The Unmaking of June Farrow(22)

His brow furrowed, his gaze going from me to the inside of the house as I closed the door behind me. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I tried to sound normal.

Mason’s clothes were covered in dirt and pollen, which meant he was on his way home from work. “I called earlier,” he said. “Was worried when you didn’t come by the farm.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to call me back?”

I shrugged. “I’ve just been dealing with some of the paperwork left from Gran.” I glanced at the street, where a car was pulling into one of the driveways. I could lie to Mason, but I couldn’t look him in the eye when I did it.

He wasn’t buying it. I could tell by the way his head tilted a little to one side. “June.”

“What?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I snapped.

“Nothing?” His eyebrows lifted knowingly. “Really?”

I stared at him, digging my heels in.

He let the silence drag out for a few seconds before he stepped past me to the door.

“What are you—” I caught hold of his arm, but he pulled free, letting himself inside. “Mason!”

I followed, wedging myself ahead of him in the narrow hallway. When he reached the sitting room, I put a hand on his chest to stop him. But he froze as soon as he saw what I was trying to hide.

His eyes moved over the room slowly, landing on every scrap of paper I’d laid out. He was still—not just physically, but something about his countenance shifted, making the house feel colder. When he finally looked at me, there was fear in his eyes.

“June.” His voice lowered. “What is this?”

I exhaled heavily, pressing both palms to my cheeks as if to cool the heat igniting there. “It’s just family stuff.”

“Why is it all over the house like this?” He was holding back now, being careful.

“I’ve just been . . . looking into something.”

“Looking into what?”

“Just something about my mom.”

“What about her?” he pressed, his voice taking on an edge.

“Nothing!” I shouldered past him to the kitchen. When I reached the counter, I folded the foil back over Ida’s old Pyrex dish and yanked open the fridge.

From the corner of my vision I could see Mason eyeing the empty bins and the accordion file that was now lying limp on the table. He was behind me a few seconds later, arms crossed over his chest. The expression on his face was almost angry, but I didn’t know what he had to be mad about. I was the one losing my mind.

I traded the casserole dish for an untouched blueberry pie and fished two spoons from the crock beside the stove. I didn’t bother grabbing bowls, heading back to the table.

“You need to talk to me. I’m worried about you,” he said.

“You’re worried?” I muttered, taking a seat. I set the pie between us, handing him a spoon.

“Yes. I’m worried. You’ve been off for a while. And now I find you shut up in the house with this shit everywhere?”

I smiled bitterly. “You think I’m losing it.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. That’s why I want you to talk to me.”

I shoved the spoon into the pie, eating straight out of the pan. I’d known it would come to this eventually. Mason knew me too well. I couldn’t hide from him.

“You can trust me, June. You know that.”

I did know. There wasn’t anything I could say that would push Mason away. In fact, I’d tried. We’d made an agreement years ago that he’d be the first person I called when it started, but the moment I told him, the moment I said it out loud, it would all be true. That would make it real.

I dropped the spoon onto the table, pressing my hands to my face again. There was no point in lying anymore. I knew that. But it was just so hard to say.

I drew in a deep breath and stood, going to the shelf on the far wall for the whiskey decanter. “Sit down.” I took two of the etched lowball glasses from the hutch, setting them onto the table.

“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”

“Please just sit down.” I was exhausted now.

Mason was already pouring the whiskey when I took the chair across from him, and when he picked up his glass, I followed. I took it in one swallow, wincing as the burn traveled down my throat. The smoky smell of it filled the air around us, and as soon as I set down the glass, Mason refilled it.

“It’s happening,” I said.

My voice was so quiet that I wasn’t completely sure I’d spoken the words. But Mason’s face changed, his eyes jumping back and forth on mine. His grip tightened on his glass.

“It’s been happening,” I breathed. “For about a year now.” All at once, it became definitive. Conclusive.

“A year.”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why do you think?” I smirked, tears biting the back of my throat.

“Okay.” Mason’s tone had completely changed now.

I could see it in his eyes. He’d shifted gears to damage control, and I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t need it. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that there was nothing he could do to make this okay. He was a man who needed to feel like he was fixing things. Always finding the loose knots in people and tightening them up before they could unravel. I wasn’t going to take that away from him.