Avery
“Claire, it’s been an hour. When are you going to get here?” I ask, hiding in the back locker room, away from those damn stalker-eyes of Mason’s. I feel like he’s watching everything I do, just waiting to judge me or laugh at me. I swear, all it took was him calling me Birdie to make me feel seventeen again. I had to check the mirror to make sure my braces were, in fact, gone.
“I’m pulling in the lot. I just need to find a spot, okay? What’s the big deal anyhow? You’ve brought Max in before. Your dad doesn’t mind, and Max is always good at Dusty’s,” she says. I can hear her keys jingle, followed by the beeping of her door, and I’m immediately filled with relief that she’s here.
“Just meet me around back,” I say, sprinting through the kitchen, hoping not to get stopped. I make it to the back door, and prop it open with my foot to let Claire in.
“Okay, I see the door. Be there in a sec,” she hangs up, and a few seconds later I feel her pull the door completely open.
“Hey, Manny. Hey, Sal!” she says, walking over to hug the guys. Claire works at Dusty’s, too, but she’s usually on the morning and early afternoon shift and doesn’t get to see the guys much. I don’t know how I’d survive without my best friend. She works all morning, and then spends the evening with Max so I can get a few shifts in during the week. She’s gone through a lot of training, and she’s amazing with Max. She’s the one who finally got him to put his own socks on—in under a minute.
Max has a hard time focusing on things he doesn’t want to do. In fact, lately, unless it has to do with the moon or the stars or how the earth rotates, it doesn’t have a place in Max’s world. But Claire’s managed to find ways around the distractions.
Basically, we bribe him. And I used to cringe at it—felt like I was treating my son like a puppy. But Claire has taught me that it’s really just human nature to work toward goals, to seek rewards. So when Max does something I want, or something Grandpa wants, he gets something he wants—simple.
My pockets are always full of tart candies. Max likes sour things. But he can’t eat certain foods, and most candy upsets his stomach. There’s only one store in Cave Creek that sells the gluten-free tarts, and if they ever discontinue them, I will throw a one-woman protest of epic proportions.
“Okay, so where’s Max? And what the hell has you so worked up?” Claire says, pushing her purse back up her shoulder and leaning on the prep table in the kitchen.
“Remember Mason Street?” I say, my mouth watering with the need to vomit just saying his name.
“Ave, the whole state remembers Mason Street. Wait, is he…here?” she’s already bolting for the swinging door and cracking it open. I love Claire to death, but subtlety is not one of her strong points. “Where is he? What does he look like in person? Is he still hot?”
“Claire, we’ve known him since grade school. You know what he looks like,” I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, but that was before he went on tour with a band. Did they hit it big? Is that why he’s here? Is there a concert somewhere? Can he get us tickets?” Suddenly, my friend has gone full-groupie.
“No, Claire. He didn’t hit it big. He’s a loser, and my dad’s taking him in,” oh god, I was going to regret saying that. She backs away from the door and flashes that mischievous smile she’s famous for—the one that’s been getting me grounded since fifth grade.
“Mason Street is sleeping…at your house?” she says, her eyebrows bobbing up and down just to annoy me.
I sigh heavily and sit down on the small step stool behind the door, folding my hands around my face and leaning forward. “Yes, Claire. Mason Street is sleeping at my house. At least, until I can get him to leave,” I say, standing back up and forcing myself to have a little backbone.
“Why would you make him leave, Avery?” she’s already pulling out her compact to check her makeup and touch up her lipstick. I can’t believe how predictable she is.
“You know Max won’t like it, Claire. And because, frankly, I think he’s a goddamned selfish asshole!” I say.
Claire just lowers her brow and studies me before answering. “You’re not being fair, you know. You still think Mason Street is the same guy he was at eighteen. But if you think about it, Ave, you’re nothing like the Avery Abbot of Cave Creek High School,” she says, sneaking a look back through the crack in the door.
Claire’s partly right—I’m nowhere near the girl I was at eighteen. That girl was hopeful and innocent. That girl didn’t have a little boy who depended on her for everything—a little boy who she wasn’t sure would be able to survive kindergarten, let alone this world. And that girl had fantasies about getting married—in a church, with a big puffy dress, and violins playing from a balcony—to a man who would help her raise their three kids and live happily ever after.
Yeah, I had veered far from the course that girl was on six years ago. Instead, I became the girl who got knocked up in college, who dropped out to have a baby, and who’s raising her son on her own, while she lives with her dad and tries not to drive off the bridge on her way home from work every night.
“Damn, Avery. Did you get a good look at him? I swear, girl—watching him talk to Cole is putting ideas in my head about those two,” she says in her teasing voice.
“Claire!” I slap at her arm.
“What? Do you know the last time I went on a date? And I mean a real date—not TV trays in your living room with your father,” she jokes. I smile and laugh softly, mostly because I feel a little guilty. Claire has given up her social life over the last three years just to help me get through school. Sadly she’s the husband Adam never was, and I wish like hell I could tell her to live her life, set her free. But I can’t, because some days she’s the only thing holding me together. And Max—oh, Max—he responds to her more than anyone else.
“Seriously, Avery. Come look,” she pulls me close to her by the door. I feel ridiculous, but I indulge her. “That—that man right there—is going to be down the hall from you…tonight!”
I squeeze my eyes shut at first, mortified that the boy whose name I used to doodle on my papers as a teenager might run into me late at night when I sneak to the bathroom in my pathetic T-shirt and sweatpants. Mason is in the middle of laughing when I open my eyes to look. He’s so much older, but god is he familiar. His smile was always my favorite; the way it dimples at the corners and stretches the width of his face. His hair has somehow gotten better, just long enough to split down the middle and curl over his eyebrows. He’s still wearing the white V-neck T-shirts and worn out jeans, but his body seems to fill them out more. He’s gotten a tattoo on one of his arms, and I’m dying to know what it says, but I don’t dare let Claire know that. She’s right. Mason Street is hot as hell. But that doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter for lots of reasons—the biggest being Max.
“I get it Claire. Mason is good looking,” I say, backing away from the door and lifting my palms to show her she wins, and her grin says she’s about to brag and tease me, but I cut her off. “But so what? There’s a reason he’s landed back here, Claire, and it’s not because he has his shit together.”
Claire offers me a conceding smile instead, and nods once. “Okay, I’ll lay off. But you totally have to give me the details on anything juicy tomorrow. Let’s go get Max so I can take him home,” she says, pushing through the door.
When we pass through, Mason is right there. He wasn’t coming in, but rather stopped, and I know he heard us, and that’s what halted him. I feel bad for a few seconds, knowing I judged him like he’s done to me so many times. But when I see the floppy blond curls on Max’s head as he slides from the booth, I forget all about Mason Street, because in my reality, he’s nothing.
“I’ll have him in bed by eight thirty. What time are you off?” Claire says, her eyes wide as she looks at me because she sees Mason standing right behind me. I ignore it all.
“I should be home by eleven. I just need to get Dad through the busy part. I’m on again tomorrow, so I don’t want to work too late tonight,” I say, bending down to try to look Max in the eyes.
This is always a struggle, but the therapists say it’s something I need to practice with him every chance I get. Max doesn’t make eye contact. He never has. It was the first clue we had that something was wrong. By Max’s one-year appointment, he wasn’t doing any of the things on the checklist for parents—no sounds, no emotional expressions, no pointing or acknowledging things around him at all. I was terrified he was blind, or deaf—or both. Adam and I fought about it—we fought a lot. I had to drag Adam with me to Max’s pediatrician, because he thought I was just overreacting.
But then our world was rocked. The doctor said the word autism, and the next day Adam was gone. I tried to find him for months, but eventually, I just gave up. A year later, I started to get money deposited into my account, and when I did a little investigating, I found out it was from him. Seems my father had a few words with his parents, and they forced Adam to do the right thing…financially.
The money’s nice, but when I’m piecing together my life with help from my dad and best friend, just so I can work as a waitress and take two classes a semester, I kind of wish Max had a father instead of some state-mandated child support stipend.
I can feel Mason’s stare behind me while I try to look Max in the eyes, and it makes me remember the sting on my hand from slapping him earlier tonight. I hate that he’s watching this, because I know he’ll have questions.
“Max, you need to look at me. I know you don’t want to, but you have to do it, just for a second, okay?” I say, my hands putting light pressure on both of his shoulders, just enough to keep Max still on his feet. He doesn’t like affection, so I try not to touch him too long. “Aunt Claire is going to take you home, and then she’ll go through your books with you, okay?”
Max nods yes once, so I know he heard me, but I really want him to use his words.
“I need to hear you. Can you say your words, Max?” I ask, my voice breaking a little, because I hate that I’m begging, and I hate that a stranger—at least in terms of my life—is witnessing this.
I look up at Claire, and she’s on the verge with me, hopeful, but sad all at the same time. She flicks her eyes to mine for a few seconds, and gestures with her chin to my right side. I reach in and pull out two candies.
“I need to hear your words, Max. And you need to make eye contact, just for a second. And then you can have two candies, even though it’s almost bedtime,” I say, and instantly Max’s pupils are square with mine. He holds my gaze for two full seconds, and then looks back down at the corner of the floor. “We need to read Planets. The page is marked,” and that’s all Max says.
I can’t help it that I cry a little—I do every time. Every little thing is such a huge milestone. Claire understands, and I’m so happy to see her smile when I stand back up and give her a hug. “Sure, pal. Auntie Claire will read Planets,” I say, also whispering, “Thank you,” in Claire’s ear.
“My name is Max,” I hear him say from below, already walking through the kitchen door.
“You’re right. Max, not pal. I’m sorry,” I say, laughing while I wipe my eyes with the tissue from my back pocket. Max doesn’t respond to anything but his name. Sometimes it’s a cute idiosyncrasy, but I worry that some day someone’s not going to find it as cute as I do. But I’ll worry about that hurdle another time. Today was a success—today, Max looked at me…for two whole seconds.
I don’t even acknowledge Mason when Max and Claire leave. Instead, I pick up my tray, and head to the back to bus a table that’s cleared. He doesn’t follow me, but he’s still hanging around. I can’t avoid the kitchen forever, so I finally pass him with a full tray and a bin of dirty glasses. I back through the door and he follows. Damn.
“Here, let me help. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s washing dishes,” he says.
“Yeah. Clever,” I say, fighting against my need to look at him after I speak to see if my words cut just a little. His prolonged silence lets me know they probably did.
Mason is reaching for the glasses as fast as I can pull them from the bin. He’s working so fast that it’s almost like he’s trying to impress me with his dishwashing work ethic. I dump the last few in before he can catch up, then slide the bin over and reach for my tray to head back out to the bar. I make it almost to the door before he stops me.
“Birdie, wait!” he says, and I cringe. My shoulders literally fold into my spine, I hate that name so much, and just hearing it now—after he called Max a weirdo—snaps something deep within.
“I’m not twelve anymore, Mason. My name’s Avery, for fuck’s sake—Avery,” I say, my hand on my hip, and my lips pursed tightly. Mason looks down when I finish my mini-tirade, and draws in a deep breath before squaring back up with me. He’s always gotten away with his flippant remarks because he’s so damned good looking. And that might have worked when I was sixteen. But I don’t have time to take shit now, and the twenty-five-year-old me isn’t really impressed with his perfect-ass teeth and scruffy chin.
“Avery. Sorry. Some habits die hard,” he starts, and I’m already turning to leave. I can’t bear any more cleverness either.
“No, seriously, please…hear me out,” he says from behind me. I give him one more chance, and when I turn around, he’s walking over, his hands dripping from dishwater so much he has to pat them on his jeans. I can’t help but watch them when he walks. I used to stare at those hands in high school, when he’d sit up there on that stage and strum his guitar for hours at a time. I had goddamned fantasies about those hands, but I learned to hate them pretty quickly.
“Go on,” I say, keeping up my tough stance, and finally looking away from his hands to his face.
“I’m sorry about what I said…you know…about Max? I didn’t know he was your son. I never would have—” I butt in before he can get the last offensive word out.
“You never would have what, Mason? You never would have made fun of him if you knew he was mine? But if he’s someone else’s child, someone else’s son, then he’s fair game to call names?” I can tell I’ve backed him into a corner, because the shameful look on his face is the same one I’ve imagined putting there millions of times.
“He’s five, Mason. He’s just a kid. But there you go, swooping right on in and exploiting whatever makes him different,” I’m on a roll now, and Mason is getting a lifetime of my pent-up resentment. “Gahhhh, you are exactly the same person you were when you left. No wonder you ended up back here. Some fucking music career, Mason—why don’t you go back and tend to your dish soap?”
I spin around so fast, and leave him standing there alone, I don’t have time to take in what I know is a crippling look of shock. For once in my life, I said the exact thing I would have pretended to say when I relived the day in my shower. And it feels wonderful.