Page 119 of Gin and Lava

“Because that’s business,” he says finally. “I’m not talky about me.”

“Youcantalk to me, though,” I offer. “We’re friends. You listened to me go on and on about my mom, and Sam, and my jewelry.”

“I’m not complicated, Naomi,” Mason avoids. “Don’t fish for something you don’t want to get into.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, it does.” I put my hand on his chest, on top of his t-shirt, over his heart where I can feel the light thrum beating under the fabric. “Mason, talk to me.”

“Look, if you want me to talk then I’m going to bring up shit you don’t want to look at. Like the fact that Trifecta actually thinks you have two parents.”

“Idohave two parents,” I defend, frowning at him in the blanket of purple night that surrounds us. “Technically. I just haven’t seen one of those parents for most of my life.”

“Does he know about your mom?” Mason pokes. “Does he know she doesn’t own this house, and that you send her money every month?”

He traps my hand under his when I start to pull away. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Right, but you were together for a year.” When I don’t respond he keeps picking at the scab. “What about Esme? Does she know? Because last time I saw her, she said something that makes me think she’s another minion who’s bought into the Naomi-comes-from-money charade.”

“That’swhat’s bothering you?” I reply, annoyed at how the air mattress pitches us toward one another. “A few white lies that—”

“They aren’t white lies though, are they?” Mason interrupts. “They’re a whole other identity you’ve been presenting. I mean, Esme’s a good friend. And what if you and Trifecta had gotten serious? Would you have waited till your wedding to tell him the truth about your mom?”

I try to pull my hand back, but Mason grips my fingers tightly. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I snip. “I’m sure the right time would’ve presented itself.”

“And what about us?” Mason asks. “We’re a big lie, too. Is anything you’ve told Sam or Shauri true?”

Sour crawls up my throat. He’s right, these are things I don’t want to talk about.

“I’m sorry,” I clip out. “I’m not as uninhibited as you. It’s easy for you to not give two fucks what people think. It’s admirable, if not truly enviable, but I’m not built that way.”

Mason’s fingers feel like a vice. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t care,” Mason clarifies. “I’m just saying, be honest.”

“Be honest?” My throat squeezes and a black tendril of shame inches up my spine. “Mason, the truth is my mom’s an alcoholic, and I learned at a really young age that I wasn’t important enough for her to get a job and take care of me. I grew up being called trailer trash, and Sissy slut’s daughter, and being asked when I turned of legal age so I can follow in her footsteps. I spent my life getting good grades, and perfecting my make-up, and learning how to look nice when I couldn’t afford it, because I refused to become the person people expected me to be. I worked double shifts after school. I saved every penny I could to go to massage school. Moving to Hawaii was a dream come true. And when I started to make actual money—my own money—I bought the things I couldn’t afford: a hot red truck like all the rich kids in Texas had, a designer dress like in the magazines. Maybe that makes me a phony, or an imposter in your eyes. Maybe that means there’s no real me. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with dreaming about being somebody better than I started out as. A few white lies—like who really owns this damn beach house—have earned me more respect than the truth has.”

My heart is racing.

That feels like too much. Too much truth released into a darkness I can’t control.

It’s reckless.

Why does Mason pull this out of me? A foolhardiness, yes, but also something else, something that’s more forceful and bold—first in the bedroom and now with my past.

“And what’s really rich, Mason,” I grumble, “is being lectured on honesty from the guy who’s avoiding talking about his own shit with crap likeIt’s nothing, andI don’t talk, andIt’s just me, but let’s talk about all your issues, Naomi.” I yank my hand back and move to get off the mattress. “I’ve learned to survive with a few white lies, and the last person I thought would judge me for it is you.”

“Wait,” Mason grabs my waist and pulls me back against him. The problem with airbeds is all the gravity pitches to the center and there’s no way to fight against it—we just fall together. “That was a dick move and you’re right,” he apologizes. “And not the good kind of dick move that you like.”

He’s trying to be funny, but it falls flat.

“Let’s just forget this conversation, Mason.”

Only, Mason wraps his arms around me tightly.

“I can’t forget a single thing you’ve said, Naomi,” he says, pressing his lips to my forehead. “And what’s crazy is you don’t think there’s a real you—when the real you is fucking incredible.”

“You’re still deflecting, asshole.”

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