Beautiful Dark

by Jordyn White

  “I’ll help,” I say, since I’m closest.

  Together, we go back through the open garage and to his car. There’s a small stack of gifts in the backseat, so we don’t have any trouble getting it all between the two of us.

  This is another tradition that goes way back with my Rivers cousins. This family doesn’t lack for anything, so they don’t need anything. Rather than spend a lot of money on more stuff, they just exchange a simple, thoughtful gift or two, and write a hand-written letter expressing how they feel about each other. “Modest and Meaningful.” That’s the motto.

  Now that I have my own abundance, which sure wasn’t the case growing up, I get to be part of the Modest and Meaningful tradition, too. I got Rayce a Super Mario Brothers coffee mug I found at the mall a couple months ago, and filled it with his favorite chocolates from the resort’s Sweetbrew shop. I also gave him a nice pair of cufflinks to add to his collection, since he says a man can never have too many cufflinks.

  Which suddenly strikes me as funny, because I doubt Mason owns a single pair, and that guy is all man.

  I also wrote Rayce a two-page letter telling him how much he means to me, and thanking him for always being there for me. Looking at him now, I question whether I should just tell him. He’s not totally unreasonable. Maybe if I explain who Mason really is, he’ll realize he’s not out to hurt us and will relax.

  But I hold my tongue. And not just because I don’t want to run the risk of ruining another holiday. Rayce may not be unreasonable, but he’s not always predictable either.

  It’s not important anyway, I tell myself as we carry the gifts into the house.

  But even I don’t believe my own lie.

  Mason and I had agreed not to text each other today, since we’d both be with our families, but ended up sneaking in a few messages anyway.

  When I finally collapse into bed, happily worn out from the day, I send him one more text. Good night. Merry Christmas.

  He’s a couple hours ahead of me, and it’s late here to start with, so I suspect he’s long gone to bed. When my phone dings with a text from him, a slow smile spreads across my face.

  Mason: I want to wish you a Merry Christmas face to face.

  My heart starts to pound as I get the sudden, irrational idea that he’s here. Even though I know perfectly well that he’s not. But as quick as my thoughts can form, I entertain the fantasy that he’s flown half way across the country to surprise me. That he’s going to tell me to open my front door.

  I’ll walk over to it, befuddled by his strange instructions. When I swing the door open wide, he’s standing there. In my fantasy it’s raining—I don’t know why—so he’s drenched all over and his black shirt is clinging to his chest. Oh right, that’s why. Then he pulls me into those strong arms of his, tells me he couldn’t bear to be away from me another second, and gives me the kind of kiss I’ve only read about in books.

  I shift under the covers and clear my throat. It’s a little alarming how quickly that got away from me.

  Me too, I answer. But this will have to do. Merry Christmas.

  Again. We’ve said it several times already.

  My screen lights up, but this time, it’s not a text. He’s starting a video chat. I stare at it in shock for half a second, then drop my phone, frantically fuss with my hair, and hurriedly pick it back up. By the time I swipe to answer, I’m lying ever so casually on one arm, smiling down at the image of Mason’s face.

  “That’s more like it,” he says, smiling too.

  Damn, this man is handsome. How could I have forgotten how handsome he is? He looks like he’s sitting up, but I think that’s a headboard he’s leaning against. The fact that we’re both in bed is almost as tantalizing as food sex.

  I’m starting to realize just how much trouble I’m in. We’re just friends, we are, but it’s stopped feeling like that somewhere along the way. Oh hell, maybe it was since that first day when we were giving each other those heated looks. But I feel differently than I did even then. I can’t pretend, even to myself, that I wouldn’t mind more from Mason than he’s able to give. Like, really, really want it.

  “Hi.” I sink lower on my arm. “It’s been so long I almost forgot what you look like.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  He grins wider. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.” We both grin at each other for a second, then I start to get up and say, “Okay, well now that we’ve said it face to face, I guess we should go.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  We both start laughing and I sink back down. “I’m surprised you’re still up.”

  I mean awake, I think, my mind being dirty again.

  “There’s a lot on my mind.” He looks happy though.

  “Oh?”

  “I talked to my mom.”

  I pull up a little bit. “You did? Today?”

  He nods. “It went really well.”

  “What happened?”

  For the next twenty minutes, he tells me all about it. He tells me how hard it was for his mom to talk about it at first, but how things changed once he told her what he knew about the accident, and why he was glad to know the truth. He actually pulled up the article on his phone, because she was arguing with him about how things happened.

  “It was like she’d remembered it a certain way for so long, she couldn’t believe anything else,” he says. “But once she started reading through the articles, she got this dawning look on her face.”

  “Like she was remembering?” I’ve rolled onto my stomach, propping the phone in front of me, and am resting my chin on my forearms, which are flat on the bed.

  He nods. “Yes. She forgot there weren’t any charges filed. She forgot it was ruled no-fault even before my father died. In her mind, he was being charged with manslaughter and pulled strings to get out of it.”

  “Why do you think she remembered it that way?”

  He shakes his head. He’s readjusted in bed too, lying on his side and propping his head on one arm. The screen cuts off half way through his bulging bicep. “She’s not sure herself. She was... kind of upset and embarrassed about it at first. But we talked about it and think she was just so distraught at the time. Plus, it really did upset her to see your uncle after the fact. Grandma was there for that and remembers it too. She was in California for the funeral. He came by the next day.”

  “That probably wasn’t the best timing.”

  “Probably not. Grandma said Mom just was not doing well then.”

  “So did your Grandma remember things correctly?”

  “She always kind of thought Mom was pretty emotional about it, but she didn’t know how bad it was because she never read any articles either. Her focus was on trying to get Mom put back together, trying to help her save the house. It was a really interesting conversation.”

  I’m slowly kicking my feet up behind me, and they’re making a soft swooshing sound as they rub against the covers. “So... what does your mom think about all this now?”

  “I think it’s had the effect on her that it did on me. What really happened is a lot easier to take than what we’d been believing, you know?”

  I nod. “Does she know about Thanksgiving?” Or us, I think. Even though there’s not, technically, any ‘us’ to know about.

  “Yeah. Once I started laying it on the line, I didn’t want to hold anything back and feel like I had a secret to tell later.”

  “You told her about Rayce?”

  He nods. “You know, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “Okay,” I say, getting a little nervous at the tone of his voice.

  “Yesterday, you said something I think I should’ve addressed.”

  “Okay,” I say, even more warily.

  “You said you know I don’t like Rayce, but it isn’t that I don’t like him. I mean, I don’t necessarily like him, but I don’t... okay, I was pretty irritated with him at first.”

  “He was acti
ng like an ass.”

  Mason gives one nod, then a shrug. “Yes, and no. He’s just trying to protect you guys. He doesn’t know me. I get it.”

  “No one else felt the need to protect us from you.” I’m not sure why I’m arguing against my cousin. Maybe I’m more frustrated with his past behavior than I’ve let myself realize.

  “Yeah, but does anyone else feel responsible for the entire family the way he does?”

  I pull up on my elbows, cross my forearms, and tilt my head at him. “How could you know that about Rayce?” Have they been having secret conversations too?

  “Just a good guess. I recognize it because I’m the same way about my family. I know what it’s like to feel like you have to fill your dad’s shoes.”

  “Hmmm.” I settle back down and give him a soft smile. “You’re a good guy.” He smiles. “Are you as stubborn as my cousin, too?”

  He nods, grinning. “Sometimes.”

  “Did you tell your mom we’ve been talking?”

  His smile slowly fades. He nods.

  “And?” I ask, my heart beating uncomfortably against the mattress.

  “She wasn’t crazy about that part. She said we need to just go on with our separate lives and leave the past in the past.”

  “You said that, too,” I say. “At Thanksgiving.”

  He nods.

  “But you’re talking to me anyway.”

  He sighs, and I get the feeling I’ve been some sort of temptation he hasn’t been able to avoid, but maybe has wanted to. Maybe I should feel the same way. But I don’t. Whatever path Mason and I are on, I want to keep going.

  “Does your family know we’re talking?” he asks seriously.

  “Um... I told Lizzy and Connor and Whitney today.”

  “Not Rayce?”

  I shake my head no. “I could, though...”

  “It’s okay,” he stops me. “You don’t have to.”

  “But you’ve told everyone, so—”

  “Corrine,” he says gently. “You know that we... can’t. Right?”

  He didn’t come right out and say what he means, but I know. I bite my bottom lip, a sinking sensation dropping through me. Okay, logically I know he’s right. Aside from the distance, there is so much history between our families, and not the good kind.

  Really, really awful history, as a matter of fact.

  This... us... trying to turn into more. It would only hurt people. Maybe it would hurt us, too. And for what? But damn, I wish things were different. “Right,” I say at last.

  We just look at one another for a minute. I can see he regrets it, but how much? Is he hurting the way I am right now, or is it not as hard for him? Because I’m officially hating this.

  “We should probably go,” he says quietly.

  I only nod.

  “Merry Christmas, Corrine.”

  Tell me you care about me, I think, because I just want to hear it. But it’s a line we can’t cross. We can’t go any further than we already have, because that’ll only make things worse. We should just back up. Back off.

  “You too. Goodnight, Mason.”

  “Night.”

  I quickly hit disconnect, not wanting him to be the one who hangs up on me. I hit the button on the side of my phone, causing the screen to go dark, and roll over onto my back. I stay that way for a long time, holding the phone to my chest. Eventually, I set it on the nightstand, face down, and try to go to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Corrine

  The next day, I think about texting Mason about a thousand times, but never do. I’m impressed with my own willpower, actually. Because it’s kind of killing me.

  I know he hasn’t done anything wrong and we aren’t any more than friends anyway, but I can’t bring myself to reach out to him first. I just can’t do it. If what he really wants is to pull away, I’m going to let him.

  But if this is going to start up again, it’s his move.

  Mason

  I am absolutely not missing Corrine.

  That would be stupid. I’ve only ever seen her once. We’ve known each other for only a month. How could I miss someone who’s never been here, anyway? So I’m not. I’m not missing her, and I’m not thinking about her every second, and I’m definitely not going to text her anymore. I’m going to get while the getting’s good.

  Corrine

  Even though I’m in the middle of texting Whitney about possible locations for our next bungee jumping trip—that girl’s hooked now—when I hear my phone ding with a notification, I know without even looking that it’s him.

  I don’t go right to it. I pour myself another cup of coffee. I load the breakfast dishes. I hear more dings, probably Whitney now. I stand at the sink, my back to my phone. It occurs to me, very clearly, that if I had any sense at all, I’d walk away now.

  Instead, I start counting the hours.

  Thirty-one.

  It’s been thirty-one hours since we talked. That’s fucking long enough. I walk to my phone, and pull up his text. It’s a picture of a hand-written recipe card for something called Aunt Junietta’s Snowy Candy, with the message: This one’s even better.

  Mason

  I’m a weak-willed man, apparently, but it’s hard to chastise myself too much about it when I’m having such a good time chatting with Corrine again. No phone calls. Definitely no video chats. It’s all through text, like it was when we first started. A safe distance.

  It’s been a couple days since I sent her the recipe for Aunt Junietta’s Snowy Candy, and Corrine’s accused me of trying to fatten her up since she’s already eaten an entire batch by herself. Which is no small feat, by the way, so I’m kind of impressed.

  I’m in the break room at Larry’s Garage, sitting in the hard plastic, orange chair, my legs stretched out in front of me, crossed at the ankles. One elbow is resting on the table next to me, but both hands are on my phone as we text back and forth. I’m not sure how this got started, but we’re taking turns asking each other random questions.

  It’s Corrine’s turn: Have you ever stolen anything?

  Me: Yes. A pack of gum in third grade. Have you ever ditched school?

  Corrine: Yes, but not until I got to college. Is that crazy?

  Me: Missing class because of chemotherapy doesn’t count.

  Corrine: No, not because of that. I once ditched because I was having an unstoppable craving for Krispy Kreme donuts.

  I laugh. I couldn’t even count the number of times I ditched school. You only did it once? Man, you’re a good girl.

  Corrine: Why? How many times did you ditch?

  Me: Nope. My turn to ask a question.

  Corrine: Fine. Spoil sport.

  Me: Have you ever done drugs?

  Corrine: Uh...

  I laugh, then say aloud. “No way.” Me: Seriously? You have?

  Corrine: Have you?

  Me: Hell no. But since you’re avoiding the question, I think your answer is yes.

  Corrine: I smoked pot a few times in high school. I had my drinking phase back then, too. I mellowed out by the time I hit college.

  Me: I take it back. You’re not a good girl.

  Corrine: Sure I am. Mostly.

  Me: Nope. You’re naughty. My dick twitches at the thought of her being naughty in other ways, but I tell it to hush. She’d probably be mortified to know how dirty my thoughts sometimes get when we’re supposed to be just talking.

  Corrine: Stop stalling. It’s my turn. How old were you when you lost your virginity?

  My eyebrows raise and my dick is gleefully resisting my commands to stand down. I swivel in my seat so my legs—and other appendages—are under the table. I lean my forearms against the edge of the table as I type. How do you know I’m not still a virgin?

  Corrine: Oh, believe me, I can tell.

  Me: Oh yeah? How? I’m enjoying teasing her way too much.

  Corrine: Hey, it’s my turn. You have to answer my question.

  Me: 16. Vanessa Phillips. I thought
we were going to get married and have lots of babies.

  Corrine: LOL. That’s such a chick thing to say.

  I start to laugh. Hey! It is not.

  Corrine: How long did you go out?

  Me: An entire semester my junior year. The first love of my life.

  Corrine: Real love or puppy love?

  I grin. No, sorry, it’s my turn for questions. How old were you when you lost your virginity?

  Corrine: You can’t ask the same question.

  Me: Yes, I can. There’s no rule.

  Corrine: Well, I’m making one.

  I laugh. “You don’t get off that easy, girl.” Me: Nope, sorry. You started it.

  I wait for her answer. And wait. Suddenly it occurs to me...I send another text: Um... are you still a virgin?

  My phone rings immediately. “Sorry,” I say when I pick it up. “You don’t have to answer that.”

  “No,” she says. “It’s okay, I just realized I don’t want a record of this on my phone.” She gives a nervous laugh.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”

  “Well, thank you, but I’m not.”

  I press my lips together, realizing I was more than fine with the idea of her being a virgin. The idea of some guy’s hands all over her. His dick inside her. I take a deep breath through my nose, telling myself to calm down. Corrine isn’t mine, and even if she were, she’s allowed to have a past.

  “I was 23.”

  I’m doing the math. Which isn’t hard. “Last year?”

  “Yeah. I did have a sort of serious boyfriend in high school, but we never got that far. Then my parents got divorced and we moved anyway. I didn’t really get serious enough with anyone when I first started college, and then I was out for treatment. When I came back the first time, I was pretty focused on my schooling and just trying to recover anyway, you know?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “It just never happened. But when I was in treatment the second time, one of the things I kept thinking was, I can’t believe I’m going to die a virgin.” She gives another nervous laugh. It goes straight to my chest. Not to be sappy, but her laugh, I swear. It’s like sunlight mixed with honey.