Page 126 of Promise Me Not

Mason looks out, and slowly, the other side of his mouth lifts. “Well, hot damn.”

I nod. “We’ll have the best view of the sunset, and if I timed it right yesterday, on our second round up, we’ll be at the very tip-top, but it’s not only that.” I turn and tip my head over my shoulder. “Look.”

“Man.” He nods, eyes roaming over both of the parks in view, the lights from the rides starting to glow brighter with the movement of the sun. “You really do have the eye of an artist.”

I smile behind my lens, snapping a few images of the park from up high, my eyes flicking to the sky every few moments just in case. As predicted, the sun is nearly halfway disappeared just as we hit the very top and the cart pauses for the change in riders below.

I click and click and click, smiling at the sight. Just as I go to lower my camera to my lap, I hear Mason sigh. It’s a long, gentle sound, and when I look over, my stomach flutters, a silky shuddering that melts my muscles.

My son is asleep, still cradled in the carrier strapped to Mason’s chest. Mason’s lips are settled at his hairline, resting there adoringly, his palm pressed to the curve of his bottom as he stares silently out at the pinks and blues in the distance.

It’s a beautiful sight, a hundred times better than the setting sun I was so desperate to see and one I know I want to hold on to, so I shift my camera to capture it. The moment it clicks, there’s a matching sensation that takes place behind my ribs, a soft, shadowy shudder I can’t quite put my finger on, but warmth washes over me, and I smile at the two, camera clutched tight between my hands.

I’ll look back on this moment with the fondest of memories.

A man and a little boy.

A father-and-son moment any mother would love the opportunity to catch. And me—I’m glad I have someone in my life who holds my son with the same thread of care as I do.

And Mason does.

He holds him like he doesn’t want to let him go.

He holds him like he loves him because he does.

“Thank you,” I find myself whispering.

Mason’s head snaps my way, as if for a moment, he forgot where we were and that I was even here. When he really looks at me, his expression morphs from confusion to something…more.

“For?” he asks softly.

It’s a fair question. We both know there are a million things I could be thanking him for.

Like the incommensurable gift of Deaton’s grave location and that very first day I arrived in Oceanside. For this very moment.

For all the time, thought, and care in between.

“Everything.” Keeping my eyes on his, I lay my head back on the cart, my vision blurring, but for once it’s not in sorrow. “You mean a lot to me, Mase.”More than you know.

“You mean a lot to me, too, Pretty Little,” he whispers.

You love me, don’t you?

I swallow hard, the question sudden and the answer terrifying, because as my mind conjures it, the answer isn’t one that needs to be spoken. It’s obvious.

Mason Johnson is in love with me, and I think he has been for a while now.

I wonder what Deaton would say if I told him this when I see him in my dreams tonight. Would he be angry? Happy?

I honestly don’t know, but I like to think it would be the latter.

Mason stares into my eyes, so much written in his deep brown irises, but he says nothing, just places his hand on my knee in offering, and something inside me liquifies.

Reaching out, I cover his hand with mine, our fingers threading together in a perfect little fit.

I close my eyes as we grow closer to the ground, settled in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever felt. “Okay,” I rasp. “We can do whatever you want to do now.”

Mason squeezes my fingers.

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