Avery
I couldn’t wait to show my dad the drawings Max made. I think more than wanting him to be touched by the fact that Max put him in the father box, I wanted him to know that Mason helped Max through something difficult. My father has always been protective, and when Adam left, he stepped right back into his role of guardian.
He was still in a foul mood when he came in the back door, heading right to the fridge and cracking open a beer. My father doesn’t drink a lot—part of his creed in running a bar, he says. So when he does, I know he’s feeling stress.
“Hey, you’re home early,” I say, my voice quiet enough so Mason doesn’t hear upstairs.
“Uhhh, yeah,” my dad grunts, kicking his boots off at the back door, and pulling all of his things from his pockets into one loud pile on the counter. He’s doing that thing where he barely makes eye contact with me, like he did the first time he ever caught me kissing a boy.
“I wanted to show you what Max made tonight,” I say, hoping this will pull him out of his funk.
“Let’s see,” he says, breathing deeply. It’s Max, and he always takes Max seriously, giving everything about him his full attention.
I open up the folded poster to show him the various pictures; I can see him scratching at his chin, trying to figure everything out. When realization of who everyone is hits him—he breathes hard and heavy.
“He put you in the father’s box. I thought that was pretty cool,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and squeezing. When he puts his hand on mine and holds it hard, I know he’s breaking down a little, so I stay still and let him have his moment.
“That…that one’s Mason, huh?” my dad says, pointing to the friend box.
“Yeah. Mason, uh…actually helped him with his homework,” I say, and my father just nods. “I overheard them. He didn’t want Max to be in any boxes alone.”
“What did Adam want?” my father asks, not even transitioning. His question jars me—I’m unprepared to answer, so I stammer, which only makes him get anxious. “Did he do something to you Avery? I swear to God, I’ll kill that punk.”
“No, Dad. No…I just wasn’t ready to talk about this with you,” I say, all strength completely draining from me. I sit in the chair next to him and look down, ashamed of what I have to tell him. “Adam’s getting married. He, uh—”
“That little shit!” my dad’s hand comes down hard on the table, and in seconds Mason is behind him at the end of the stairs. I meet his eyes and try to signal to him that this isn’t about him, but I think he knows.
“There’s more, Dad,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mason for strength. He steps down to where my father can see him now, and moves over to join us at the table. When he does, I can see my father instantly tense up. I don’t know if this is the best idea, but I want Mason here. I need him here. “He wants to sever his parental rights—basically disown Max. He’s hiding him from the new girl.”
The beer bottle flies across the kitchen fast, crashing into the back door and shattering into hundreds of wet pieces. It scares me, even though I know my father isn’t angry with me. He’s on his feet fast, tossing the chair to the floor behind him, and going to the counter immediately for his keys.
“That son of a bitch!” he yells, turning and pointing at me. “He can’t do this, Avery. He’s not going to do that to you…to Max!”
He’s out the door, swinging it so hard the deadbolt dents the inside of the wall. I can’t help but cry, and I reach to fold up the picture again, wishing I never came down in the first place.
“I got this,” Mason says, following my father’s footsteps outside. I had almost forgotten he was here for all of that, and I start to protest to stop him, but I think more than me, my dad needs Mason now.
It takes me a while to find the dustpan. We’re not one of those families that clean the house often—other than vacuuming and picking up clutter. I spare a peek out the back window and see Mason talking emphatically with his hands, my father’s hands stuffed in his pockets while his feet kick at the ground and his eyes stare at the dirt. I want Mason to get through to my father, to calm him. More than that, I want my father to trust Mason—like I’ve grown to.
The pain shoots up my arm quickly, and when I look down, there’s blood all over my hand. I move to the sink fast to get the cold water running, grabbing for the dishtowel to wrap it around my hand. I was being stupid, not looking at the glass shards on the floor. The cut is deep, and the pain stings; the blood isn’t really slowing down, but all I can focus on is the conversation happening on the other side of the window.
I take my eyes off for a few minutes to tend to my hand, wrapping the towel tightly and putting my entire body’s pressure on the wound as I lean against the sink.
“Avery! Are you all right?” Mason is next to me within seconds. I didn’t see them come in, but now looking at the floor and the amount of blood spread around, I feel rather faint.
“The glass. I was…cleaning,” I say, my stomach suddenly feeling sick. “Oh, Mason…I’m going to throw up.”
“I got you,” he says, sweeping me effortlessly into his arms and marching me upstairs to the hall bathroom.
“I’ll clean this. You take care of her,” my dad says, his words seeming to cover more than just the broken glass below.
Mason sets me on the toilet and runs a washcloth under the cold water, quickly putting it on my head. Then he starts pulling things out from underneath the sink, sorting through the cleaners and looking desperately for something to use.
“In the back,” I say, my throat a little hoarse when I speak. He follows my lead and finds the alcohol and gauze quickly, ripping the box open and coming over to kneel in front of me.
“Let me see,” he whispers, taking my hand carefully, unwrapping the kitchen towel now soaked completely in my blood. The cut is still gushing, and seeing it makes my forehead break out into a sweat. I lay forward on the counter, trying to force myself to stay with him. “Shit, Avery. It’s deep. I think I can get it to stop though.”
He’s back under the sink, then moves quickly to the medicine cabinet, tossing everything out on the floor until he finds the jar of Vaseline.
“This is how my mom used to stop my bloody noses. You know, like they do for a boxer. Here,” he reaches for my hand again and mushes a giant blob on the cut, slowing the bleeding immediately. He’s wrapping the gauze a second later, pulling it tight and ripping with his teeth before tucking the end near my wrist. It looks like a giant snow mitt, and for some reason, seeing it gives me the giggles.
“What kind of fights did you get in to get bloody noses like that? I look like Mickey Mouse,” I laugh, half waving my bandaged hand at him, until it stings from the movement. “Ow, shit!”
“Stop moving it, you stubborn woman. Go lay down in my room, I’ll be right there,” he says, picking up the various packaging and putting everything back in its place. I’m still giggling when he comes in to his room, and he just shakes his head at me, smiling on one side of his mouth.
“Seriously, Mason. This is, like, the worst bandaging I’ve ever seen!” I’m lying on my side, still a little dizzy, and rolling my near-cast around the air mattress to admire it.
“One, I didn’t get into fights. At least not back then. I had really bad allergies, and my nose just bled a lot. But thanks for thinking I was a hoodlum,” he says, pulling his shoes from his feet, kicking them to the corner before hitting the lights and motioning me to move over in the bed. “And second, my mom was a bartender, not a nurse. She did the best she could, and so did I.”
Well shit, now I feel bad. I stop my laughter and force my lips into a straight line as best as I can. “Thank you. I’m sorry,” I say, and he just rolls his eyes at me, which unleashes the laughing again.
“Next time, I let you bleed out,” he says, sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head, which now has my laughter completely hushed. I shouldn’t be here. Not with my dad downstairs, not with Max in bed down the hall, not for a second night in a row. This is too much, too fast.
“I…uh, I should go,” I start to get up, but he rolls to his side and lays his arm heavily over my chest.
“Uh uh. Ray’s busy downstairs. And you heard him, he said to take care of you. You stay here tonight. I’ll set my phone to wake us up before everyone else,” he says, his expression not one to argue with.
“I don’t know,” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“You’re staying here. If your father wants to kick my ass over it in the morning, I’ll remind him that it’s probably not a good idea to throw beer bottles at the wall,” he says, and it makes me wince remembering my dad’s outburst.
“Okay…and thank you—for taking care of me. I was careless,” I start, but he puts his fingers on my lips quickly before rolling closer on his side and kissing me gently on the cheek.
“I think I made it pretty clear today, Ave…I’m in this—both feet,” he says, his face serious, the golden lines in his brown eyes lit by the stars outside. I can’t help myself, and I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, looking at it curl softly in my hands. He shuts his eyes when I do.
“I like your haircut,” I say. He smiles, turning his head just enough so his lips catch my arm, and he kisses it.
“Me too,” he says, reaching up and scratching at his hair, before letting his gaze fall open to me again.
“Thanks for talking to my dad—about Adam,” my heart starts to speed up remembering my father’s reaction. My dad trusted Adam, treated him like his own son when we got married. He used to tell me how happy he was I was marrying a good man like Adam Price. I think that’s what gets at my dad the most—the guilt. I don’t blame him. I was just as enamored. Adam was the valedictorian of our high school, and we both went to college together. My dad didn’t even blink when we said we were going to live together—instead, thrilled to see the ring on my finger. It was always his fear—that his little girl wouldn’t have anyone to take care of her. And when we got pregnant early, my dad didn’t even lecture—he just beamed, over-the-moon to be a grandfather. He was Adam’s greatest fan, all the way up until the day Adam walked away. And then…Adam gained the most threatening enemy in the world.
“He wanted to go find him, but I told him he left,” Mason says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I realize what Mason said.
“How do you know he left?” I say, scooting away to look at him completely. I know before he says anything—it’s written on his face, and it comes out with the heavy breath he exhales. I suppose deep down I maybe knew all along, but it still feels like a surprise.
“That’s where I was this morning. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I know, it wasn’t my place, but I’m sorry, Avery. I just…I couldn’t,” he says, his eyes falling to mine, pleading with me to understand. He’s so afraid I’m going to be angry, but instead, Mason may have just completely crawled inside my heart.
“My hand feels better,” I say softly, watching as the line of his mouth inches slowly into a smile.
“Come here,” he says, laying his arm flat for me to lie on, his other above his head, waiting to embrace me. I keep my eyes on his as I move my body closer, careful of my hand, and just careful in general.
His skin is warm against my face. I’m lying right along the tiger’s tail on his tattoo, and I let my face fall so I can look at it closely, tracing the lines with the tips of my fingers. Mason slides his hand up my arm to my wrist, careful not to squeeze against my bandage, and brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them softly.
“I’m so sorry, Avery,” he says, moving his head against mine. “I’m sorry you hurt yourself, and I’m sorry Adam is such a prick. And I’m sooooo sorry if I was ever mean to you. I didn’t know how much you meant to me,” his words literally knock the breath from my body, and I slide myself closer into his arms, pressing my lips to his with all of my might.
“Don’t,” I say, suddenly not wanting to hear him apologize…ever. For years, all I wanted was to see Mason Street grovel, to feel sorry, and to feel pain. And now all I want to do is love him.
I love him.