Ignoring her, Mason said, “My brother died four years ago. Snowmobile accident. We were making jumps. He went first; didn’t make it all the way across. I didn’t know it and drove over him, killing him.” He paused. “I killed my brother.”
Sara’s stomach clenched as she looked at Mason. He was staring at his boots. When his tortured eyes found hers, she felt sick. She’d seen that look before; she saw it every time she looked in the mirror.
“Derek was younger, smarter, better-looking; pretty much better in every way imaginable. He had his whole life ahead of him. He was going to be a lawyer. He was engaged to a girl who loved him like I’d never seen anyone love anyone.” Mason sucked in a sharp breath. “No matter how much Annie, his fiancée, hated me, she never could hate me as much as I hated myself.”
Sara felt something warm and wet on her cheeks, and was surprised to find she was crying. Why that surprised her, she had no idea. Maybe because this time, the first time in a long time, her tears were for someone else, and not herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fisting her trembling hands under her crossed arms.
“Everyone’s sorry, aren’t they, Sara?” Mason’s eyes drilled into hers. “Everyone’s sorry, but does it really do anything? Does it bring them back? Does it bring my brother back? How about your husband? Does it make you feel better? Is there really any point to it? Why do people say it, Sara?”
“I don’t…I don’t know.” She swallowed.
“Then why did you say it?”
Sara stared at him, flustered and confused. “Because—“
“Because why?” he interrupted, his expression stern.
“Because I wanted to help!” she cried, agitated from his berating of her.
Mason smiled briefly. “Spencer wants to help. I want to help. Talk to me. Let me help.”
Sara walked toward the kitchen, stopped, and turned back to Mason. “What good will talking do? It won’t bring him back. It won’t make what happened go away. It’s a waste of time, a waste of words. Just like saying you’re sorry. Right?”
“Spencer told me you’re an artist. Show me your artwork.”
Sara’s body jerked; her mind unable to keep up with Mason’s. “No.”
Mason moved to sit down on the recliner that was his and Sara lurched forward, throwing her body between him and the chair. She trembled as she met his eyes and her breathing was too rapid, her heart pounding. “You can’t sit here.”
His eyes narrowed, but Mason moved away, into the kitchen. Sara wanted him to leave. She opened her mouth to demand it when he directed his gaze toward her. There was stark pain there, so vivid Sara’s mouth went dry. It contorted Mason’s features into a mask of anguish.
“I did a lot of drugs. I’d always had a tendency to drink too much, experiment with illegal drugs, but after Derek’s death, I became dependent on them to function. They dulled the pain, but never for long enough. It was never enough. The pain always came back. The memories. The guilt.”
Mason tapped his fingers on the table, watching his hand. “You don’t have to talk, Sara. You can just listen. I’ll do the talking for now, and when you’re ready, you can talk. Whatever you do, though, don’t do anything stupid.” He looked up, freezing her where she stood with the directness of his gaze. “Don’t do something you can’t forgive yourself for doing.”
“I already have,” she choked out, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“No. Not yet. That wasn’t your fault.” Yes, it was. It was Sara’s fault. It would forever be her fault and nothing would or could change that.
“So that wasn’t my fault, but what happened with your brother; it was yours?”
“I was drinking. I’d smoked marijuana that night. I think it’s safe to say it was my fault.”
“It could have happened regardless.”
“Only it didn’t.”
A tense silence ensued. Sara finally broke it, curiosity driving her to ask, “What got you to stop? The drugs and alcohol, I mean.”
“I had to find something to make me want to live. I had to find something that was bigger than the guilt and pain I carried around.”
“And you did?”
Mason’s eyes softened. “I did.”
She almost envied that; that Mason had been able to find peace when it continued to elude her for any length of notable time.
A knock came at the door, followed by Spencer. He looked from the kitchen where Mason stood to the living room where Sara was. “Do you hate me now?” he asked Sara.
Sara rubbed her face. Of course she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t especially happy with him at the moment, but she didn’t hate him. That emotion was reserved for herself.
When she didn’t answer, Spencer sighed. “Ready, Mason?”
“I’ll be back next week, Sara. Sunday. At nine.” He didn’t ask; he told. “Be dressed next time. Showered. Oh, and have coffee ready too. I like Dunkin’ Donuts. Spencer said you bake?”
Sara’s face heated at his demanding tone. “You’re bossy.”