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Mason

“Oh, my God , is that Mason Vance?”

I cringe as the young woman squeals and runs over to me.

I try to hide my face behind the magazine I’m reading, but it’s no use.

She spotted me, and she’s not going to let it go.

She grabs my arm—rude!—and starts shaking it in her excitement, nearly causing me to spill my coffee.

If I wasn’t accustomed to fans accosting me, I might have spilled it.

“Excuse me, miss …” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Oh, wow, it’s really you!” She holds my arm hostage, hugging it to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m in the same coffee shop as Mason fucking Vance !”

I clear my throat and tug on my arm. “Please, miss, if I could have my arm back?”

“Sally! Terri! Get over here! I found Mason Vance!”

Oh, great. She’s calling her friends. As if one woman hanging all over me wasn’t torture enough.

I cough and pull harder, finally freeing myself from her grip.

The girl pouts and puts her hands on her hips.

“I was just playing,” she whines, batting her false lashes at me.

I hope she doesn’t bat too hard and lose them in my coffee.

I took the lid off to let it cool a bit, not to have my drink seasoned with lash glue.

I slap my hand over the top of the cup, hoping to save myself from losing what was supposed to be my breakfast.

Sally and Terri show up just as Fangirl’s face starts turning red. She seems to have realized that I’m not in the mood for hysterics, and her fawning turns to fuming.

“False alarm, girls. No way the real Mason Vance would be such a jerk.”

I sigh and rub my bicep, which still has the imprint of her nails in the skin. “You’re saying I’m the jerk? You grabbed me out of nowhere! I was just trying to enjoy my coffee.”

The girl strikes a haughty pose, nose in the air and arms crossed over her chest. “Hmph. Whatever. You’re a has-been anyway.” She grabs Sally and Terri each by an arm and leads them away. “I don’t even know why I was excited to see a former supermodel.”

Well, at least she’s gone. Her words sting a bit, but I consider the source and brush them off. I’ve never cared what random women on the street think of me, and that’s not about to change now.

Now, if a cute guy called me a has-been, that might hurt.

Getting outed at a Hollywood party five years ago shouldn’t have damaged my reputation as much as it did.

The world is more tolerant than it was when I was a kid, even more than it was when I was a young up-and-coming model.

But the moment I was photographed making out with another guy in the modeling circuit, both our careers bombed.

He found a nice sugar daddy to hook up with, and I ended up as a washed-up barista.

As if summoned by my depressed thoughts, my manager shouted at me from across the cafe.

“Mason! Are you gonna clock in today, or are you just gonna drink the merchandise?”

The trio of girls that had just left me turned around and snickered, then started loudly whispering to each other. The words “loser” and “faggot” drifted back to my ears, and I hated that the slur got to me as much as it did.

One of these days I’ll find my prince. Someone who doesn’t have the “Mean Girl” act down to a science. Someone authentic and real …

… And a nice ass wouldn’t hurt.

While I lament my fate, the customers come and go. Venti latte. Grande mocha half-caff with an extra shot. Treinta coronary-in-a-cup with three espresso shots and enough sugar to put a bull elephant into a diabetic coma.

Then, just as my shift is ending, up comes my favorite customer. Grande blonde roast, black. Maggie.

“Hey, Mags!” I chirp as the sight of my BFF renews my energy. “How’s your day so far?”

“Better now,” she replies, inhaling the aroma of her coffee. “And it’ll be even better once you clock out. I have a surprise for you.”

I give her a dubious glance. “Uh oh.”

She bats her eyes innocently. “What?”

“Last time you had a surprise for me, you hooked me up with that weird cousin of yours.” I roll my eyes and start untying my apron. “The one who collected bugs?”

Maggie giggles. “He was an amateur entomologist.”

“He was weird.” I type my code into the register to clock out and step out from behind the counter. “Now, what’s today’s surprise? Have another cousin who collects discarded teeth?”

“No! Even better: I found a cool pumpkin farm outside of town that’s having a huge sale. We can find you some decor for your front porch, so the kids don’t think you’re a crazy old miser. Remember the egg incident from last year?”

I groan. “Don’t remind me. That took forever to clean up.”

Maggie takes my hand and practically drags me from the coffee shop. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the farm.

Maggie parks, and we head on to the big display of pumpkins in front.

A small throng of locals picks through the pumpkins, looking for the best one to cut open, gut, and carve for their front porch.

It’s a little barbaric, but whatever. I’m here more for Maggie’s sake than for tradition.

None of the pumpkins on the display really catch my eye. I look all through them until I see one in the back, behind the counter. I point at the perfect round gourd with the neat stem growing vines and nudge Maggie’s shoulder. “How about that one?”

“Hey!” An elderly man helping a young family pick out a pumpkin stops what he’s doing to come yell at us. “That one’s not for sale.”

I back up at his vehemence, holding my hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, man. I just thought it was a nice pumpkin.”

“Robert! You be nice to the young man.” A woman about Robert’s age comes around the corner and picks up the pumpkin I was looking at. “If he wants this pumpkin, he can have it.” She hands it to me with a smile.

“Not that pumpkin, Annie!” Robert fumes, his face turning red. “Any fecking pumpkin but that one.”

Maggie and I exchange shocked glances. Who gets that worked up over a pumpkin? “Uh, I mean … I can pick a different one if he’s that upset about it.”

“Nonsense,” Annie says. “If this one speaks to you, then take it.” She eyes Robert and adds, “Free of charge.”

That’s almost stranger than Robert’s vehemence.

The pumpkins at Gallagher Family Pumpkin Farm go for twenty to thirty bucks a pop.

Why give it to me for free? Something seems off, but at the same time, I kinda dig this little pumpkin.

It’s, like, a perfect specimen. Round and smooth, with no sign of knots or brown spots.

It’s almost sexy, if a pumpkin can be sexy.

Robert huffs and grunts. “Fine. Take ‘im, if he’s the one you want so bad.”

Him? I don’t quite get it, but I also don’t argue. Maggie and I take my prize and book it to the parking lot, hoping to get away from Crazy Old Robert.

“That was freaky,” Maggie says when we get out of earshot.

“Yeah,” I say, “but hey, free pumpkin!”

Maggie laughs. “Yeah, dude, best one in the whole lot! You really scored.”

As I sit in the passenger seat with the pumpkin on my lap, I catch myself absently rubbing the pumpkin’s smooth skin. I jerk my hand back before Maggie can spot me feeling up the gourd. She’s pretty cool, but I don’t want her thinking I’m a freak.

“So,” she says, starting the engine, “what’re you gonna carve into it? Something scary, something cool, or just a generic toothy grin?”

I pause to consider it. The pumpkin’s almost too perfect to carve into. I can’t bear the thought of ruining it by cutting it up and gutting the poor thing. “I don’t know if I will,” I say. “Maybe I’ll just use it like it is. It’s so gorgeous, y’know? I’d hate to ruin it.”

“Sure. Don’t want Old Man Robert chasing you down because you sliced up his precious prize pumpkin.”

We burst into fits of laughter and crack jokes about the elderly man running after me with a pitchfork, shouting that I “violated” his pumpkin. The mental image is just too much, and I push it aside with a chuckle.

It’s just a pumpkin. A gorgeous ripe pumpkin, but nothing more.