Mason Breaks the Rules

Chapter One

In the bus window, Mason’s hair looked flat. He tilted his head, hoping it was just a trick of the light. But in both sunbeam and shadow, the locks of his wavy rust-colored hair pressed down on his head as if they had been invisibly cinched tight under his chin. Pushing a hand through, he realized the worst had come to pass: he’d forgotten to put the pomade in! The bus would arrive outside the restaurant in less than five minutes, and he’d be deboarding with flat hair. Going into that restaurant with flat hair. Meeting the hot person from the online-dating platform. With. Flat. Hair.

A cool sweat beaded on Mason’s back and he remembered to exhale a deep breath. (How long had he been holding air in?) He stepped off the bus and scrunched his eyes shut on the sidewalk. The ruffle of his perked-up hair had defined his look for the past two years but, hey, maybe it was time for a change anyway. Maybe his date would somehow like this hairstyle better. Maybe they’d like seeing the shape of his head unobscured. Brushing his hand through his hair one final time, Mason halted at the front entrance of Roma’s and forced himself to forget about his mistake. There were other good things about him besides his tried-and-true hairstyle. Right?

Not five minutes later, the host was showing Mason and Celeste to a table against the back wall of the restaurant. After the crowded front room they’d passed through, this part of the space brought welcome silence. The only light came from the sconces on the wall, the candles on the table, and the low light of the setting sun pushing in through and around the thin blue blinds. It was just past six p.m. and the ever-encroaching hour of twilight reminded Mason of the nearing winter. At this time of year, the sun seemed continually ready to roll off the edge of the world — just like a ping-pong ball from the exposed curve of his head, Mason couldn’t stop his brain from adding.

As Celeste settled into their chair in front of him, however, Mason was all but forced to focus his attention on them. Their long hair had been arranged in pink-accented twists, then tied in a large bun atop their head. A lavender sweater hugged their neck, beautifully contrasting against their black skin. A shimmer of purple danced upon each eyelid every time their head moved into the lingering flicker of sunlight.

So how has your day been? Celeste asked after they had each ordered a glass of wine from the very prompt server.

It’s been okay so far, Mason said thoughtfully, though it was definitely expecting tonight to be the highlight. He smiled and met Celeste’s eyes. They smiled back. I, um, led not one but two meetings —

Oh, no way! I led a meeting at work too. We just had a small fire in the lab last week, as the result of a lapse of judgment on the part of one of the PIs. And, well, you see, I’m the head of the safety committee, so we had to review all of the protocol. But I didn’t just read a packet of information out loud to everyone. No, that would bore them to sleep! Instead — they paused while holding up a single finger — I printed out the protocol, cut each rule into pieces, and made everyone work in groups to piece the points back together!

"That is creative. Mason nodded, hoping his reverence came off as sincere, and sipped his wine. He waited for them to talk again, but Celeste was leaning with both elbows on the table, eyes wide and expectant. So he figured he should go back to talking about his day. Otherwise, um, I tried this new spot at lunch. It was actually —"

Mmm, I have a regular spot I go to for lunch each Monday, Celeste cut in. It’s the cutest little bistro about two blocks from my office. And, well, it doesn’t constantly smell like vinegar, like the lab. The smell even somehow leaks out into my office and the break room. I guess it must be under the doors or something because I know the air ducts are so heavily filtered. They took a brusque sip of wine between sentences, but Mason could tell they weren’t done. Anyway, the bistro, right. It’s got the best vegetarian sandwich. Ooh, let me see… it’s got pepper jack cheese, a super decadent garlic aioli, banana peppers, spinach, spicy seitan, and… tomatoes! That’s right, tomatoes. They nodded and closed their eyes, apparently remembering the sandwich in great detail.

The arriving silence implied it was once again Mason’s turn to talk. He decided to take a different route this time. I’m not sure if I told you this when we were chatting online, but I work at Beat Street Records downtown. It’s my third month there, and I’m really —

You know — Celeste curled their lips together — my mom used to have this huge record collection when I was growing up. I never particularly liked what she played because I thought it was boring old-people music. But I went back home a few years ago and saw her shelves were full of all this awesome ’80s-era stuff ranging from Stevie Wonder to R.E.M. to George Harrison to Tina Turner. She really had range. Still does. I found a new Radiohead LP in her collection last winter. When I asked her about it she shrugged and simply said, ‘Sometimes I’m angsty.’

Now this Mason could work with. Their conversation was going to actually get somewhere. Radiohead? I used to love them as —

So, of course, I couldn’t help but put the record on and watch her start to groove to it. She knew all of the words too!

The server returned and asked if they were ready to order appetizers. Oh, actually, we haven’t — Mason began to answer.

We’d love the fruit and cheese plate to start. Celeste was beaming at the server, who departed promptly to put in their order. And so went the next forty-five minutes. Mason finally found the nerve to make a rude but necessary escape before Celeste could pull him into ordering a main course. At least his flat hair hadn’t been the cause of the date’s downfall, he soothed himself as he hurried down the street to wait at a bus stop other than the one directly in front of Roma.

That bad, huh? Clara poured two mugs of coffee from the French press. It was still dark outside at this pre-seven-a.m. hour and, their eyes still adjusting to being open, the pair had switched on only the living room lamp to see by. Long shadows projected against the kitchen’s back wall. Here, I put cinnamon and vanilla extract in, special for you. Clara set one mug on the counter in front of Mason. A glob of coffee sloshed out from the too-full vessel and Mason wiped the counter dry with the edge of his sweatshirt sleeve.

Yeah. You know, I really wanted to like them, too! Mason sipped the coffee and sighed. They seemed very pleasant online, but I suppose sending messages back and forth is already so disjointed that it’s hard to tell if someone’s a bad conversationalist in real life.

It doesn’t sound like they were a bad conversationalist, per se, Clara mused, just that they were a bit misguided about who should talk when.

Sure, however you want to describe it. Mason looked down and spun his hand in a circle to indicate his disinterest in Clara’s semantics.

No, sorry. Clara course-corrected toward empathy. That sucks though.

It does, it really does. Mason dropped his chin into his free hand and sipped more coffee. He could already feel the caffeine filtering into his bloodstream. It would give his body the energy he needed to make it into work, but it wouldn’t be able to touch his disappointment. I feel like I have the world’s worst luck with dating. For the longest time, I wasn’t even getting any matches. Now, evidently, I look cute enough to get some people’s attention. Just… the wrong people’s attention. I mean, taking this month for example, I’ve been on a date with someone who looked nothing like their photo, another person who showed up with their husband in tow even though their profile did not mention that they’d be dating as part of a couple, and someone else who arrived to our coffee date directly after finishing a marathon. No shower or anything!

Yes, I do recall, Clara replied. I’ve had the distinct pleasure of hearing about each and every one. I hope your rotten streak ends soon, for both our sakes.

Yeah. Mason immediately wished he hadn’t called up the details of his recent dating failures. They now threatened to send him back to bed in a fit of despair.

Could it be time for rebranding yourself? You could… get a face tattoo? Clara deadpanned.

Ha, Mason summoned in acknowledgment. Yeah, I’m sure that’d help. An intricate dragon on my cheek or something, complete with Chinese characters to show I’m into cultural appropriation too.

Perfect, Clara agreed as she drained her mug and reached to pour herself more steaming brew. Catching Mason’s raised brow as she turned back toward her roommate, Clara explained, Couldn’t fall asleep till two last night, okay?

Might it have been, maybe, because you drank coffee all afternoon yesterday? Mason prodded.

Mind your business. Clara curled her lips together to hide a smile. Work has been a piece of steaming shit lately. Oh, that reminds me — She bolted around Mason and through the living room. He heard the front door open and then close again. The other day was payday! Clara re-emerged in the kitchen waving an envelope, dumping the rest of the large pile of mail on the counter in front of Mason.

I thought you said you were gonna finally sign up for direct deposit, Mason commented as he slid off the barstool. His watch read seven fifteen, which meant it was past time to get dressed.

Ugh, I know, I know. Clara tore into the envelope. But every few days I convince myself that I’m about to quit, and I really don’t want to do the paperwork for nothing.

Mason was about to turn away when the corner of a light-pink envelope caught his eye among the pile of advertisements and credit-card offers. Momentarily forgetting about his pressed schedule, he pulled out the intriguing piece of mail and examined the front. Slanted cursive addressed the envelope to someone named Holly Manner. Probably someone who had rented the place prior to when Clara and Mason signed their lease in 2018. The return address belonged to a Mr. Remmings in Salem.

What is it?

Mason jumped, not having realized Clara was peering over his shoulder.

I dunno, seeing as it isn’t my mail and, therefore, I haven’t opened it. Mason let the envelope drop out of his hand and back onto the counter with a soft slap. It was bound for the recycling bin with the rest of the junk mail.

Here. Clara reached around Mason’s torso and grabbed the envelope. In the next moment, she was ripping through the pink paper and pulling a white card from inside. You are cordially invited to the wedding of Mr. Curt Remmings and Ms. Shannen Peters. December twelfth, 2020. Cocktails at five fifteen p.m., ceremony at six p.m., reception to follow, Clara read. You free?

Umm, what? Mason asked, snatching the invitation out of Clara’s hand. No!

Wow, you really do book out in advance, don’t you? Clara quipped. What, got another first date lined up?

Clara, I’m not crashing a wedding!

Okay, well, suit yourself. She shrugged. I just thought, like we were saying earlier, maybe your life could use a little change of pace. But if you’re happy with how it’s been going…. She let the thought linger, and Mason stormed out of the room.

I’ll ask out that regular I’m always crushing on the next time he comes in, okay?! Happy? Mason poked his head back around the corner to comment.

Sure you will, Clara murmured under her breath, though still loud enough to make sure Mason heard. But it was seven twenty-five a.m. and he couldn’t stand the thought of showing up late to get the store ready for opening. Instead of replying, he hustled down the hallway, where his jeans and puffy jacket awaited.

Chapter Two

And that’s when he reached for my arm and pulled me back into the room, Mason’s date, Karter, was saying as the two walked along the riverside path. With buzzed hair dyed gray that made even his pale skin look vibrant in comparison, and ears full of piercings, Karter inhabited a much more punk aesthetic than Mason. Despite the aesthetic differences, Mason found himself incredibly attracted to his date. In fact, part of him wondered if this was because he secretly wanted to look like less of a prude. His dark-wash jeans, green crewneck sweater, and black beanie were all illustrative of his fashion sense. Conservative and muted, not even to be embellished with a single tattoo, piercing, or any other modification.

Uh-huh, Mason answered because he couldn’t think of what else to say. In fact, he hadn’t said anything besides mm-hmm, yeah, and uh-huh for the past twenty minutes. Not that Mason was necessarily opposed to listening to a long story, even on a first date, but this one seemed to be on an inevitable course toward something that he couldn’t bear hearing.

He shoved the door closed behind me, emphatically. I just wanted to escape, you know — unfortunately Mason did know — but he was so much bigger than me and I knew there was no way for me to physically fight back. So I submitted. He asked me why I thought I could get away with disobeying him, and I just… my words wouldn’t form into sentences. I just stood under his gaze with my mouth gaping. The next thing he—

Karter, Mason interrupted. He was about to say it’s been nice meeting you, but that wasn’t quite true, and Mason had committed to not lying on first dates. He’d learned his lesson (more than once) after his subconscious had pushed the words Maybe we can see each other again? out of his mouth despite the fact that he never intended to go on a second date. He always just wanted to be nice, but, of course, he was only leading those poor people on. Karter, Mason began again, I really can’t listen to you talk about your trauma anymore. He felt heat flood into his face, which he could tell had already turned rosy against the chilly December breeze.

Oh. Karter looked down at his feet. Yeah, I suppose that story isn’t super appropriate material for someone I’ve only just met.

Or someone you’re supposed to be on a date with, Mason added, hoping to help Karter avoid making the same mistake in the future. With someone else.

Right, Karter continued, looking down. You know, I think I’d better go. I’m sorry for dumping all that on you and… wasting your time. He paused and turned toward Mason, maybe expecting his date to tell him that no, he wanted him to stick around.

But Mason only nodded. Okay, I think that’d be best. Take care, he added as Karter started shuffling away. Turning toward the gray watercolor wash of the Portland sky, Mason released a cloud of warm air from his mouth. It floated in front of his face for just a moment, then turned cold and dissipated.

Closing the door behind him, Mason leaned back and slid down onto the entryway rug. The heated air in the house wrapped his chest in a hug as he unzipped his jacket and tossed it aside. The garment landed on the floor next to the coatrack. The lights were off in the living room, and Mason detected only silence in the kitchen, so Clara was either shut in her room or not home. Free from peer pressure, Mason might be able to stay here for a while. Appreciating his freedom, he flopped onto his side and laid his cheek down against the wood floor. The surface sucked warmth out of his face, sending a shiver down through his neck. From this angle, eye level with all of the dirt and dust, Mason found himself wondering how long it had been since they’d swept. The answer, of course, was too long. Maybe he’d get on that once he got up, Mason thought, then scoffed at his aspirations.

After taking in the status of the floor, Mason’s eyes wandered across the room to the recycling bin, which sat just outside the kitchen. At first he thought it was an odd place for his attention to land, but then he realized what had drawn his gaze: the hint of a pink slip of paper peeking out from between the bin and the wall. It might not be the invitation, but, then again, how many pale-pink envelopes did he and Clara receive? Regardless, he was curious. With a groan, Mason rolled over onto his front and pushed himself up to standing. He slipped his feet out of his boots and crossed the living room, his socked