Page 79 of Home Grown Talent
“Maybe?” Mason turned to face him. “You’d do that, would you, if Lewis needed you?”
Owen’s mouth pinched. “What’s the alternative? Keep slogging away at a career you don't really want instead of pursuing what you love?”
For a frightening moment, Mason thought Owen was talking about himself. “What I love?” he said, faintly.
“You’re a fantastic chef,” Owen said. “And watching you cook?” He shook his head. “I can see how much you love it, how much it means to you. When you’re cooking, you’re so focused, so relaxed and happy. I don’t see that when you’re hamming it up for the camera.”
“Hamming it up?” That stung. “Thanks for the vote of fucking confidence.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Owen said, taking a step forward. Mason took one backwards, arms folded. Hurt. They both stopped. “I just mean… Look, you’re great at the TV stuff, honestly, but I don’t think you love it.”
“Yeah, well, so what? Plenty of people don’t love their jobs. At least mine pays well. And once I hit 100,000 followers—”
“The magic number, I know.” Owen sighed. “Then you can sell more stuff you don’t care about to people you don’t know. Great! Then what?”
Mason glared at him. “Then I’ll have enough money to comfortably cover my family’s bills whether or not Kurt pays up every month. Maybe enough to save up a deposit to buy my own place, rather than having to keep my money accessible for family emergencies.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then added softly, “It would just be really nice to have enough money that I could make some plans of my own for once, you know?”
Owen frowned. “Paying your family’s bills shouldn’t be your sole responsibility. Besides, if you earn more, won’t they just want more from you?”
That thought closed like a fist around Mason’s lungs, squeezing.
“Maybe you should start pushing back,” Owen went on. “They’re your parents, for God’s sake, not your children. They can sort out their own problems.”
“It’s not—” It wasn’t that straightforward. When he’d got his first modelling contract, totally out of the blue, it had felt like winning the lottery. Frieda had still been fragile, and the constant grind of making ends meet had been hard on her. Hard on them all. It had been obvious that Mason would share his windfall with his struggling family, and somehow that had just carried on. He couldn’t stop now. Why couldn’t Owen see that? Impatiently, he snapped, “I know you’ve got a saviour complex, Owen, but I don’t need you to fix my life, okay?”
Owen looked hurt, but he drew closer anyway, setting a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to fix your life. I’m just saying that you deserve to choose the life you live. You’re not your parents’ safety net, and it’s not fair of them to expect that of you.”
His eyes were kind, pitying. And Mason couldn’t stand it. He shoved Owen’s arm aside and moved around him, back towards the kitchen. With effort, he tried to force some brightness into his voice, but it came out harsh and brittle. Like ice. “All this because you were offended by a fucking meme.”
“I wasn’t offended.”
“What then?” Mason said, spinning around to face him. “You’re ready to screw up my best shot at a TV career over it, so it must be bad.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Owen lifted his hands in surrender. “Look, I don’t want to screw anything up for you. Forget I said anything, okay?”
Mason jammed a hand through his hair, hating the slump in Owen’s shoulders and the defeated look in his eyes. Hating that Owen’s distress bothered him so much. “I just really need this exposure,” he said, his voice pleading now. “It could change everything for me.”
Owen didn’t reply, his lips pressed tight in disagreement. Well, he was entitled to his opinion.
Silence descended, heavy and solid. A few outside sounds leaked in around it—the hum of passing traffic, the honk of a horn, someone talking too loud on their phone.
Owen sighed and said, “Maybe I should go.”
Don’t. Mason bit back his instinctive response, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep from reaching out. Owen should go; clearly, they were getting too entangled. It would be best to cool things off. He gave an offhand shrug. “If that’s what you want.”
“I have to work tomorrow, anyway. I was going to tell you.”
“On Sunday?”
“Because I’m taking Wednesday off for filming next week…”
Another reminder that Owen, unlike Mason, had a ‘real’ job. He set his jaw. “Right.”
“Look, can we…?” Owen hesitated, then took a step forward. “I don’t want to leave when you’re pissed off at me.”
The smart thing to do would be to give another insouciant shrug. To let Owen go and then keep him dangling for a day or two. Maintain a cool indifference, put some space between them. But… he didn’t want that. He really didn’t.
Dry-throated, staring down at his own bare feet, Mason croaked, “Then…don’t go.”