Best Friends With The Badboy #wattys2018

9

I keep replaying what just happened. Mason has never been violent toward me before. Sure, he's lashed out at others when they made assumptions about him—but never me. Never like this.

Tears sting my eyes as I remember the look on his face. Cold. Distant. Like ice in his eyes. There was resentment there—real, palpable—and it shakes me more than I want to admit.

I wish I knew what made him change so drastically. But right now, I'm starting to regret ever being his friend. Maybe he is no good for me. Maybe it's finally time I focused on school instead of wasting energy on some overly rich boy who's going nowhere fast—though his parents' money and his last name will still buy him a bright future.

And me? If college doesn't work out, I'll be stuck. Trapped in this mess forever.

I grip the steering wheel with both hands, even though the pebbles still embedded in my palm burn from the pressure.

"Forget you, Mason Reid," I mutter through clenched teeth. "I'll treat you exactly how you treated me."

By the time I get home, I try to rush up the stairs—but Dad steps in my way, blocking my path.

"Hey there, kiddo," he says, trying on a smile.

I force one back. "H-hey, Jam... Dad."

"Haven't seen much of you lately."

"Yeah, just... caught up with school."

He looks nervous, rubbing the back of his neck, then shoving his hands in and out of his pockets. And then, out of nowhere, he pulls me into a hug.

"I missed you, kid. I promise to be a better man. Be the father you really need." His voice wavers. "I want to apologize—for what I've done in the past. You didn't deserve any of it."

I blink. Am I hearing this right? Did that shove earlier scramble my brain? I almost laugh—almost—because I'm no fool. He's already showing signs of slipping. It's only a matter of time before he turns on me again.

I slip out of his arms and take the stairs two at a time. I can't deal with this. Not now.

He grumbles something under his breath as I reach the top, but I don't care. If he wants to make things right, he should leave.

I lean against my bedroom door, chest tight. There's no way I can deal with this much drama in one day.

I throw myself face-first onto my bed and groan. I pick up my phone. Put it down. Pick it up again.

Finally, I text Mason.

Hey.

Just that. One word.

Then I wait. And wait.

No reply.

I groan and roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. I consider going over to his house—but stop myself. I don't even know if he's there. And if he is, I'm not ready for another scene like that.

I soon drift into a deep sleep, reliving the day—but this time, it's not Mason who pushes me to the ground. It's my father. He's yelling words I can't understand, slurring, waving a beer bottle in his hand.

One by one, everyone I know walks past. They glance at me, but no one stops to help. Then, abruptly, they all pause—only to burst out laughing, pointing fingers like I'm some freak show. I try to run, but I go nowhere. I'm sinking. Deeper and deeper. The last thing I see before I'm completely submerged is Charlotte and Mason, locked in a heated make-out session, like I never existed.

My eyes snap open. I sit up in bed, rubbing at the sleep and confusion clouding my brain. For a second, I'm still caught in another dimension—swirls and shadows dance behind my eyelids. Then I hear a thudding sound.