by Amelia Wilde
“So, where are we going?” Lark asked, clearing her throat.
She wasn’t going to think about Mason’s sexy smell or how nice his arms felt wrapped around her. She was going to make polite conversation, catch up with a man who was once a good friend, and go straight home.
Do not stop on the front stoop to say goodnight, do not collect end-of-date kisses.
“You’ll see,” Mason said, with a glance her way. “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Lark said, smoothing the skirt of her wrap-around jean dress, swallowing the “so do you” on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want to encourage Mason, and he hardly needed any assurance that he looked wonderful.
Even in a simple pair of dark blue jeans and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to show his muscled forearms, he was stunning. Heads turned when he parked the car at the east end of Main Street and walked around to get Lark’s door. One woman in a tight black sundress even stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk to give Mason a come hither grin.
It would have been enough to intimidate Lark if this were a real date, or if she hadn’t gotten used to the effect Mason had on the opposite sex years ago.
Mason had always been gorgeous, magnetic, and much more attractive for a man than Lark was for a woman. Lark wasn’t unattractive by any stretch, but she knew she and Mason weren’t playing in the same league. But that had never bothered her back when she and Mason had been she and Mason. It didn’t matter how many prettier, thinner, blonder, big-boobier women made eyes at her boyfriend. Mason had only had eyes for her. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The way he used to look at her had left no doubt about that.
Who was she kidding?
There was nothing past tense about that look. Mason still looked at her like she was something magical, a treasure he was proud to help from his car.
The look used to make her smile. Now, it made her forehead wrinkle with irritation.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbled, pulling her hand from his and moving onto the sidewalk as he shut the door behind her.
“Like what?” he asked, joining her, the gentle May breeze ruffling his hair, making him look even more handsome.
The woman in the sundress who had stopped to gape was still staring, craning her neck, obviously trying to discern if Mason was really taken. Lark barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out in Black Sundress’s direction.
“You know like what,” she snapped at Mason instead. “This is an arrangement, not a real first date.”
Mason sighed, looking so deflated that for a moment Lark felt guilty. Then she remembered that he was the one who was a coward and a runner and a heart destroyer and lifted her chin in defiance.
“You said you’d give this a real chance,” Mason said softly. “It was part of the deal, remember?”
Lark took a breath and held it, swallowing the retort on the tip of her tongue. Mason was right. She had promised to give him a chance, and a March never broke a promise. It was what made her different from people like Mason.
“All right,” Lark said. “I’ll make an effort, but I would appreciate it if you would stop it with the look.”
Mason’s mouth curved. “The unicorn princess look?”
Lark’s lips twitched in spite of herself. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he said, in a voice that made Lark’s bare arms prickle.
“Not everything,” she said, doing her best to keep things light. “It was like a unicorn and a princess, spotted together at the same time. Not a unicorn princess. That would be weird.”
“A unicorn in any part of the equation is weird,” Mason said, shoving his hands into his pockets and wandering toward the east end of downtown. “I’m not into unicorns. At least not in that way.”
“In what way are you into unicorns?” Lark asked, playing up the judgment in her tone.
“In the way most normal Southern men are into unicorns,” he said with an absolutely straight expression. “I respect the gore-potential inherent in their horn and admire their silky manes, but the feelings end there.”
Lark smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. “You’re so weird.”
Mason returned her grin. “And you’re completely normal.”
Lark tried to stop smiling, but failed. She’d always loved that Mason got her offbeat sense of humor. Before she met him, Melody and Aria had been the only people in the world who could make her laugh until she snorted. Finding someone outside her family who could enjoy a part of her even some of her closest friends didn’t quite understand, was…special.
“So how hungry are you?” Mason asked.
Lark shrugged. “Not starving, but I didn’t have dinner.” She paused at the last street corner before the downtown area gave way to strip malls and bodegas, with a few apartment buildings scattered in between. “We should probably turn around. All the restaurants are still on the other side of downtown.”
“I was thinking something a little less formal,” Mason said, taking her hand and pulling her across the street as the crosswalk sign flickered to “walk.”
“Like what?” Lark asked, deftly slipping her hand from Mason’s as she skipped ahead of him and up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street, determined not to let him weasel his way into getting more than the civility she’d promised.
“Like bowling with a side of corn dogs and French fries.”
“Bowling,” Lark repeated, wrinkling her nose. “Do you bowl?”
“I do not. I have never bowled.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”
“Not even when I was a kid.”
“Well, then I say yes. Yes to bowling.” Lark was always one to embrace a new experience. Besides, nothing could be more unromantic than bowling and unromantic was exactly what she intended for tonight to remain.
She turned left, headed toward Summerville Bowl, a slightly saggy building next to the Feed Store a street over. “I totally forgot the bowling alley was over here,” she said, a spring in her step.
This might actually be fun. Surely it would be easier to keep her mind off the past while doing something she and Mason had never done together.
“I swung by this afternoon to check it out,” Mason said. “It’s got 1960’s charm and only a slight foot odor stench, mostly overpowered by the decades of grease soaked into the walls.”
“Yum.” Lark smiled. “Speaking of foot odor, I’m going to have to buy some socks from the vending machine. If I’d known we were bowling, I wouldn’t have worn sandals.”
“Don’t worry, I brought socks for you,” Mason said.
“You did?”
“I did.” He pulled a pair of white ankle socks from his back pocket. “I stopped by the store on my way to your house.”
“Well…thanks,” Lark said, taking the socks as they reached the door to the bowling alley, feeling vaguely uncomfortable for some reason she couldn’t quite pin down. “That was thoughtful.”
“I’m full of thoughts,” he said, reaching past her to open the door, leaning close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “Lots and lots of thoughts.”
“Yeah?” Lark looked up, her heart beating faster when she realized their lips were only inches apart. His eyes were even more intense this close, so clear and blue and so completely focused on her that she would swear he could see straight through her.
“You can count on it,” he said in a husky voice.
Lark swallowed, willing her breath to come slow and even and her expression not to give any sign of the way he affected her. “The only thing I’m counting on is kicking your butt in bowling,” she said, ducking under his arm and into the decidedly footy-smelling lobby. “I was on a league when I was seven.”
“You’re kidding,” Mason said, joining her at the end of the line for admission and shoe rental. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“It was a daddy daughter league, but
I played with Pop-pop. Pop-pop loved to bowl. It was his old man crack.”
Mason paused, and Lark could tell by the quality of his silence that he’d heard the news. “I’m sorry. About Pop-pop.”
“Thanks,” Lark said, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. She missed her granddad so much, but he’d been in a lot of pain at the end, and she was certain he was in a better place now. A place where he could play as many pain-free rounds of bowling as his sweet little old heart desired.
They reached the front of the line and Lark gave the man behind the desk her shoe size and waited while Mason paid before starting toward the lanes. It was quiet for a Sunday night, but there were still a good number of people out for a game.
Lark did a quick scan of the patrons, relieved not to see anyone she knew. She didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing with Mason to any of her friends. She hadn’t told anyone except her sisters about her and Mason’s bargain—not even Lisa. She didn’t want her best friend fretting over Lark while she was supposed to be enjoying her honeymoon, and she didn’t want to deal with the backlash from all of the people who had hated Mason for four years on her behalf.
Better to get this done and over with as quickly and secretly as possible and then go back to her life. Her busy, active, fulfilling life, with not a whiff of romance in it.
Which did not make her sad. At all.
Or at least not much…
She and Mason played ten frames—Mason rallying after a few disastrous rolls, proving he might not be hopeless as a bowler, though Lark did beat him by a good thirty points—and then headed to the snack bar for a grease feast.
It wasn’t gourmet by any stretch, but the food was good for what it was. They chatted over corn dogs, jalapeño poppers, and the bowling alley’s take on a side salad—iceberg lettuce and a few dry shredded carrots topped with Italian dressing—keeping the conversation light. Lark learned that Mason had passed his boards early and Lark told him about the weddings she had coming up in June. Mason talked about the practice he’d be joining in Atlanta, and Lark told him how lucky it was that Aria had moved home just days before Lark’s old pastry chef quit.
After dinner, they played another ten frames—Lark winning again, a fact she was sure to rub in as Mason drove her home—and then, suddenly, the date was over and Lark was walking back up the path to her parents’ house. Alone.
Mason didn’t even try to walk her to the door. Which was a little…disappointing.
“Not disappointing,” Lark mumbled beneath her breath as she waved good-bye to Mason, and watched his car pulled away from the curb. “It’s good. Exactly what I wanted.”
It was. Which left no explanation for why she felt like a balloon with all the air leaking out, or why she hurried to her old room without ducking into the den to say good night to Aria. No explanation for why she curled into bed feeling sad and alone in a way she hadn’t in a long, long time.
There was just no explanation.
None at all.
6
“Well if it ain’t the big man himself.” Uncle Parker squinted up at Mason from the shade of his sagging front porch. “In the flesh.”
“I just got back in town.” Mason stood at the bottom of the porch steps, not inclined to get any closer to his uncle unless he absolutely had to. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to get some catfish for lunch.”
“I already ate,” Parker said, not moving from his chair. “Is that all you want?”
So much for a warm welcome.
Mason gritted his teeth. “Well, I figured I’d pick up the boat while I was here.”
Parker grunted. He looked a little older than he had when Mason had left, and certainly older than his forty-six years. He’d lost weight and his sunbaked skin hung looser on his sharp face, but otherwise, Parker looked exactly the same. Same thinning black hair perpetually in need of a cut, same thin lips and lanky frame, same expression of sour amusement when he looked at his only nephew.
Mason wasn’t surprised that Parker wasn’t going to bother getting up to welcome home the family he hadn’t seen in years. Parker hadn’t bothered getting off his ass to attend his nephew’s graduation, either. Not a single one of them, not even his graduation from Summerville High, and that was only five miles down the road. No, Mason hadn’t expected time to make his uncle’s heart grow fonder.
He wasn’t even sure Parker had a heart.
“Don’t know why you’d need the boat,” Parker said after a moment. “Didn’t think a fancy doctor like you would have time for fishing.”
“I don’t start work until the middle of June. I took some time off after my residency.”
“Ain’t that nice.” Parker grunted. “Some time off from all that soft work. Going to take some of your faggot friends out on the lake to celebrate?”
“I’m going to take Lark fishing later this afternoon,” Mason said, refusing to give Parker the reaction he was looking for.
Parker was obviously pissed that Mason had proven him wrong. Parker had been telling Mason he would never make it as a doctor for as long as Mason could remember. It must really burn his uncle’s ass knowing his nephew finally had that M.D. after his name.
“You still seeing that March girl?” Parker worked his jaw back and forth, the way he did when he was chewing on something to see if it tasted like the truth. If it didn’t, it was grounds to unleash the poison always on the tip of his tongue.
“That’s my business,” Mason said.
“Your business,” Parker repeated, flat blue eyes going narrow and mean. “I heard that girl cried for a year after you left. You sure pulled the wool over her eyes, didn’t you, boy? She thought you were a real decent little bastard.” He chuckled. “Turns out you’re just a bastard.”
Mason sighed. “I didn’t come here to fight.” Fighting with Parker never accomplished anything. “I just came to see if you wanted lunch and to make sure the boat was in good shape before I took it out on the lake.”
Parker grunted. Shrugged. “It’s in the barn. Was fine the last time I took it out.”
“Thanks.”
“Should have just taken it. We both know you didn’t want to buy me no lunch.”
“I didn’t want to give you an excuse to come after me with your shotgun, either,” Mason snapped, backing away.
“I’m sure Lark March’s daddy would like someone to take a shot at you. He know you’re messing around with his little girl again?” Parker asked, clearly not ready to let his favorite verbal punching bag go just yet.
Parker had never struck Mason—not like stepdad number four or seven—but sometimes Mason thought his words were worse. A bruise healed and stepdad number four, at least, had always been apologetic the day after a beating, once he sobered up and realized he had been pounding on a kid half his size.
Parker never felt remorse, and always knew where to strike where it hurt the most. His uncle was mean and bitter and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Georgia about the lousy lot life had dealt him, but he wasn’t stupid.
“I bet he doesn’t,” Parker continued when Mason didn’t answer. “If he did, he’d run you out of town so quick you’d mess those nice pants of yours. Bob always knew trash like you wasn’t good enough for one of his classy little bitches. Only a matter of time before that girl figures it out, too.”
“I’m going to get the boat,” Mason said through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to shout that Lark wasn’t a bitch, and no one got to call her that, especially a hateful waste of flesh like Parker.
“Good.” Parker’s mouth pulled into a hard frown. “Take it, and don’t bring it back. I don’t want your shit taking up space in my barn anymore. You bring it back here and I’m selling it for whatever I can get.”
Mason turned his back on Parker without another word, knowing if he stayed to look into the man’s face another moment he’d lose all the ground he’d gained in the past four years of therapy and give the asshole the fight he so obviously wanted.
“Good seeing you, Mason,” Parker called after him. “Glad all your dreams came true.”
The way he said it turned everything into a joke—all the years of study, all the sleepless nights during Mason’s residency, everything he’d learned and everything he’d fought for, and the past four years living in a rat hole of an apartment with three other guys, eating macaroni and cheese and taking handy man jobs during his rare holidays to save enough money for a car and a down payment on a condo in Atlanta.
It was a joke, all of it, and coming back for Lark was the biggest joke of all.
She was too good for him when they were younger, and she was too good for him now. It was like Parker said: Mason was still trash, trash with an M.D. and a better haircut, but trash nevertheless. Lark was from one of the most established families in Summerville, from a long line of people who cared about each other and stood up for each other and were classy and intelligent and kind and believed in good things happening to good people. For Mason to think that he could ever truly be a part of that—especially after what he’d done to Lark— was laughable.
No, he thought as he stomped into the shadowy barn and picked his way through the mess of projects his uncle was never going to finish.
It wasn’t laughable, and Mason wasn’t a joke. He was on the verge of having everything he’d ever wanted, and he wasn’t going to let Parker poison him with doubt. He was going to take Lark out and have a wonderful afternoon, and afterwards he’d find somewhere to keep his boat.
One of his basketball buddies from high school, or his old friend, Nash, might be interested in having it around. He would either find someone to give it to, or he’d sell the damned thing himself. He wasn’t bringing it back here for Parker to make a thin dime on. He wasn’t coming back here again, period.
Mason paused with his hands on the edge of the tarp that covered the boat, the realization hitting him hard.
He didn’t have to come back here. Not ever again. He was…free.