk and tending to the felines. She clearly struck gold. Me, not so much.

When I’m not quick to respond, she pushes out a hip and crosses her arms. “Other than being down two volunteers, what’s up your ass?”

I toss the last rag in my bucket and snap off my gloves. “Nothing.”

I’m not usually so grumpy, especially at work. Helping with the cleaning is something I don’t necessarily mind doing. In fact, it makes me feel good knowing our animals are taken care of well. However, today isn’t my day.

“That’s a straight lie,” she says. “Want to try again?”

I glance up after bending for the bucket handle. Nelly is as beautiful as always. She looks well rested, her dark skin smooth and moisturized. It knocks my pale, dry skin out of the park. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arch in question, and the part of her I’ve always been extremely jealous of—her full, plump lips—purse and fold in annoyance.

Days ago, she offered to help me get out there, and I turned her down. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about it. Thoughts of Mason have been pesky and a lot harder to get out of my mind than I thought they’d be. The best way to take care of them might be to take Nelly up on her offer.

No matter how much putting myself out there makes my skin crawl, it’ll solve the itsy-bitsy dilemma I’m having. I can meet a guy that’ll distract me enough to forget about what’s going on between Mason and me; then, I can unleash the, it’s not you, it’s me, excuse. I bristle at the idea of a relationship but tell myself it’s what’s best.

I blow out a breath, knowing she’ll rub it in as soon as the words leave my mouth. “I want to take you up on your offer.”

A sparkle glints in her eye, and she turns her head, her ear facing me. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Really?” My lips spread thin. “Don’t act like you didn’t hear me.”

“Oh, but I don’t think I did,” she quips, amusement coating her words.

“I said, I want to take you up on your offer.” I enunciate each word.

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