Mason
“You dog, you bagged Birdie, didn’t you?” Ben says as soon as I get back to the table to join the guys. He’s so loud I know Avery heard him. She ducked back into the kitchen as soon as everyone’s attention left us, and I saw Claire tail after her. She’ll be back there for a while. She looked like she wanted to kill me for my grand display…but she also smiled, so I got what I wanted.
“It’s amazing that you don’t have a girlfriend,” I say, taking a drink of my beer and doing my best to ignore the three sets of eyes staring at me from the other side of the table.
“Fuck you, I have a shit ton of girlfriends,” Ben says, punching me in the arm hard enough to make my beer slip from my mouth and dribble down my chin. I punch him back, and he holds up his fists like he wants to go, but he starts laughing right away, then flips me off.
“Dude, you’ve been home for like, what…two weeks? Who’s this Birdie chick?” Josh asks.
“First off, like I said, don’t call her Birdie. She hates that name, and I lo—really like this girl. So don’t be a bunch of assholes to her, okay?” I say, my heart racing with what I almost said. Fuck, do I love Avery? Josh is right, it’s only been a couple of weeks. But I’ve also known her my entire life, and I kind of feel like maybe I missed out on something a long time ago.
“She’s smokin’ hot!” Matt pipes in, his attention on me just long enough to add his approval, and then he’s quickly distracted by some brunette at the next table.
“Yeah, she’s smokin’ hot, all right,” Ben says, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest while he studies me. “You’ve known Birdie forever. What’s this new…thing?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug him off, pissed that he’s still calling her Birdie. I don’t really know how to answer him. All I know is something clicked, and I just see her a whole hell of a lot differently now. I know it won’t make sense to the guys, but I don’t really care.
“Hmmm, a’right then. She’s not coming to rehearsals and shit, though,” he says, pointing a finger at me like some tough asshole. I just roll my eyes and shake my head at him, not too worried about Avery ever wanting to hole up in the basement while me and the guys pick apart each other’s playing.
I nursed two beers and picked at a grilled cheese for about an hour, just killing time until Avery’s shift was done. The guys hung around for a while, but eventually, they all headed over to Ben’s to watch the game. I could tell Ben was ticked off I didn’t go with them, but he’ll get over it. How many times has that dickhead blown me off for a girl?
I thought about going home early, hanging out with Max, but once he asked me what three-four time meant in music, he was back in hyper-focus mode on his iPad. So I waited, and then I took off for the house when I heard Avery saying goodnight. I didn’t want to look like I was following her, but who am I kidding. I’ve been dying to get her alone. And I feel like a damned stalker sitting here in the driveway.
The way I see it, I have two choices now—get out of my car as soon as she turns her engine off and scare that crap out of her, or duck, wait for her to get inside, and then crawl into the house later, hoping she doesn’t notice. Both are bad ideas, so I kick open my door just as she kills her lights, and wave my hands over her head to try to get her attention.
“What are you, my escort now or something?” she sasses. She’s trying to keep that same front up with me, but she’s having a hard time now, and I can see the smile creeping into her lips.
“Escort. Stalker. Take your pick,” I say, moving closer to her. Surprisingly, she lets me walk up to her until my hands are locked with hers. Ray’s not home, won’t be home for hours. Claire is here, and it’s early, so I know Max is still awake, but we have this little window of time here…outside…before anyone realizes we’re home.
“So that was some stunt you pulled today,” she smirks, and I move in even closer, pressing my forehead to hers.
“Yeah, you liked it,” I tease. She bites at her bottom lip and the smallest giggle slips out. I kiss her in response. Not hard, just a quick peck.
“I did,” she says, all breathy and sexy. I don’t know who this girl is—she’s a far cry from the one who wanted to knee me in the groin a week ago—but my god do I like her. “It’s early, and Max is up. I have to get inside.”
“I figured. I just wanted to catch you—you know, before your dad beats the shit out of me later?” I wince and put my arm around her to walk inside.
“Oh wow, I didn’t really think about that. Yeah, Dad’s going to kill you,” she laughs. I’m smiling at her, but I know deep down Ray’s not real happy about this. And I get it—I understood everything he said this morning. I even thought about killing it all right then and there, just chalking it up to high emotions and an innocent mistake. But the thought of not kissing Avery again—or of seeing her kiss someone else—made my stomach hurt.
I pull my arm away as soon as we get inside, giving a wink to Claire before I head upstairs. “Mason Street, you and I are gonna have words, mister!” she yells at my back. I just wave my hand. I know she just wants to get details, and probably give me her own version of Ray’s warning, and she can do that—tomorrow.
Max is working at the small desk in Avery’s room, his feet kicking wildly underneath. I walk over to the door, but he never looks up.
“Whatcha working on, Max?” I’ve learned that if I use his name it helps get his attention. Claire taught me that.
“I have to fill in every box for my teacher. I have to turn this in tomorrow,” he says, his fingers gripping at the edges of the paper like he wants to crumple it or tear it into pieces. I’m careful, but I move in a little closer so I can see. It’s an oversized paper, and there are a few boxes with some sparse color in them.
“Mind if I take a look?” I ask, and he kicks back from the desk, his eyes still on the paper in front of him. I turn it, just enough to read the words. It’s a family tree, and it’s asking him to draw pictures of his mother, father, and friends. Max has only one small stick figure in each—the same drawing over and over. Shit!
He pulls himself in and starts to draw backgrounds and scenes in each box, coloring carefully. They all look kind of the same, just different colors, and I’ve never felt sadder seeing something than I do right now.
“Can I help…maybe give you some ideas, Max?” I swallow hard. I don’t know how this works—I don’t know if Max is the kind of kid you can give ideas to. I know he’s good at asking questions.
“Claire says I have to make sure everything is colored, and work on this until 7:15 p.m.,” he says, continuing to color, his hand moving more quickly now. I just stand behind him, rubbing my hand over my neck, trying to find a way to talk to him, to fill in those goddamned empty boxes.
“Okay, well, what if you fill in one of those boxes with me?” I say, hoping like hell he doesn’t just rip the paper in half at my lame suggestion. When he doesn’t protest, I keep going. “I mean…you and I…we’re friends, right? So, if you draw me next to you, that’s one more box done.”
He seems to like my idea as he reaches for a blue crayon and adds a tall stick figure next to his. “Why am I blue?” I ask, a little curious.
“You wear jeans a lot,” he says, and it makes me laugh. Everything Max says is slow, but he never seems to have any problem talking. And he’s funnier than people give him credit for.
“You’re right. I do wear jeans a lot. Blue is the perfect color,” I say. “Now, how about your mom in that box? What color is she?”
When Max picks up the pink, I don’t even question it. It’s perfect—fragile, feminine but bold, just like his mother. He’s busy working on the mother’s box while I’m staring at the father’s one—suddenly stuck, and wanting to punch something. I should probably call downstairs for backup, but I feel like this would just hurt Avery, and open up a wound that so far she’s been good at ignoring.
Then an idea strikes me. “Everyone in the house has a box except your grandpa. How about we give him that one? He’s a dad—he’s even a grand dad, so it’s like he fits the question in two ways.”
I hold my breath the entire time Max finishes coloring Avery’s box; when he reaches over for a brown color and starts to draw Ray without even saying anything to me, I almost pass out from the lack of oxygen. The clock says 7:12 p. m., and I’ve never been so happy to see a deadline approaching.
“Three more minutes, Max, and you’re done. I’m going to go do my homework now, okay?” I say, and Max just keeps coloring, silently.
I back out of the room, and turn to head to mine, only to see Avery’s back flat against the wall, her fingertips over her lips and a single wet stream down her cheek. I don’t know what to say, so I just pull her into my arms and hold her, letting her quiver silently for the next three minutes. When she hears the timer go off on Max’s desk, she backs away and mouths, “Thank you,” to me. I pull her head forward to my lips to kiss the top before heading into my room and shutting the door behind me.
That was exhausting—a different kind of exhausting. I don’t know if I did the right thing, and I don’t know how Avery has lived this. It’s not Max’s autism—it’s the enormous hole Adam left behind and Max’s autism. How do you explain to any kid that their parent, one-half of who they are, just couldn’t hack it? I know my mom never really explained it to me.
I can hear the water running, and cabinets opening in the hall, so I know Avery’s getting Max ready for bed. I’m completely amazed by her. Nothing is easy, everything is so fucking hard—it makes me feel foolish for thinking I have ever deserved anything at all.
When the water stops, I decide to spend a little time on the guitar to clear my head. Maybe part of me is hoping Avery will hear it and follow it into my room. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m hoping.
I don’t really like the Beatles. I know everyone says you’re supposed to, and I appreciate some of the risks they took, but they just have never really been my fit. I’m more of a blues lover, and gritty classic rock like the Stones. But for whatever reason, all my fingers can seem to play tonight is “Blackbird” by the Beatles. That song has always made me think of Avery; it’s kind of where I got the nickname Birdie. I must play it six or seven times before she finally cracks open my door and slides down to sit against the frame, her knees barely covered by the long T-shirt she has stretched over them.
“You still doing this?” I say, nodding my head in her direction, pointing out that she’s still in the hall.
“You used to play that all the time. I love that song,” she says, and it makes everything inside me feel warm…right. I smile and finish out the last verse, taking my time and improvising a little on the chorus to make it last just a little longer.
“That song always made me think of you,” I say, putting my guitar away and purposely not looking at her when I admit it. “That’s where Birdie comes from…sorry.”
“I wish you told me that. I probably would have liked Birdie then,” she says, her smile soft, but still so damned cautious.
“I think we’re past you needing to keep the door open,” I laugh, hoping like hell she’ll come closer so I can touch her. She slides up to her knees and crawls inside, shutting the door behind her, and then sitting with her back against it.
“I’m a terrible mom,” she says, her face suddenly full of pain. I hate Adam for doing this to her.
“No you’re not,” I say, forcing her to look at me, rather than the nothingness she keeps trying to go to.
“I’m not?” she asks, her breathing growing harder. “My son probably thinks his father is dead. Not that I’d know, because I’m such a chicken shit that I’ve opted to pretend he never existed. I haven’t said Adam’s name out loud in front of Max once since the day he left.”
Her eyes are full of water when she talks, and I would give anything to fix this guilt she’s feeling. I don’t think she’s earned it—any of it.
“My dad left us when I was five,” I say the only thing I think might make this better for her. Her eyes shift completely to me when I do, and her breath hitches. I can’t take the intensity of her stare along with the weight of the story I’m about to tell her, so I lie back and look up at the ceiling instead.
“I don’t remember much. He had a beard…I think? I had a baby brother. He died when he was maybe two or three weeks old,” I say, and when Avery gasps I stop her. I’m not telling her this to make her feel sad. I’m trying to make her feel less alone.
“It’s okay. Your dad knows, but we don’t talk about it much. I don’t expect people to know about it. I was five when he died. Mom was really sick. I know now she was depressed, but it just looked like the flu to me…you know…from a kid’s eyes?” Avery is holding herself tightly, her arms wrapped around her body. “My dad—his name was Mitch—he didn’t know how to deal with my mom. He was a truck driver, and he used to be on the road for days. Then one day, he just never came home. Mom doesn’t talk about it. And I don’t ask. What good would it do?”
“Do you…ever wonder about him?” she asks, her voice cracking.
“I’m not gonna lie. Yeah, Avery. I wonder about him. But I wonder about him less and less every year he’s gone. I’d give anything to be able to disconnect from it a little, too—like Max does,” I say, and her eyes flash wide for a brief second from my honesty. “You’re not a bad mom. You’re an amazing mom—an unbelievable mom. Hell, Avery, you’re pretty much the best damn human being I’ve ever met. So please, quit doubting yourself.”
I hold her stare for minutes after that. I haven’t talked about Mitch for years—and I’m pretty sure I was drunk with Ben the last time I did. I’m pretty sure I was drunk every single time I ever talked about my father. But Avery needed to hear this, and for some reason, I want to tell her things.
The lights flood my room, and I think if they didn’t, we’d both be happy to sit here, with ten feet of air between us, just staring into each other’s eyes. Avery looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, drawing her legs in close to her body so she can stand. I sit up and walk to where she is at my door, knowing she’s going to leave because Ray’s home. But before she goes, she pauses and stands on her tiptoes to reach my lips, holding both sides of my face with her cold, tiny hands, and kisses me softly. My body wants to push the door closed behind her and pull her to my bed, but I don’t. I let her leave. And I hope like hell she comes back.