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.