Sarah doesn’t laugh like I expect her to. Her silence lingers, and I can picture her on the other end of the call—brows furrowed, lips pressed together.
“I believe you,” she finally says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a heaviness to it. “It’s long overdue.”
She’s right. How many nights have I looked at Mason and felt nothing? How many years have I gone through the motions with men but not really lived?
But things have changed.
“I know.” With a sigh, I lie back on my couch and prop my feet on the armrest. “I’ve just been… putting it off.”
“You’ve been putting it off because you’re scared. You don’t want to face what it’ll feel like when Mason isn’t there to distract you.”
Although her tone is gentle, her words hit hard. Being with Mason has always been about more than just comfort—it’s been about avoiding the real issues.
Ghost’s voice creeps into my mind, uninvited, taunting me. “Does your current distraction enjoy the pain you offer? Or has he finally gotten tired of it?”
Both Sarah and Ghost have called Mason my distraction. I hate how much truth there is in those words. Mason isn’t the problem—I am. But I’m done lying to myself.
“I’m doing it tonight. No more excuses.” My voice is firmer now. “I can’t keep pretending.”
Sarah lets out a long breath. “Good. Just… be kind to yourself, okay? You’re doing the right thing. I’m here all night if you need me.”
“You’re the best. Talk to you later.”
“Bye, Gen.”
Be kind to yourself.
It’s easier said than done, especially when you don’t like who you are.
I stand in front of the window, the city lights casting a dull glow over the room. My reflection stares back at me, eyes hollow, lips pressed together in a tight line. Who am I?
The reflection doesn’t answer, and I look away, trying to steady my breathing as the weight of Ghost’s words presses down on me again, heavier this time.
“What do you think he’d say if he saw the real you? The Geneva that I see?”
I shift my focus to constructing a psychological profile on Mason that’ll help me plan our upcoming conversation. After grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I begin to jot down notes as if Mason were a patient or a criminal.
Mason thrives on control—of his environment, his relationships, and, most importantly, the way others perceive him (Narcissistic tendencies). When things go his way, he’s charming, logical, even supportive. But when he’s challenged, he can’t handle anything that threatens his dominance.
I pause, nibbling on the tip of my pen. Although Mason has never lashed out physically, there’s repressed violence in him. I’ve seen it before, in the way his jaw tightens when I don’t fall in line with his expectations. It’s a quiet, dangerous kind of anger.
For some reason that I can’t explain, he doesn’t scare me the way Ghost does.
Mason can’t handle failure or rejection because it conflicts with the image he has of himself as a capable and strong man. When I tell him it’s over, he won’t just see it as the end of a relationship—he’ll see it as a personal attack, a reflection of his own inadequacies.
I put down my pen and reach for my wine glass. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Knowing Mason, he’ll try to manipulate the situation and turn the blame on me. But after dealing with Ghost, Mason’s tactics will seem like child’s play. I guess that serial killer asshole has been helpful in a way. The irony has a smile appearing on my lips as I pick my pen back up.
Me initiating this “break-up” will make Mason feel as though he’s been backed into a corner. He’s the type of person who believes he’s entitled to a certain level of respect, and when that respect is denied, he’ll lash out in ways that are meant to remind me of his power. The insults will be calculated, designed to make me feel small, to keep me in check.
The loud knock on my door has me pulling in a fortifying breath.
Here we go.
I place my wine glass down on the coffee table and get to my feet, rehearsing the lines in my head one last time. Direct, quick, honest. No unnecessary explanations, no reasons for him to stay.
When I open the door, Mason’s usual composed expression is in place. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, sweeping his gaze over me. I’m in my usual sweatpants and an old, torn shirt—it’s casual with the intent to appear innocuous—and I catch the brief flicker of disapproval on his face before he speaks.
“Glad you finally got over yourself, but really, Gen? Sweatpants and… that?” His tone is mildly condescending, as if I’ve somehow insulted him by not dressing up for his arrival.
I press my lips together, biting back the first sting of irritation. After shutting the door behind him, I make my way to the couch to sit down. I cross my arms, creating an invisible barrier between us as he removes his jacket.
“Want to have a seat?” I ask.
His eyes narrow slightly at my invitation, but he joins me on the couch at the opposite end. “What’s this about?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” I say, my voice firm. “I know we’ve been on and off a lot over the past year, but this isn’t working out for me anymore. I’m done. For good.”
His entire body goes rigid. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t want to drag this out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this relationship isn’t what I need.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he scoffs. “We don’t have a relationship. We just fuck. Are you mad because I don’t coddle you like you expect me to?”
There it is.
The first little dig, an insult implying that I’m an emotionally needy woman. Therefore, I’m the problem.
“No,” I say evenly. “It’s not about coddling or me wanting something romantic. I need to move forward with my life.”
“Move forward?” he repeats, his tone incredulous. When I nod, he jumps to his feet and waves his hand in my direction. “Being with you is like fucking an ice cube. Do you think if you ‘find yourself’ that you’ll stop being a cold-hearted bitch?”
Mason’s words hit me like a slap to the face. I can’t stop myself from reacting, from rearing back with my lips parted in shock. However, my years of training immediately kick in. I neutralize my expression while slowly getting to my feet in a way that signals confidence and my refusal to be baited.
As I stare into Mason’s eyes, Ghost’s words flood my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. “You’re flame and wrath encased in a wall of ice and control.” In this moment, I have to admit he’s right about me.
Except my barrier is melting…
“Maybe I’ll always be like this,” I say evenly. “And maybe I won’t. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”
A flicker of something darker passes over his face. He steps closer, his posture more rigid, his hands fisted. I hold my ground, my instinct for self-preservation overridden by the anger burning inside me.
“You think you can just walk away from me?” he asks.
“Yes, Mason. I do.”
I lift my chin. The gesture is a direct challenge. A gauntlet tossed at his feet. I know better. I know not to provoke him. But maybe, just maybe, Mason needs to see a glimpse of the “real” me. If only this once.
His eyes narrow, and for a second, I see it—the barely repressed fury. His need for dominance. He’s not used to being on the losing side of things, and right now, I’m taking away something he thought he had control over.