“Good to know,” I murmur. I jerk my head in the direction of the stairwell. “So what the hell was that about?”

Mason’s brows pull tight, and he shares a look with Shawn. “What do you mean?”

I dart my eyes between the two, and a lump crawls up my throat. They really, really have no fucking idea. None at all. If that’s not a firm kick to the nads, I don’t know what is.

I think back to Waylon’s reaction—the confused wrinkling of his face that I would otherwise find cute, but fucking know better, as Kate slinked up to him, all flirty and confident and expectant. Then, the flash of stark panic that mirrored my own sudden anxiety when he finally put it together. When it struck me, he really had no goddamn idea. How, how, how?

It was there and gone before I could blink—like a gun jamming at the last nerve-wracking second. Shoved away with the kind of brutal expertise I never would have expected from the guy who was exchanging silly faces with his cousin only moments before.

If it weren’t for the unnatural blankness that followed—the catch in voice as he lasered all his focus on Kate; Kate who he clearly couldn’t give two shits about—I probably wouldn’t have even registered that momentary slip-up.

I can’t be the only one who saw that, can I?

Fuck. What the hell am I doing?

I comb my fingers through my hair and shake my head. Get a damn grip. “Forget it. I’m just being paranoid.”

Mason searches my expression with a frown. “We don’t give a shit if you’re gay.” He stops abruptly and wrinkles his nose. “Or bi or whatever—”

I snort lightly. “I’m gay.”

His mouth quirks. “Regardless. You have nothing to worry about, okay?” He cocks his head at Shawn. “Right?”

Shawn levels him with a look that can be easily misconstrued as a glare, but what I’m beginning to gather is just a bad case of Resting Bitch Face. “Don’t be stupid.”

Mason rolls his eyes before facing me once more. “And neither do those two,” he says, jacking a thumb in the direction of the stairwell. “Whatever that was,” he says, shaking his head, “it’s not what you’re thinking.”

I arch a brow. “I’m thinking Waylon doesn’t want me here. Gay or not.”

And there it is. Dunk shot.

He glances away, and I have my answer.

My ears feel hot, and I have to bite down on my molars. It’s almost enough to distract me from the pang shooting through my ribcage at the fact I didn’t just imagine Waylon’s anger all those years ago. Or blow it out of proportion. He hated me. Still hates me, from what it seems like. The question remains, though: Why?