Page 148 of Gin and Lava

“I—” My whole body is shaking as I turn to her in the dark. The light from the hallway is low and barely reaches her. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend to be your boyfriend anymore.” I back pedal toward the open door and the hall, my lungs shot to hell, my head on fire. “I also can’t pretend that I just want to be your friend anymore.”

“Mason—?”

“I am who I am, Naomi. I’m the asshole who wears penis shirts and says inappropriate things in front of the bride’s grandmother. I don’t pretend well. I’m not good at being anybody but myself.”

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” she says softly. “I don’t understand …”

“But you do understand,” I argue, my insides clenching like fists in my lungs. “You know exactly why.”

I motion to the bed, to her, to where we just …

She felt it. She was in it. Making love isn’t one sided.

“Wait,” Naomi echoes, running a hand along the empty side of the bed where I’m not. “What was this then? If you don’t want—if we’re not—? Was this a goodbye fuck?”

I shake my head.

Goodbye maybe.

“It was the last time you aren’t going to second guess everything,” I say softly. “It’s the last time you’re going to let yourself be present. Be withme.”

She shakes her head, all that blonde hair haloing her face in the low light, making her look sweet and innocent.

“Why would—?” She stops, thinks, rephrases. “Why does this have to be the last—?”

“Because telling you I’m in love with you changes everything, Princess.”

Her eyes widen.

She heard that.

It wasn’t a raunchy joke she can let roll off and laugh at.

In fact, she stares at me, frozen and immobilized, like I stole all the air out of the room then punched her in the gut.

“Exactly,” I say, nodding to how she’s proving my point.

“You don’t mean that,” she says quickly, her voice suddenly hoarse. “You’re … You’reyou. You’re Mason. You make jokes and want to have fun, you’re not—”

“Capable of love?” I manage.

My lungs feel like they’re collapsing, or the floor is opening up and swallowing me whole. Our eyes connect and there’s an apology in her gaze. She knows what she just said was mean. But the truth is on her face, plain as day: I’m not the kind of guy she wants to end up with.

Pity, that’s what’s filled her face.

And fuck me, I’ve seen it before—not on her, on others—but it was going to show up eventually. I’m the guy women say mean shit to, pity, and never end up with. Assholes who wear penis shirts always end up last. This is how the world works. It’s what’s expected.

“I’m not the kind of guy a girl like you falls for,” I say, because it’s the truth, and the truth is easier when it’s said out loud. “Which is fine, Naomi. I know that. I knew that when this all started.”

“Mason …”

“I just didn’t expect—” My throat tightens. I can’t explain this to her. It’s salt in the wound. “I can’t go to the wedding,” I manage. “You need to do that by yourself.”

She looks at me with those big eyes—full of pity.

“Okay,” she says softly, not fighting me.

I nod. This is just a transaction. Simple. I can do that.

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