Page 58 of The Artist
I sighed. “It’s all irrelevant anyway.”
“Maybe, but it’s pretty fucking insulting to hear that the person you had sex with the night before is naming another man as someone she would marry.”
“Oh, come on, Mason. I didn’t say that I would marry Jonah. It’s not like I could tell Freya that I’m attracted to her cousin when we agreed to keep this experiment between us a secret.”
His brow furrowed and his mouth opened and closed.
“Your jealousy is irrational.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Then how do you explain your anger?”
“I’m angry because my pride is hurt, and I’m offended that you like a Motlander better than me.”
I wasn’t used to dealing with a grown man’s emotions. His defensive tone sounded aggressive to me, so I turned my back to him. “You’re being dramatic. Who I like or don’t like is none of your business.”
Mason huffed out loud, and the whole bed moved when he turned his back to me as well.
The silence between us was deafening. At home, our social norms didn’t encourage sharing our feelings. In case someone broke that rule, the response would most often be to ignore their outburst and pretend it didn’t happen.
My first summers spent with Motlanders and Northlanders had shocked me. The Motlanders’ focus on what they called emotional awareness often made me embarrassed for them. The way they openly shared about feeling scared, disturbed, or sad was brave and all, but I wondered why they would make themselves so vulnerable. Especially when some of the Northlanders seemed to find amusement in exploiting that knowledge.
We French were brought up to speak with purpose, not impulse, and we lived by strict rules when it came to intimacy. I’d seen the pity in the eyes of the Motlanders and Northlanders when we explained our rational ways of interacting with each other back home. They couldn’t understand why we would rather have sex with strangers than form deep bonds. But those rules had been instrumental in our ancestors’ survival after the Toxic War. We were raised with horror stories of what happened when people gave in to dangerous emotions like jealousy. I’d been seven when I learned about the three-hour massacre that killed off half a district.
Listening for Mason’s breathing, I was sure he wasn’t sleeping either. Our plans to have sex tonight had fallen through because of my stupid comment that I found Jonah attractive as a man.
Maybe it was my hope for a reaction from Mason that made me release a deep sigh. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t sleeping. I got nothing.
Why did I mention Jonah when Freya and I talked about men?
The answer was obvious. Someone like Jonah was the rational choice for Freya. He was kind, handsome, intelligent, and most of all safe. I hadn’t mentioned Jonah because I was in love with him. Never had my being around Jonah made my stomach tickle or my breath turn shallow from a speeding heart. Only one man had that effect on me, and he lay brooding behind me like a wall of heat and frustration.
I curled into a fetal position with my knees to my chest and felt like crying, but tears were a private matter and I would never burden others with my sensitivity.
The irony of that, though, wasn’t lost on me. As if my tears would be a bigger burden for Mason than to crawl under a mountain of snow to save me from dying!
With my eyes closed, I was instantly transported back to the moment yesterday when the loud crack sounded that made me look up to see a wall of snow falling toward me. My instinctual reaction had been to press myself back against the cliff. I already knew that I would have nightmares for years to come, reliving the horror of opening my eyes to find complete darkness surrounding me and not being able to move my feet. I had screamed for help and tried to dig my feet free of the snow, but it hadn’t taken me long to realize that I’d been buried alive.
A new wave of gratitude washed over me as I remembered the moment that I’d heard Mason’s voice call out to me. At first, I’d thought my mind was betraying me, but I’d still screamed for him, and then he broke through the wall of my tomb and saved me.
It was like my heart was aching from growing in size. Even before arriving in the Northlands this week, my rib cage was already hard pressed to contain the feelings for Mason that I’d kept so carefully hidden since I was too young to understand what they were.
I’d been twelve when we first met and each year my gratitude and admiration toward Mason had accumulated. He was my hero for telling Victor and the others from my delegation not to be jerks to me when he didn’t have to. Not to mention the times he offered to team up with me when we had to choose a partner. Mason had lost competitions he could have easily won if he’d had a different partner, and yet, he never blamed me or made me feel bad about myself for being dead weight.
The more my ribcage hurt from thinking about my feelings for Mason, the more unbearable it became to be this close to him and have him be angry with me.
Turning my head, I whispered, “Mason.”
“What?” He still sounded pissed.
“Can we be friends again?” While asking my question I turned my entire body to face his broad back and short auburn-colored hair.
“Why? It’s not like you care what I think. You said so yourself.”
“Mason.”
He groaned before turning around to face me with a frown. “Belle.”
