Chapter 47

AGE 20, JUNE

This is such a bad idea.

The concrete Lackawanna River Viaduct appears up ahead, dark and ominous as it flickers through the trees. And despite how much I prepared for this moment, I can't help but feel like I've gotten sucked back in time, or have finally woken from a long sleep, and college was nothing but a vivid dream.

A glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror confirms neither are true.

I'm still me.

Relieved, I sit a little straighter.

"I can do this," I whisper, just as the Welcome to Shiloh sign appears.

From my speakers, "Jars" by Chevelle is playing, blasting through the open windows as grassy hills and cornfields and evergreen mountains blur past me, slowly but surely giving way to rooftops.

Fingers gripping the steering wheel, I coast along the highway curving down past the bridge, taking the off-ramp that will lead me right into town. The church on the corner greets me first, with its white needle-like steeple and black doors.

It's where we had Izzy's funeral service. One of only a handful of times that I've stepped inside a church. Three funerals. One wedding. Jesus wasn't really big in our family, unless it was a part of some checklist.

Mason used to go as a kid. Every Sunday, Sherry would take him. He did the CCD thing—First Holy Communion, confession, you name it.

I can't really pinpoint when it stopped, but it was sometime after Phoebe came into their lives. I never asked if her being trans was the reason they pulled away from the church, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Sucking my cheeks in, I shake away the past trying to creep forward and return my focus to the road. I swing a left at the four-way stop, and then make a sharp right onto Main Street—the so-called hub of all things Shiloh.

Having lived in a city these last few months, it's startling how quiet it is here.

Sure, there are cars passing by. People strolling the streets. It's Friday night after all, and the weather's perfect—not too warm, not too cold, the cloudless sky streaked orange from the fading sun.

But compared to downtown Allentown on a weekend…

A horn blasts into the night, and my gaze flits left to where a couple girls around my age run across the street, waving an apology at the pick-up truck that had to squeal to a stop for them.

My gaze follows the scantily-clad girls to where they slow to a shuffle in front of a familiar brick building, one I've only been in a handful of times growing up.

O'Leary's Pub.

The sign is lit up green, making the brick surrounding it look more gray than red in the shadows falling over the street as night creeps in.

Lowering the volume on the stereo, I look around for somewhere along the street to park. There's a back lot behind O'Leary's, but it's small and private—meant for workers and tenants only.

A block up, someone's just pulling out, so I swiftly claim it.

One of the many benefits of city life: I've become a pro at parallel parking. I manage to nail it in one go.

Take that, DMV.

I shift into park and roll up my windows before killing the engine.

In the quiet, I flip down the visor to fix my hair, sifting my fingers through the curled, lightly gelled silvery-white strands. My darker roots are starting to show. I'll need Gabe to touch it up soon.

Amber eyes peer back at me, and I wipe away a rogue lash, checking that my eyeliner didn't smudge. I only wore a little bit—just a natural brown that Gabe promised no one would pick up on, when he first got me to try makeup months ago.

"Then what's the point?"

"How does it make you feel? First word that comes to mind. Go."

"Brave."

"Exactly."

Turning my head side to side, I take a moment to psyche myself up. With memories of all the times Gabe has hyped me up running through my head, it's hard not to compare what I look like now to the guy I was back in January. The one who all but clawed his way out of this town, shoulders perpetually hunched, tangled blond hair curtaining his face, buried in as much shame as he was layers of fabric.

This town would've swallowed that boy whole if he didn't break free. I see that now more than ever, as a flash of silver winks back at me from where I pierced my cartilage.

Like the barely-there eyeliner, it's nothing crazy, but definitely something JJ would've been too chicken-shit to do. Just like chopping off my hair, and bleaching it and toning it to near-silver. Like the fact I actually brushed it, styled it so it's off my face…

Even my clothes are nothing I would've risked wearing had I not moved away, and the fact that it's just black skinny jeans and a thin, form-fitting black and grey raglan tee, with my sleeves rolled up to my forearms says a lot. Gone are the days where I'd bury myself in baggy layers.

Though, now that I'm here, memories of all the shit I've been through creeping forward, I can't help but chew my lip and debate scrounging up a hoodie from the trunk. Wiping the makeup from my eyes. Tugging on a beanie.

I grimace at the thought, and shake my head.

Stop. You're not that person anymore.

I didn't spend months of intense therapy and pushing myself out of my comfort zone—making friends and going out and all but desensitizing myself to triggers—just to revert to my old ways the second I'm confronted with my past.

I might be back in Shiloh. But I'm here as the new and improved me. Not as the meek, anxious kid I was, crawling out of his skin and holding his breath, wishing for the day he could finally break free, and be himself. Be me.

Fuck what people might say or think. This town no longer holds any power over me. I've made a new home for myself. I don't have to be here. I can leave at any point I feel unsafe—truly unsafe, and not just insecure and paranoid.

Fake it 'til you make it.

The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my roommate.

My phone dings with an incoming message.

Speak of the devil…

GABE BABYYYYY

where r u

u better be inside nd not sitting all pathetic in ur car, tryin to talk urself out of it just cuz im not there to slap u

Chuckling to myself, I shake my head and thumb out a response.

Just parked, drama queen. Heading in now

Not for the first time, I wish Gabe could've come home with me. If not for the summer, at least for a couple days. This would've been so much easier if he was here with me. Tonight especially. But his sister's getting married tomorrow, so he had to go straight home to Pittsburgh.

uh huh. I no u. stop overthinking. U look hot as always. go inside.

Huffing, I send him a middle finger emoji. To which he responds back with a kissy face.

give blue eyes a big smooch for me ??

I will kill you

??????

Another one quickly comes in.

Uve got this, babe.

Nd remember if things turn rank u could always leave nd come be my date for Jen's wedding!!!

Snorting, I tap out my response.

nah, i don't wanna set the bar too high for the next guy you bring home

welll snap. nd there he isssss, ladies nd gentlemen ????

now take that sweet (s)ass of yours inside (see wut i did there) nd show em all theyve been missing

SLAY, KING! kisses! ????

I huff a laugh under my breath, and thumb out a ttyl. Locking my phone, I pop an Altoid in my mouth, cinnamon bursting on my tongue. And give my reflection one last look.

"Slay, king," I murmur.

When Masonfirst told me he and Waylon started a band, I was shocked.

Not only had he not touched an instrument in years—as far as I knew—but even just listening to music seemed to be some kind of trigger for him.

Color me even more shocked when he told me a couple months ago that he, Waylon, and Shawn—the guy he met in rehab who came to live with them, and is also part of this so-called band of theirs—moved out of Sherry's and into the apartment above Gavin's bar…

Where they also now work.

"I know what you're thinking," Mason says over the phone. "But it's actually cathartic in a way. Bartending. I don't know how to describe it. And it keeps me busy. Keeps both of us busy."

Shawn, my mind supplies. Because he's a recovering addict too.

"Gavin's been wanting to cut back hours, and Marty's been flaking on him more than usual lately, and Sid wants to retire…" he goes on, referring to the bartenders who were working for Gavin previously. "He thinks it'll be good for us. Obviously, he won't be leaving us alone anytime soon, but he's giving us a chance to prove we can handle it. Plus, we'd be living upstairs for dirt cheap."

"Didn't you tell me not too long ago that Way and Shawn were seconds from killing each other? How is moving into an even smaller space and working together gonna help with that?"

He chuckles, and the raspy, familiar sound of it has my stomach bottoming out, and butterflies taking flight. "Eh, they like each other more than they're willing to admit. Plus we've got the heavy bags in the basement if someone needs to let off some steam."

"Right," I say with a soft chuckle.

"You're coming home for spring break, right?"

Wincing, I shake my head even though he can't see me. "Actually, I'm going home with Gabe for the week."

Silence meets my words.

I clear my throat. "But…summer, I'll be back for summer."

A beat passes. "Yeah?"

Nodding, I say, "Yeah. Campus will be closed, so I can't exactly stay in the dorms…"

"Right," he whispers.

"It's hard for me, Mase."

Silence.

Then, "I know. Trust me, I know. I just…I miss you, JJ."

And the question sits on the tip of my tongue: Me…or do you miss who I remind you of?

But I keep it to myself. Instead, I say, "I miss you too."

"Do you?"

Eyes wide, I look around my dorm room. Gabe's not here, thankfully. He's the worst when I'm on the phone with Mason—not that I answer Mason's calls all that often—making kissy faces and wagging his brows.

It's a joke at this point… well, the shit he gives me is. My feelings… not so much, even if some days it feels like one big practical joke.

But Gabe knows how complicated it is. He knows just talking to Mason feels like torture sometimes. So I can't really fault him for making light of something so messed up. It's…nice, to not be treated with kid gloves for once. If I ever told him to stop, I know he would, but to be honest?

It's fucking nice to have someone who knows, and doesn't pity me for it.

It's nice to have a friend outside of all the shit back in Shiloh, who I can vent to. A friend that is mine and only mine, and knows how hard it can be growing up gay in a small town. Though he didn't have it nearly as bad as I did.

"Y-yeah," I finally manage to scrape out. "Of course I do."

"Because…"

"Because what?"

"If you don't—I mean, if you'd rather not come back to Shiloh, I-I'd understand. I just…I wish I could at least visit you."

Wincing, I rub my sternum and say, "I know. I'm sor?—"

"You don't have to be sorry. It's okay. College is your thing."

Eyes burning, I say, "Yeah." It's not the first time it's come up—him wanting to visit….the fact I haven't gone back to Shiloh since I left…

There's this wall I've put up between my life here on campus, and the one back in Shiloh, and I don't even think I realized how tall and daunting I made it until he brought it up just now.

"You won't even FaceTime me," he says, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears.

"Mase…"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything." Blowing out a breath, he must turn his face away from his phone, because whatever he says next is too quiet and muffled to be discernible.

Working my jaw, I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What do I even say to make this better? I'm well aware I'm the cause of this distance—this…rift, or whatever you want to call it.

I'm the one running scared, and I know it.

But I know I'm also in my right to do this.

If he knew the reasons behind this…

The truth…

"Oh! Sorry, 'scuse me,"a voice rushes out after having bumped into me, snapping me back to the present.

Shaking away the memories, I drop my gaze away from the green O'Leary's Pub sign, and step off to the side to allow a couple girls to pass me.

The door opens, and from inside I hear a familiar song drawing to a close.

I frown. Is that…is that them?

The song playing I recognize as "Bottom of a Bottle" by Smile Empty Soul.

But the voice singing it…

You knew they were playing tonight.

Yeah…

But I didn't expect them to sound this good.

Correction: I didn't expect him to sound this good.

When is the last time I heard him sing?

And I realize, it's been years.

I stride for the door, catching it just before it can close on me. A crowd of people bottleneck the narrow entry, and I find myself growing impatient, arching and craning my neck to try and see deeper inside.

I knew it was packed—hence why I ended up standing frozen outside, as I debated whether or not I could do this—but it's one thing to get a peek of it from outside, and another to be in the thick of it.

The sound of feedback screeches across the room. And then there's a distinct tapping of the mic.

"Alright, so before we take our break, we're gonna slow it down a bit."

At the sound of his deep, raspy voice flooding the room, it's as if someone shoves me under water, and I'm momentarily swept back by the current of bodies filling the space. There's cheering and cat-calling, but it's as if it's all coming from very far away.

It's not until the familiar guitar intro of "Your Guardian Angel" by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus being strummed floods the room, simultaneously quieting the room and kickstarting my lungs to work again, that I'm able to move. Nerves be damned.

All but shoving my way through the bodies, I push up on the toes of my Chucks as I try to see over the sea of heads and thrown up arms blocking my view of where the stage must be.

I'd only ever seen this place empty, and in the dead of afternoon. But I vaguely remembering an elevated platform against the back wall.

Heart thrashing against my ribs, I mutter, "Come on, come on."

It suddenly feels imperative that I see him. See this.

The song choice strikes me as…odd, but also not. He loved this song. Izzy did too…

But despite the heavy feeling sinking in my chest as to why he likely picked this one to end their set…

I'm helpless to turn away and bolt.

Because the second he starts singing…

Any speck of delusion I had left that my time away from him somehow cured me, is gone. Disintegrated. Turning my mouth to ash in the process.

Mason…

I've heard him sing before. Of course I have. He's been singing to whatever's playing since we were kids, be it in the car on the way to the movies or Comic Con, or belting out to the music playing from our boombox and, later, stereo.

He was rarely serious when he'd do this, especially as we got older and he grew more self-conscious about it.

But I remember what my dad said when we were kids.

Remember what he told me Gavin said, about getting him vocal lessons. As far as I know, he never went for it.

"It's just for fun," he'd told me. Just like he said about guitar, with a careless shrug of his shoulder before he changed the subject.

Now, I can't help but furrow my brows as I listen to the voice crooning into the shockingly quiet room. I can't imagine it's an easy song to sing, given how breathy the beginning is—but what the fuck do I know, other than I most definitely would be flat if I tried.

I just know he sounds good.

Perfect.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so screwed.

I'm also too far away.

Finally, finally, there's a break in the crowd where I reach one of the columns in the middle of the dense space, just as the strumming stops, making way for the chorus.

His eyes are closed, hand fisting the mic stand as he leans into the melody—the words—mastering them as if they were made for him. The light catches on something silver looped through his lip, and?—

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He pierced his lip.

Got some more ink, too, from what I can see. When did he do all that? He never said anything…

A guitar is swung behind him, and a glance to his right shows a tall, dark-haired unfamiliar guy I assume is Shawn strumming an acoustic. Behind them, Waylon sits behind a drum set, neck craned toward the mic, as he harmonizes in the background.

Since when the fuck does he sing??

Mason's voice trails, and then his eyes open with a sort of fierce determination that pummels me as he sings about seasons changing and waves crashing and stars falling…

Where his voice was high and breathy and perfectly controlled before, there's a rougher, reckless sort of gravel to it now, like it's teasing what's to come. Like a bow pulled taut, primed to release.

His pierced lip curves wickedly as he strokes the mic stand in a way that should be illegal, head bowed like he's fucking worshiping the thing. And hell if I don't want to kneel at his feet.

By a quick glance at the surrounding awed faces, I'm likely not the only one. And while a part of me absolutely abhors the fact they get to see him like this, most of me is just…

Proud.

And completely fucking dumbstruck.

Mason straightens, pale blue eyes sparkling as he vows to be there through it all, even if it means going to Heaven.

It demolishes me, and yet I can't look away.

Forget every other time I've heard this song.

This. It's this.His raw, gritty take on it. I don't know how I'll ever hear it again, and not hear his voice—this version. How I'll not see this image of him on-stage, pouring his fucking heart out with every guttural word falling seamlessly from his lips, commanding the room like a god.

Like he was born for nothing else but this.

Hearing him, watching him…

It's as if I'm observing in real time, as he sheds chains I never realized were there—one made up of ivory keys and frustrated fingers and a steel jaw and hard, bleary eyes as he tried to force sonata and overtures from a brain just aching for something more, something else…

Something that had been in him all along, one that had been….hidden somehow, buried under…under what?

The need to be like Izzy.

My heart grinds to a halt at the thought.

And I'm shaking my head, watching this boy on stage—this boy I watched grow into a broken man, white-knuckling the mic stand, neck tendons straining as he cajoles the song to its peak, vowing to always be there.

He swings the electric guitar around to his front, and as if practiced a million fucking times, seamlessly kicks the bridge off just as Waylon slams his sticks down on the drums.

Chills wash over my skin as he lowers his head, aiming his gaze right at me. He probably can't see me—surely he can't—not through the tight throng of people separating me from the stage, arms thrust up in the air, or through the glare of the spotlight beaming down on the stage…

But for a moment, I pretend he does, and I hold my breath.

I pretend he's looking right at me—that it's me he's singing to, weaving words that sit like a pit in my chest.

And that thing inside me, the one that's called to him since the second I first laid eyes on him…

It croons promises right back—wicked, wicked vows that are a betrayal to the ghost he's really singing to.

No, no, I'll never let you fall either.

I'll be by your side always.

Forever, through it all, even if it kills me.

The room fades away. The drums, the guitar…

It's just his voice—words that aren't his, but feel like his.

And us…

Mason and me.

My Mase Face.

Caught in a vortex of past and present that flips through my head like snapshots of a comic book being pieced together, and the biting reality that creeps its way back inside me, reminding me…

This isn't real.

The song trickles to an end, his voice fading out. Cheers and whistles rise up, drowning out everything but the heart thundering in my ears, and cooling the thoughts in my head.

And when Mason calls out into the mic, rushed and breathless, "We'll be back in a bit!" as casual and effortless as always, with a smile caught in his voice…

My heart breaks a little bit.

At the confirmation, that like so many times before?—

It's all in my head.