Page 48 of Escape Velocity
“I asked if you wanted to get out of here.”
Mason turns to look at Callum and the cheerleader again. Now, they’re making out. Full-on mouth sucking.
“I—I actually have to… go—” Mason stutters as time starts to move in slow motion as he’s running for the nearest exit.
The sliding doors to the backyard have crowds of people in front of them, so he makes a beeline to the front door instead, making eye contact with Callum as he passes, the pain in his chest growing white-hot as he stumbles through the door, bumping into a few people in the process.
He’s on the grass now, and the cool, early October air on his skin is piercing, but it’s better than the suffocating heat of inside the frat house.
He’s standing next to the house now, putting his back on the wall. Bile creeps up in his throat. Or maybe it’s puke.
He doesn’t know why he’s feeling the need to run and never look back from the party. Callum was making out with a girl. That’s nothing new.
That’s “normal Callum behavior” according to everyone on campus.
Alex thinks he’s destined to be a great writer. Also, nothing new. Everyone back home tells him this, and he hears about it endlessly from his parents.
Why is everything suddenly making him so upset now?
It’s not like he’s in love with Callum or anything. He hates him. But maybe that’s a lie. Just another one to add to the ever-growing tree of fabrications he’s sowing.
“Mason?” a familiar voice calls out.
It’sthatvoice. The last voice he wants to hear.
A large hand lands on his shoulder and grips it tenderly. “Are you okay? Callum’s voice asks, his tone soft.
Mason swats Callum’s hand away.
“G-Get the hell away from m-me,” Mason slurs, the beer now revealing how much of a lightweight he is.
“What’s wrong?” Callum asks, his voice thick with concern.
Mason isn’t sure why he’s so concerned. They hate eachother. They’re forced to keep interacting and play nice, but at the end of the day, they aren’t friends for a reason.
They’re just complete opposites.
But there’s something about Callum’s voice that reminds Mason of the old Callum. The one who defended him from the bullies.
It sounds foreign and familiar at the same time.
“Everything’s wrong. What—What isn’t wrong?” Mason says, the words pouring out slowly like molasses.
“I have a hard time believing that,” Callum says, his tone still soft, but there’s a slight edge to it, like he’s resentful of Mason.
Callum acts like Mason has been given all the good things in his life and he has nothing to complain about. Callum used to know what would be wrong.
Everything used to be wrong. It still is.
Mason scoffs. “Of courseyouwouldn’t get it. You left me like a pair of old shoes in your closet that were too small for you to fit into.”
Callum blinks, likely surprised by Mason’s candor and his ability to string words together into a simile while inebriated.
Callum blows a sigh out of his mouth, his jaw clenching as he paces.
“Help me understand then, Fanning.”
“Mason. My name isMason,” he hisses through his teeth. How many times does he have to say it? Why does Callum never listen?
