I’m too consumed in my initial shock and then grief to notice how hard Mason takes the news, but it becomes obvious in the days following the call. He’s withdrawn, depressed, and he moves on autopilot. He barely knows I’m here half the time, and the other half I’m met with subtle nods and single-word answers. I’m trying to hold it together for him, but we’re both as lost as each other.
Grief is a weird thing. I want to break down. I want to give up. Hell, I want to fucking drink just so I can numb the sadness. But at the same time, I’ve been through this before with my nanna, so I know the pain will dim. I know it will get easier.
Mason doesn’t have that same mentality. His dad is the only person he has lost in his life, and it was when he was young. He’s not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and I think he has said all of two words to me since we got the news.
When my phone rings with Harley’s name on the display, I leave Mason sleeping on the couch and slip out onto the balcony but keep the door open.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“How are you holding up?” Surprisingly, Harley’s voice is a calming presence. He’s always so together, and I trust he’ll know what to do.
“I’m worried about Mason,” I say.
“I’m worried about both of you. How are you handling it?”
Not great. “I’m better than Mason. He’s barely even spoken to me, and we’re—” Shit, I can’t say what was about to fall out my mouth. We’re supposed to be in this together, but it’s as if his grief has broken him. “We were back on track to being … us. And now …”
I have no idea where his head is at. This is testing us at a time we’re not ready to be tested. I don’t know what to say to him or how to make either of us feel better. Anytime I’ve tried to initiate sex to try to get out of my head and forget, he’s shot me down.
The only other option I have is drinking, but I want to prove to myself that I can get through something major without turning to the bottle.
I lick my lips and taste whiskey on them even though I haven’t touched a drop. That’s how desperate I am for a drink.
“Evelyn wants to know if either you or Mason want to talk at the funeral,” Harley says.
“Are you doing it?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“I can ask Mason later. He’s asleep.” I turn to where he sleeps on the couch. I don’t want to wake him, but apparently I’m wrong anyway. And he’s been listening.
“I’m awake.” He sits up. “What do you need to ask me?” He looks horrible. With bags under his eyes, messy hair, and he hasn’t changed his clothes in days, so they’re all wrinkled.
“If you’ll speak at the funeral,” I say.
“I don’t even know if I’m going, so you can put me down as a hell no.”
“Did … did he say what I think he said?” Harley says in my ear.
“You’re not going?” I ask Mason.
“I … I, uh …” He lies back on the couch again and throws his arm over his eyes. “I don’t know, okay?”
“Harley, I’ve gotta go.”
“Look after yourselves. Talk soon, okay?”
I end the call and approach Mason, dropping to my knees next to him, but my phone starts buzzing again. This time it’s Keith, my manager. Just the sight of his name reminds me that he’s terrible compared to Cameron. He wants me to make a public statement and turn Cameron’s death into another publicity grab, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
I posted a heartfelt statement the night it happened, expressed my sadness at the news, but I didn’t want to step outside the generic condolences. I didn’t want to make it about me. Mason had said similar, so I made a statement for him on his social medias because he refused to.
He doesn’t have a manager to tell him that even though he’s going through a rough time, there are still expectations he should meet. Even if it’s the minimum. I’m trying to be that voice of reason for him.
I ignore the call. “Mason.” I lift his arm off his face, and his cheeks are wet.