“How do you…” he trailed off. “You know who I am?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I want to know why you’re lurking outside Connor’s bar.”
At Connor’s name, Mason’s expression turned both hurt and hopeful at the same time.
“Does he know I’m here?” he asked.
“No. I came out here alone without telling him I saw you.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” he murmured.
My mouth twisted. What did Mason have to be dejected about? He was the one who’d dropped his friend.
I said as much.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “If you wanted to talk to Connor you could have picked up the phone and called him any time. But you didn’t.”
Mason lowered his eyes to the ground.
“I don’t think he would have answered,” he replied.
My frown deepened.
“Why not?” I asked. “Don’t you think he would have wanted to hear from his friend?”
“Not me.” Mason’s voice was scornful. “I’m the last person he wants to hear from.”
My confusion grew.
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“You know about his hand?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Mason’s breath hitched, then he firmed his lips.
“It’s my fault,” he said roughly. “I’m the reason he can’t play anymore.”
My thoughts came to an abrupt stop.
“What?” I asked.
Mason looked to the ground.
My mind unstuck, thoughts swirled around in my head, solidifying into a single notion.
“I think you should come in,” I told him.
He tilted his head at me.
“That’s why you’ve been showing up here all the time, right?” I asked. “You’re hoping to run into Connor?”
“I don’t—” He became alarmed. “I don’t think he wants to see me.”
“But you want to see him. Right?”
Mason went quiet.