I ignore his hand and walk to the stairs and then enter the dilapidated trailer.
I take a deep breath, and everything returns—the smell of bacon and coffee, my father’s usual breakfast. The stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and bad decisions hangs in the air.
I don’t hear Mason behind me, but I’m sure he’s followed me into the trailer. He’s never come inside, not once in all the years I’ve known him. I was always embarrassed of my home. I didn’t want him near it; now it doesn’t matter.
Mason may think we have a future together if he doesn’t already have a girlfriend. I glance behind me, spotting his left hand. No ring. He’s not married, but he could be dating.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t have a future. And anything I do from here on out won’t involve him.
Mason slowly moves by me to the single bathroom at the back and then returns a moment later.
“I started the water for a shower. I wish there was a tub to soak in, but a shower will have to do for now,” he says.
Shower.
How long has it been?
I reek, I’m sure, but I can’t tell anymore. This is how I smell, like rotting flesh and death.
“Do you want help?” his voice shakes a little as he asks.
I shake my head. I’m not even sure I want a shower, but I want to be alone. I spent years yearning for someone to talk to, and now that I have someone, I want nothing more than to hide away by myself.
“I’ll make you something to eat.”
I don’t answer. I should eat, but my stomach no longer cries for food. It’s used to surviving on nothing. It doesn’t matter if I eat or not.
I walk past Mason and head into the tiny bathroom. I pull the door closed and strip the dirty clothes off my body. The shorts were so baggy. I’m not even sure how they were staying on my body.
The steam begins to fill the small room, and it draws me to the water.
Water—my enemy, my friend, my everything.
It reminds me of the ocean and angers me that I never got the end I wanted. I’m alive when I shouldn’t be.
I step into the small corner shower. I don’t bother to pull the curtain closed as the water drips down on me in thin streams. There was a time when I thought the water pressure wasn’t enough, certainly not enough to wash the shampoo out of my hair. But now, it's too much. It feels like it is dumping on my head, the same as it was the night of the storm on the yacht.
The warm droplets are too hot for my icy skin, and I immediately want to retreat. But that means facing Mason again—something I’m not ready for. So I force myself to stand under the heavy stream.
I don’t use shampoo or soap. I don’t try to remove the caked on dirt, sweat, or filth. I just let the water do the work.
Time passes, again, I don’t know how long. But eventually, I turn the faucet off. I let the water drip from my hair down my skinny frame. I’ve always been thin, but now I can see every bone in my body. I should have curves; instead, I have protruding bones.
There is a towel lying by the sink, and I use it to dry off before stepping out of the bathroom and then walk to my bedroom.
Sleep; I need sleep.
I fall onto the bed in a heap still wet, but it doesn’t matter. The bed feels too soft. I’m not going to be able to sleep on it, I realize instantly.
“I made you soup.” Mason steps into the small room. “Oh my god! I’m sorry, I should have knocked first.”
He stops and shields his eyes.
I look around the room, confused by what he is shocked and sorry about.
It takes me too long to realize I’m naked. The towel that was wrapped around me has fallen open. My nakedness doesn’t bother me, but it does Mason.