Chapter 83.

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I circle my third lap of my home town, the torrential rain that showers against the car windscreen drowning out the noise of my heart beating in my ears. I pull over and take in a deep breath—the headlights of passing cars lighting up the dark road in front of me for seconds at a time.

I didn't want to be home, I didn't want to cry on my bedroom floor—but I don't know what to do. Where to go. I wipe my eyes, trying to compose myself long enough to continue my drive—the distorted vision from my tears, and the rain clouding my windows making it almost impossible for me to drive any further.

I stare at the letter on my dashboard, wondering why I even brought it with me. My head pounds against my skull from the mixture of emotions and result of my crying. The guilt and the pain is eating me alive. I have absolutely no idea what I feel; or how to stop it. I don't want to be around anyone, but even more than that—I don't want to be alone. I really don't want to be alone.

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Mason's POV:

I step out of the shower, drying myself as well as possible with the shitty towels this place provides. Four star hotel my ass. I throw on a pair of sweatpants and scrub the towel through my hair, leaving it damp and disheveled.

I take a seat on the small leather couch, the noise it makes as I make contact making me cringe. I really need to get myself a fucking apartment. I look around the hotel room and shake my head. No matter how much I hate to admit it—Amara is right, I can't keep living like this. This bullshit isn't even living.

With the new job, I'll be able to get an apartment in no time. Really, I have more than enough money without it—after the way I spent my last two years. But it's not enough to last a lifetime, I need this job. I want to make my own money, clean money. The fact that it's from Steve, though, makes me consider anything else, literally anything.

I picture Amara's face when he agreed. The look of relief on her face that she didn't have to worry as much anymore. It's the only reason I'll try. She seems like she has everything together. A good job, friends, a healthy relationship—at least that makes one of us.

I really do need to get my shit together.

Just as I reach for my shirt, a loud knock at the door makes me jump. I roll my eyes, it was only a matter of time before Jake came crawling back to whine at me—he let Amara do most of the lecturing earlier, it must be eating him up inside.

I pull my shirt over my head and open the door, my brow furrowing in confusion as she stands in front of me. "Amara?"

I feel my chest grow heavy when I look at her eyes; red, puffy and full of tears. Her dark hair clings to her face from the rain, and I feel a wave of anger come over me—who made her this upset? Who did this to her?

My eyes fall to her side, where she clutches something in her hand. Holy shit. I feel the colour drain from my face as I realise what it is, it can't be—can it? She brushes her thumb over the words on the envelope, allowing me to recognise my own hand writing. It's the letter. It's my letter.

My worried eyes meet hers again, and she breaks. She let's out a cry that takes a part of me in a way I've never felt before. Without thinking, I pull her into my chest. She wraps her small arms around me tightly in return, as if it was almost instinctual. As she returns my embrace, I feel a weight lift from my chest. The simple feeling of her in my arms lifts a weight from me that had resided there for so long, I forgot it even existed. I just learned to live with it. It became a part of me.

She lets out a small sigh of relief as she relaxes in my grip, an audible release. I tighten my grip and relax into the moment—her cries stopping almost instantly. It's such a simple touch. A natural reaction to seeing her so upset. It's funny how something so simple, can be by far—the best feeling I've felt in years. An overwhelming feeling of relief washes over me, and I feel my eyes begin to brim with tears as I rest my chin on her head. I blink them away, letting her get everything she has to out of this moment; no matter how innocent it is.

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