If possible, this might be worse than when he didn’t kiss me back. My heart twinges. It hurts. I want to take it all back. Everything. From kissing him to ghosting him, I wish none of it had ever happened.
Maybe then we’d be in each other’s lives. Maybe then I’d still have my best friend.
I need to find a way to apologize and have him truly hear how sincere I am.
I messed up, and I’ve spent way too long avoiding this moment. “At least take some time to think about the Eleven reunion. The only reason I’ve said no so far is because of you. Because I didn’t want to have to face my mistakes. Your solo career might not have gotten off the ground, but this tour could save it. If you’re happy to live here by yourself, then fine. Do that. But you can’t let this opportunity pass by because of our bad blood.”
Mason purses his lips. “Calm down, we’re not Taylor Swift levels of hate. I’m just not willing to put myself in a position to be disappointed again. I don’t want to go back to an industry that sees me as expendable. No one will care if I’m there or not.”
“Not true. There are millions of fans out there hoping for it. Screw the execs and the industry people. Do it for the fans who made us all who we are.”
For the briefest moment, I see a crack in his tough exterior, but it doesn’t last long. “Not interested.”
The Mason I knew was always warm and inviting, and he would’ve gone to extreme lengths to make any of us from Eleven happy.
New Mason’s bitterness is like a slap in the face.
I guess I was wrong. Mason’s physical appearance isn’t the only thing that’s changed about him.
I wish I knew how to fix it.
Fix us.
I don’t think I can.
And for the second time in two and a half years, I walk out of Mason’s life.
Chapter Six
Mason
Mom picks up pancake mix and chocolate chips from the shelf in the supermarket, and I promptly put them back.
“You need to stop with overfeeding me,” I grumble.
All those times where I wasn’t recognized on the street and felt really good are tainted now by the look Harley, Blake, and Denver gave me a few days ago. It was similar to how I felt when Cash’s band didn’t recognize me over Christmas either. Though, with them it was tolerable because while we ran in similar circles once, and I would consider Cash a friend—loosely—when the people you spend seven years on tour with don’t recognize you? Maybe it’s time to hit the gym and stop eating all of Mom’s food.
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “You’re stocky and healthy. I swear when you were away, they didn’t feed you ever, and your label was okay with that. It’s like they wanted you all to look like little boys instead of men.”
This is not the first time I’ve had this conversation with my mother, nor will it be the last. She was supportive of me moving to LA to pursue my musical career. She was not okay with me dropping out of college at the end of freshman year because I got a record deal to be in a boy band. She didn’t expect it to happen that fast, and she was worried it would all blow up in my face, and then I wouldn’t have a career or a diploma.
She was half-right. It happened eventually.
“I’m not saying I need to get as skinny as I was when I was touring. I’m talking a few pounds here.” Twenty-ish. Twenty-five, maybe.
“You don’t need to lose anything, but if you’re doing this for yourself and are serious about it, I’ll stop bringing all my leftovers to your house.”
“Thank you.”
She puts the pancake mix and chocolate chips back in the cart. “This was actually for your niece and nephew, not you. Geez, one visit from your old friends and suddenly you think the world revolves around you again.”
I laugh and then realize something. “Wait. If you’re not going to cook for me anymore, does that mean I’ll finally need to learn how to do it myself?”
You’d think living alone for this long, I would’ve learned something, but Mom’s house is literally a two-minute drive away. It’s on the same property with acres of land between us, but it’s easier to go there for food than drive all the way to Big Sky where we are now for our usual grocery run. I always bring Mom to the store so we can stock up and not have to come back for a few weeks.
When I first moved home, I used to wait in the car while Mom did her shopping so I wouldn’t be recognized, but then I found out putting on forty pounds and growing my hair and beard made me invisible.
We finish our shopping, Mom puts in some healthier foods and promises to show me how to cook them, and then we make our way through the checkouts.
As we’re putting the bags in the back of my truck, the telltale sound of a camera shutter flicking a million miles a minute startles me. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard to me even after eighteen months of complete silence.
Sure enough, when I turn, some asshole has a camera pointed in my direction. But … how do they know it’s me? I’m in invisible mode, damn it.
“Mason, have you been hiding up here this whole time?”
Fuck.
I turn back around so he can’t get a good shot of my face. “Mom, get in the car now.”
My fifty-something-year-old mom, all five foot four of her, ignores me. She storms over to the paparazzo, who found me God knows how, and starts yelling at him. “Can’t you leave him alone? He gave so much—all of him—and you’re still tormenting my boy.”
“Mom! Let’s go.” I have to drag her back to the car.
We get in the truck, and I speed away as fast as I can get out of the spot so they can’t follow us home. Not that they can get on my property without trespassing. Paparazzi are invasive, and they know how to skirt the law, but they never completely break it.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to give them anything?” I bark.
“Why are they even here?” Mom asks.
I know she means well, and her heart is in the right place, but I’m dreading the headlines tomorrow.
Ex-Boy Bander’s Mom to the Rescue.
“I’ll give you two guesses, but you really only need one. What has changed in the last few days? I guarantee word got out about Harley Valentine and Blake Monroe being here—no doubt when they came into town to get food.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Yeah. Me too. I’m going to have to lie low for a while.”
“Or …” Mom looks at me like I should come to her conclusion on my own.
“Or what?
“Or you could maybe go back to LA and face them. Why were your old friends here? You never said.”
I shake my head. “They want to get Eleven back together. I’m not interested.”
“Why not? You were never happier than when you were performing with them.”
Ugh, I can’t go through this again. “I’m just not, okay? They’re not even my friends. They’re ex-work colleagues. At least, that’s how they’ve treated me since we split, so fuck each and every one of them.”
“You don’t really mean that, do you? Denver loves you. He was practically part of the family once upon a time.”