Page 173 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Fair,” I say, flatly, then take a deep breath in. “No, I haven’t. It’s…it’s complicated with her.”

“Complicated how?”

I get a text and look down to see Bash’s name pop up, sending me a check-in text in our group chat with Erik, asking how I’m doing.

I ignore it and look back up at Brooke. “Complicated like I don’t even know how to explain it, complicated.”

“Try. It might help.”

I let out an annoyed breath. But she’s probably right.

“I don’t know. We started out as friends.Justfriends. She had a boyfriend—”

“But doesn’t anymore?”

I shake my head. “No. He…cheated on her.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s just too soon to even explore anything. Plus, she has a lot going on outside of that, too. So, I don’t know, it’s not the time. And she might not even want that. Everyone thinks I’m some player; no one actually wants to date me, not anyone I want to date, or trust enough to date, at least.”

She looks over at me when we come to a stop in front of my house. “Who hurt you?”

I laugh bitterly. “You want just one name or the whole list?”

She studies me. “You deserve to be happy, Mason.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she deserves better than me. I mean, look at me.”

“I am looking. And I see someone with a good heart, someone who would love the right person loudly, someone who is just afraid of getting hurt. I see someone who is used to being hurt and does whatever he can to hide it from everyone.”

I’m too drunk for this conversation. My head is spinning, and my heart hurts. I just want to go pass out in my bed and forget this day ever happened, try again tomorrow.

Or stop trying altogether.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell her, getting out. “I’m—I’m sorry again about today, and about my dad…and about the job.”

“Take care of yourself, Mason.”

I nod at her. “I’ll try.”

* * *

When I wake up, it’s dark, and I roll over on top of my sheets and groan. It’s been several days since I’ve been back to work, and my dad hasn’t said a word to me.

I just stay in this room, drink instead of eat, sleep instead of face my problems, and fake it just enough when the boys are home from camp to be present for them.

I feel around my bed, eyes half closed, until I feel the cool glass, then tip it back and don’t even bother to wipe the excess that spills onto my chest and sheets.

My thumb hits the call button before I can overthink it, because I’m weak, and every day I’ve stared at the name and wanted to call.

“Hey, stranger.”

Every ounce of tension in my body is gone the second I hear her perfect voice.

“Hey, pretty girl,” I say, trying not to slur or give away that I’ve done nothing but drink and stay drunk just to survive.

“Florida must be treating you nicely. I’ve barely heard from you all summer.”