Page 93 of Promise Me Not

No matter what you add back or pump yourself with, it doesn’t go away. Your bones begin to ache with no exertion, and your heart threatens to explode with even the littlest of it.

People think they know how you should act or feel, how long you should mourn, when you should be better, and how hard the entire process will be, but they don’t. They couldn’t possibly.

Sure, it’s different for everyone, but at the end of the day, the base is the same.

You lost something, or something was stolen from you. You want it back.

Maybe it’s possible, or maybe it’s impossible, but that doesn’t mean the person with a chance hurts any less than the person without one. It just means we’re human and both must try.

Try and live with the hole, or try and fill it.

Or do nothing and get buried beneath it all.

Mason and me, it’s like we’re on the same page.

Both holding on to the shovel, but both drowning in a mountain of dirt that doesn’t seem to lessen, no matter how many times we scoop.

Mason with his slow recovery, and me with…god, I don’t even know how to put it into words.

But with Mason, it’s almost like I don’t have to. It’s as if he already knows.

Maybe because he’s lost something, too, albeit temporarily, but still.

Just because our pain is different, that doesn’t mean his isn’t as deep as mine.

We both may have lost what was supposed to be our future, but maybe there’s a purpose behind it all. A way to make us stronger than we would have been.

Maybe what he said to me is true.

“Hey, Mase,” I say, even though he’s staring right at me.

He blinks, a small smile on his lips encouraging me to say whatever is on my mind. For some reason, nerves swim in my stomach, and when I continue, my tone is so low I wonder if he’ll hear me at all.

“If everything happens for a reason, then maybe there’s a reason you got hurt.”

Mason’s eyes move between mine, and when he speaks, it’s in the softest of whispers. “I thinkmaybeyou’re right.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mason

Before,November

Rollingmy shoulder forward three more times, I take a deep breath, thankful that such a thing is even possible. Injured ribs are no joke, not that this shoulder shit has been much easier.

I roll my shoulder backward, the tenth rep causing me to grind my teeth. At least I can lift my arm up and over my head now. We’ll just pretend there’s not a small strain when it’s near full extension. That and I’m sure my ribs are not yet back to 100 percent, but at last, I can breathe easy now. I can bend and twist, and that’s good enough for me. For now anyway.

It’s been a hell of a recovery period. Weeks of stress and fear and anxiety, of mental torture.

My eyes slide to the blond five feet away. She’s bouncing on an exercise ball in the corner, her eyes pointed at the TV, where reruns ofForensic Filesare playing on a loop.

Weeks of me and her and no one else.

That familiar sense of rightness I’ve come to know when she’s near flows through me, a heavy weight following closely behind.

My time with her is almost up, and as much as I want to get back on the field, the thought of leaving her brings back the claws of panic, and that’s just at the thought. I have no idea what kind of games my mind will play once I actually go. I’ve become a bit dependent. Maybe it’s the twin in me. Maybe it’s her.

When she’s not in the same room, I seek her out.

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