Bound by Hatred, Lost in Love

I always thought Mason Henson and I should have been enemies, bound by a hatred carved into bone.

But instead, I loved him.

After I was released from prison, Mason looked after me, driven by guilt.

Until the day of his engagement, when he told me there was no road left for us. We both needed to start over.

Mason gave me a plane ticket and more money than I could count. He drove me to the airport himself, sending me away from the city I'd called home for years.

What he didn't know was that the plane was headed straight for death.

Five years later, when we crossed paths again in Coral Bay, I learned that Mason had spent every one of those five years searching for me.

The day I walked out of prison, the sky was clear and the sun burned red overhead.

Under that blinding light, my gaunt, colorless face looked even more worn than it was.

I could feel the man behind me. Still following.

I frowned and quickened my pace without thinking.

I walked for what felt like a long time before stopping in front of an old apartment building.

This used to be my home.

Too many memories lived inside these walls. Every single one of them hurt.

I turned around and stared at the man in front of me, my expression flat and cold.

Mason wore a tailored suit that looked like he'd rushed straight from some important meeting.

He stepped closer. Seven years apart, and all that remained between us was distance, hatred, and a dull, shapeless ache.

"Bridget Simmons, if there's anything you need, anything at all, come to me. I owe you that much. For all seven of those years."

I listened without expression. Said nothing.

I stopped looking at him and turned to look at the apartment instead.

Once, I used to lean out that window and holler at the top of my lungs:

"Mason, come eat dinner!"

And he'd always come back with that irritated look on his face.

Back then, I was louder than anyone, talked more than anyone.

Now, standing in front of the man I'd spent my entire youth loving, I couldn't find a single word to say.

I pushed open the rusted iron gate. It screamed on its hinges.

Inside was exactly what I expected: dust everywhere, thick in the air.

Seven years without a soul living here. Everything sat exactly where I'd left it.

Mason walked in behind me without asking.

He shut the door.

He went to the bathroom, found a mop, and started cleaning.

I watched him scrubbing away and let out a cold laugh.

Guilt.

How disgusting.

I went into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I sat on the bed. The mirror across from me reflected a body that looked like it belonged to a ghost.

Seven years ago, my cheeks had been full, my stomach soft. A little chubby, even.

Now there was nothing left but skin stretched over bone, held together by a single stubborn breath.

The moon hung alone in the sky.

I opened the door. Mason was asleep on the couch.

I looked at him, cold and still, while his phone rang and rang on the cushion beside him.

I picked it up. The contact name read: Melody Fox.

Something pulled at me, and before I knew what I was doing, I answered.

"Mason, are you coming home tomorrow? I miss you!"

The woman's voice on the other end was sweet, wheedling.

My fingers went white around the phone. I said nothing. I hung up.

Hatred swallowed me whole.

My gaze drifted to the kitchen knife on the counter, then back to Mason, defenseless and sound asleep.

I clenched my teeth. For a reason I couldn't name, something in my chest ached.

If I didn't love him, we would be nothing but enemies, and I would have killed him without hesitation.

But I loved him. Fifteen years I'd loved him.

I lay down on the bed, exhausted.

As the memories came, thin and slow, I realized that in seven years behind bars, not a single person had visited me besides my mother.

Mason never came. Not once.

Over those seven years, Mason's career had only climbed higher. He had a lover now, and he'd gotten everything he ever wanted. He was a rich man, just as he'd planned.

To Mason, I was probably nothing more than a stain on his otherwise spotless life.

A stain he could never wash out.

Melody. Melody...

I kept my eyes shut, but the name from that caller ID kept floating through my mind.

I still remembered the early days of Mason's business. He was always gone before dawn and back long after dark.

Flirtatious texts on his phone, lipstick smudges on his white dress shirts. None of it was new.

Back then, I'd throw fits. I'd interrogate him, again and again.

Mason would just frown, his face full of impatience.

Looking back, it was laughable. The whole relationship had only ever been one-sided.

I drifted into a fitful sleep.

In the dream, a single warm-yellow candle flickered in a dim room, its flame guttering and swaying.

I sat slumped in a chair, staring at the food that had gone cold, at the birthday cake beside it.

The clock hand kept ticking. I was waiting for someone. Waiting for him to come home.

Until the sky turned a pale, sickly gray. Until something inside me dried up and died. Only then did I finally hear the lock turn.

The dream ended.

I came to slowly. Above me was a familiar bedroom ceiling, not the dim concrete of a prison cell.

It took a moment to register. I was out.

I was free.

Everything in that dream had actually happened.

That had been the last birthday I ever celebrated for Mason before I went to prison.

The last birthday I'd ever celebrate in my life.

I still remembered the gift I'd given him that year. It was the very thing that pushed me into the abyss.

I dragged my stiff legs off the bed and stood.

The living room was empty. I walked to the couch and pressed my hand against it. It still held a trace of warmth.

I stared blankly out the window at the open sky. Seven years locked away had severed every thread connecting me to the world outside.

Loneliness wrapped around me like a fist, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.

Freedom after prison hadn't delivered me to a new life. It had dropped me into a different kind of void.

The world was vast, and I had nowhere to go. Who would take in someone with a record?

While I stood there lost in thought, Mason came back. He was carrying breakfast.

I glanced at the steaming coffee and pastries on the table, and my stomach lurched.

Years ago, I would have been wolfing it all down already.

Back then, I'd believed life held two perfect happinesses:

Good food, and the company of the person you loved.

Mason watched me standing frozen in place. He walked over, took my hand, and led me to the table.

I looked down at his fingers gripping mine, then at the food, and without warning a wave of nausea tore through me so violently my whole body seized.

I bolted to the bathroom and heaved over the sink, retching until there was nothing left,

until my eyes brimmed with involuntary tears.

In the mirror, I could see Mason standing behind me, his gaze fixed on my back.

His brow was furrowed. He looked terrible.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

He was already scrambling to gather his things before he'd finished the sentence.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. My voice came out quiet:

"The sight of you makes me sick."

"You said you wanted to make it up to me, Mason? Then drop dead. That would make me happy."

The color drained further from his already pale face. He forced a thin smile.

I watched him with no expression, no feeling at all.

"This is my home."

One sentence. It said everything that needed saying.

The living room sank into a strange, heavy silence.

Mason was the one who broke it. His voice was low and hoarse:

"Take care of yourself. If you need anything, call me."

"My number. It hasn't changed."

With that, he left.

I stared at the closed door, then collapsed into the chair as if every last bit of strength had drained out of me.

My mother died in my third year behind bars.

I never got to see her one last time before she passed.

But I still remembered the last thing she ever said to me.

She said, "Look ahead. Keep moving forward."

Look ahead. Keep moving forward. Easy words to say. Impossible to live by.

Late summer. Leaves fell from the trees in heavy handfuls, surrendering to the ground.

The me from seven years ago would never have imagined I'd end up sweeping those leaves off the streets.

Autumn was close, but the sun still burned.

I dragged my aching, rusted body along, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

A motorcycle tore past with an ear-splitting screech.

It clipped me as it went, carving a raw red streak across my leg.

I fell to the side of the road. The sting kept firing through my nerves, relentless.

Across the street, a black Bentley sat parked in silence.

Two figures stepped out.

One of them I knew too well. Mason.

And the woman beside him had to be Melody.

Mason held Melody's arm, and the way he looked at her was gentle.

I watched the two of them, and the pain in my right leg vanished. What replaced it was worse. Numbness, and a bitterness so deep it had no bottom.

An invisible hand closed around my heart and squeezed.

Mason turned his head. Our eyes met. But it was nothing more than a passing glance, and then he looked away.

Late that night, I sat on the windowsill, staring at the lonely moon.

It flickered the same way the birthday candles had, seven years ago.

Seven years ago, on Mason's birthday, I waited for him. He didn't come home until the sky turned pale with dawn.

I still caught the scent of women's perfume on his shirt.

I swallowed the hurt. Told myself it was his birthday. I wouldn't fight with him today.

Mason blew out the candles without interest and picked at the meal I'd reheated more times than I could count.

That day, I gave Mason every dollar I had. I invested it all in his company.

I told him, "I believe in your dream more than anyone. I believe in you more than anyone."

I saw his eyes go red and wet. Mason almost never cried.

He pulled me into his arms. He didn't say a word. He just held me, tight.

At the time, I thought I had finally melted through that wall of ice. I thought I'd finally made it into his heart. All those years of waiting had finally paid off.

I had no idea it was the rope that would drag me into the abyss.

After that, I quit my job. I devoted myself entirely to taking care of Mason.

His company grew bigger. More business partners appeared around him.

I loved to eat, and it showed. I was a little heavy, a little loud. The partners looked at me with barely concealed disgust.

But I didn't care. Love was between two people. That was all that mattered.

A year of that life passed before the company ran into trouble.

I was pushed forward, made the legal representative on paper.

They said everything was my doing. They claimed they knew nothing.

I listened to the testimony, my fists clenching on their own, my eyes burning red, locked on Mason.

Mason's face was blank. His eyes were like a dark pool I had never once been able to read.

In seven years of prison, he never came to see me. Not once.

Yet after I got out, this cold, unreadable man told me he felt guilty. That he wanted to make things right.

The thought of it pulled a laugh out of me. A short, hollow sound, nothing close to joy.

I stared at my right leg. The wound was slowly scabbing over, a reminder etched into my skin of everything that had happened.

Two silhouettes walking side by side flashed through my mind, squeezing my heart like a fist.

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, my doorbell rang.

Mason. Again.

"Bridget, how's your leg? Let me take you to the hospital."

I looked at that handsome face, and the pain twisted through me so sharply I could barely breathe. I turned away from him and staggered into a chair.

Everything from yesterday flooded back.

A dull, creeping ache coiled through my body.

My eyes burned red. I ground the word out through clenched teeth: "Get out."

Mason acted like he hadn't heard. He walked toward me, reaching down as if to pick me up.

I recoiled from him in an instant, scrambling free. My whole body shook beyond my control as I stared at him. There was nothing left in my eyes but hatred and pain.

"Mason, I'll say it one more time. You feel guilty? You want to make amends? Then go die. That's the best thing you could do for me."

I glared at him, then added:

"I never want to see you again!"

After that day, Mason didn't come back.

Time seemed to crawl. Cold air settled over Ashford City like a slow frost.

I found out about Mason and Melody's engagement from a billboard on the street.

The photo showed a perfect couple, as if they'd been made for each other.

That night, I received a text message.

The contact name was Melody Fox.

"I know everything about what happened between you two back then. You've always been a thorn in Mason's side. Name your price and leave Ashford City."

"Only when you're gone will any of this be over," the next message read.

I stared at the screen, expression blank, and blocked her number.

One day, I was walking down the street as usual when a car pulled up beside me.

The window rolled down.

"Well, well. Bridget Simmons. It really is you. Long time no see."

"You've gotten so thin."

I turned toward the voice. Cedric Finch. Mason's business partner.

"Why are you still hanging around Ashford City?"

I frowned, my voice cold as ice:

"My home is in Ashford City."

Cedric let out a short laugh.

"Home? Isn't your mother dead? What home do you have?"

The words hit me like a slap. I froze where I stood, my eyes flooding red, and I fixed him with a stare so savage he might as well have been looking at something rabid. I didn't blink. I didn't move.

Cedric shifted in his seat, unnerved. He rolled the window up and sped off.