Mason presses his hand to his chest. “I’m your sponsor.” “No…” he says slowly. “I’m yours.” “Then who the fuck is yours?” “Mildred.” Mason scoffs. “Mildred? That old bat. Since fuckin’ when?” I turn my head, instinctively seeking out Waylon to see what his reaction is to all this, only for something to sink in my chest when I remember he’s upstairs. Not alone, but still… On the outside.
