Avery
Early this morning, I told Max about having dinner with Barb. I told him, because I knew if I made solid plans with him, I couldn’t back out. And I want to back out—I want to desperately. But I’d hate myself for it.
I sent Mason a text, and told him we’d meet him at his mother’s apartment. He was gone early this morning, and I noticed everything was cleared out of his room. My dad said he was spending the night with the guys because of their early start on Tuesday, but I know Mason is just avoiding me.
I’m not angry with him. Honestly, I’ve blown it with Max millions of times. And the more distance I get from the letters coming from Adam, the more I appreciate Mason making him write them. The result might not have been very good, but the intention was heartfelt. It doesn’t change the fact that me being in a relationship with Mason is a bad idea. I need to have one hundred percent of my focus on Max and his success, and anyone else in my life needs to have those same priorities. Mason doesn’t—and that’s okay.
I brought Max’s dinner. I know Barb will understand. I have it clutched in both of my hands in a small Tupperware container while we wait at the front door. Max is fidgety today. He had some additional homework to finish after school, which of course wasn’t part of his plan. I bribed him with a few extra candies, and I’m sure he won’t want his dinner. I’m also sure he remembers how I skipped breakfast the other day, so this evening might end up getting cut short.
Mason opens the door, and he’s dressed nicer than I expected. His shirt is a white button down, tailored to his chest, and the ends aren’t tucked in to his black dress pants. He’s wearing black dress shoes, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing a piece of the tiger’s tail and a really nice silver watch. He waves us in; when I pass, he pulls me in for a hug, and kisses the top of my head. He smells like a dream.
“Sorry, we’re a little underdressed,” I say, looking down at my flip-flops and long maxi skirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail before we left, so at least I look like I gave some thought to how I looked. Max is wearing purple shorts and a yellow shirt, and he looks a little like an Easter egg.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes hovering over my face for a few long seconds. “I dressed up for my mom. I got the sense this was a big deal to her.”
Not sure what to do, I hand Max’s dish to Mason. “It’s for Max. He won’t eat other food, so I brought his normal dinner,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place.
“Right, good idea. I’ll let my mom know. Come on in, we’re in the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, walking to the back of his mother’s apartment. I follow him, taking note of all of the pictures of Mason on her walls. It’s like reliving my own youth seeing him grow in school portraits. I stop at one—a family collage holding several photos in the same frame.
“My mom likes pictures,” he says, his breath tickling my shoulder and causing goosebumps to rise on my arms. I know he notices, but he doesn’t draw attention to it or embarrass me. “Every photo I take or get, she hangs it up.”
It’s completely the opposite of what I expected to see in his mother’s home. I never visited their house when I was a kid—Mason was always at ours. And his mom moved so many times later in life, there was just never really an opportunity. “She seems proud of you,” I say, dialing in on one photo in particular, a young Mason with his mom bending down in a garden to smell flowers.
“Yeah, I guess…” he says, his gaze somewhat lost and his mood melancholy as he takes in the full line of photos on the wall. “They just don’t seem real. I mean, I’m smiling in these pictures, but…I don’t remember having these memories.”
Mason’s memories are wrapped up in my home, with my dad, and while I’m glad he has those, I’m sad he doesn’t have them with Barb.
“Ehhhh, I’m just being crazy. Ignore me,” he shrugs, shaking his head and forcing a renewed smile on his face. He’s putting on a good act—for his mother and me.
Barb is busy putting the final touches on the table when we walk into the kitchen, and I smile when I see the small sheet cake she made. It’s almost like she’s trying to make up for a dozen missed birthdays with this one dinner.
“Avery, oh honey, thanks for coming!” she says, giving me a hug. Barb has always been nice to me. When I first started waitressing at Dusty’s, she would handle the rough customers for me, sometimes throwing them out all on her own.
“Thanks for having us,” I say, pulling the lid from Max’s dinner of fruits, veggies and crackers. “I hope you don’t mind, but he’s sort of picky.”
“Of course not,” she says, pulling out a plate for me to set up for Max.
We all get situated around the table, and Barb scoops large heaps of pasta into each of our bowls. Her sauce, on the potholder on the table, is still bubbling; when I put my spoon in to pour some on my plate, the sauce snaps, and a drop burns my arm. Without a word, Mason dips the corner of his napkin in his ice water and presses it to my arm.
“Better?” he whispers, and I just nod.
“So, Avery…did Mason tell you the news?” Barb says, her face beaming. She should be proud—Mason deserves this. In fact, he should be headlining, not just opening for bands. But his time will come; I know it will.
“He did. It’s very exciting,” I say, and I notice that Max is swinging his legs under the table while I talk. I reach next to me and stop them with my hand. “Max, Mason is going to perform some concerts in some other states. Isn’t that neat?”
Max takes a big bite of one of his crackers, chewing with his mouth open, not quite finishing his bite when he finally speaks. “I think he should just stay at Grandpa’s,” he says, and I hear the air escape Mason’s nose in one swift exhale.
“I know, we all are going to miss him, but we want other people to get to hear his songs, too,” I say, knowing that for Max, missing Mason is partly about not wanting to see something he’s grown comfortable with change. But I also think that somewhere, in the midst of things, Mason has become his friend.
“You should play our song for people,” he says, going right back to his crackers.
Mason laughs a little under his breath at first. “I will, Max. I’ll make sure they know who my writer is,” he says, his eyes meeting mine and holding on. Every look twists my stomach a little tighter, just as does every minute passing—every second closer to the time when he’ll be gone.
Mason ends up telling us stories about his first tour, about places they played and how much smaller they are from the places they’re about to go. He does most of the talking; I can tell he’s trying to fill the silence because his mom doesn’t really have much to say.
We all manage to save room for a small piece of cake, and, after some teasing, Mason gets away with not having to blow out any candles. I help Barb clear the table when we’re done, and Max takes care of putting his container away. I know he’s going to get antsy soon, so I pull the iPad from my bag, and set him up on the sofa with it for a few minutes, so I can help with dishes. Barb is packing up a few to-go boxes for me to take some leftovers home to Ray when an old Otis Redding song comes on the radio.
Mason smiles when he hears it, and walks to the corner of the kitchen to turn it up. “May I?” he says, reaching for his mother’s hands.
She doesn’t answer, wiping the small tear in the corner of her eye with the neckline of her blouse, and smiles at him, her lips tight, holding in her emotions. I watch as she gives her son her hand, and he moves her the few steps to the middle of the kitchen floor and pulls her in for a dance. I almost feel like I’m intruding, but I’m so grateful to bear witness to this moment. Mason is giving his mother a gift, for nothing in return, just because he wants to. I pull my phone out when they aren’t looking and snap a photo, then message it to him instantly—Mason will finally have a memory attached to one of those images of him with his mom.
We listen to a few more songs while Barb brews a pot of coffee, but Max’s patience starts to wear. He’s no longer staying in his seat very long, instead pacing around the room on his toes while playing his game on the iPad. We usually go to the store in the afternoons on Mondays, and I know Max will want to make sure we have everything we need for his lunch bag next week.
Maybe I’m inventing a reason to leave, or maybe Max is about to have a meltdown. Either way, the longer I hesitate, the more my body fills with anxiety, until I can’t handle it anymore.
“We have to go,” I blurt out, stopping Barb and Mason mid-conversation. I can tell Mason’s taken off guard, and I can actually see his mind working on ways to convince me to stay. “I need to get some things for Max, and he has school tomorrow. I didn’t get much done yesterday, and I need to take advantage of Claire filling in for me tonight.”
“Right,” Mason says, his face down at his feet.
“Well here, take this home for your dad,” Barb says, tying the top of a plastic bag tight around a few containers of food and handing it to me.
“I’ll walk you out,” Mason says, his hand resting on my back, and his fingers barely grazing my skin, like he’s unsure if his hand belongs there. We get to the car, and Max is quick to settle in, shutting his door and buckling up. I can see the iPad light up his face in the back seat, and I know Mason and I will have a few minutes out here alone before Max will insist I get in the car.
“So, you leave tomorrow?” I ask, setting my small bag of food on the rooftop of the car and turning to face Mason, pulling my arms tightly around my body to warm myself from the breeze.
“I do. Early,” he says, his lips partially open, like more words are just hanging on his tongue, waiting to be said. He reaches his hand up, running the back of it down the side of my face, watching his fingers caress my cheek slowly, tracing every centimeter of my profile. He sweeps a few loose strands of hair behind my ear and holds his hand there, just staring at me.
“I should go,” I say, taking in a deep breath, and holding it like it’s my last.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his eyes giving away the uncertainty I know he really feels.
“I hope so,” I say, my teeth tugging at my lip while I hedge on saying the rest. “But I understand if you can’t. Max isn’t expecting you, and I’ll be okay.”
I won’t be okay, and as I stand here and pretend I’m strong, I know I’m crumbling inside. But Mason has this life—he has this gift—and it just doesn’t match with anything in my world. And I know that forcing it won’t make it so.
I stretch on the tips of my toes, reach my hand around Mason’s neck, and press my lips to his lightly, and I whisper, “Good luck,” but what I’m really saying is…goodbye. I grab the pasta from the roof of my car and open my door to get in, my body almost anticipating him to protest— to grab me, and pull me back to him, to refuse to let me go. But I shut the door, and the sounds of outside go completely silent.
It’s Max and me, just like it always is—and Mason is on the outside, looking in. He holds up his hand and stretches his fingers, and I can hear him say, “Goodbye,” through the window. I hold my fingers to my lips, and then press them flat to the window; he touches the other side, his touch sliding along the glass as I slowly drive away.
I cry silently for the short drive home, and I force my breath to regulate by the time I pull into our driveway so I can get Max upstairs, help him with his bath, and put him to bed. I don’t have the strength for groceries tonight, so I’ll make do with what we have. But the distraction of my routine is welcomed, and the next hour goes by rote as I work my way through the nightly checklist. I’m usually at work for this part, so I look forward to reading the planet book with Max. I offer to read extra tonight, mostly because I don’t want to go back to the thoughts in my head, but Max tells me he’s done. I put the book away, and I pull his heavy blanket over his body. My body itches to hug him, and so I ask him if I can hug him goodnight since I don’t get to do this part often. He lets me, but his body is rigid when I do, and I can tell he doesn’t want me to touch him for long.
“I’m going to work on some homework downstairs and wait for Grandpa,” I say, pausing for Max to respond, but he only shuts his eyes, squeezing them tightly, readying himself for me to shut the lights off. He’ll pretend to sleep for a while, and eventually he’ll fall into it for real.
I spread my notecards out across the kitchen table, and add a few more to my mix. I have one final paper to complete, and I have a lot of time, but I need to keep myself busy until my eyes grow tired. I slide the cards around the table a few times before giving up, and pulling them back together with my rubber band and deciding to focus on reading. I’m only slightly more productive doing this, making my way through one entire page in the hour it takes before my father finally comes through the door.
“Hey, you wait up for your old man?” he smiles, clearing out his pockets, and piling his usual work stuff on the counter.
“I did. Barb sent me home with leftovers. You want some? It’s really good,” I say, going to the fridge and pulling out the bag.
“That would be great. Thanks,” my dad says, slipping his shoes from his feet and falling into his chair, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m beat today.”
“Well, Barb’s carbs should put you right to sleep then,” I joke, and my dad nods in agreement.
I heat his food up and put it on a plate for him, sliding it over and getting us both a glass of milk. I used to love waiting up to watch my father eat dinner. My mom would always have leftovers ready for him, and she’d let me sit up extra late on the weekends so I could keep him company. I was always closest with my dad, and I think it’s because of our late night talks, which grew more and more complicated the older I got.
“So, Mason’s leaving tomorrow,” I say, starting our most difficult talk yet.
“He is,” my dad says, chewing, but keeping his eyes on me, waiting to dissect my reaction. I don’t have one though—I almost feel emotionless. “You okay with this?”
“I am,” I say, my stomach fluttering with my own doubt. “It’s better this way. I have to focus on school and Max.”
“Hmmm,” my dad says, sitting back and wiping at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He folds his arms and sucks in his top lip—that’s his tell, and I know he doesn’t believe me. “You know, it’s okay to mess up baby girl.”
I’m not sure what he means, and my natural instinct is to be defensive. I hold my breath and bunch my brow. I’m unsure what to say, so I just shake my head, and my dad chuckles softly.
“I’m not talking about Mason. I’m talking about you. You have yourself locked into this pattern—and if everything doesn’t fall into place every second of every day exactly how you have your blueprint set—you take it out on yourself,” he says, pausing to let me catch up. I nod to let him know I’m listening.
“I have to,” I say, my eyes tearing up from the pressure building in my chest. I don’t do failure well, and even talking about missteps fills me with anxiety.
“Bullshit,” my dad says, slapping his hand on the table, causing me to jump. “Life is full of things that don’t go according to plan, Avery. And Max needs to learn how to make adjustments for those things. I’m sorry, but you not letting the spontaneous things in life happen isn’t good for Max. And baby girl, it’s going to kill you!”
“But what if he hurts himself? What if someone hurts him when he’s angry or frustrated? What if I can’t be there to calm him down?” I’m crying hard tears now, my body shaking; my dad reaches across the table, clutching my hands in his, forcing me to look him in the eyes.
“That’s life, Avery. And you can’t always be there. That’s why he needs to learn about life’s peaks and valleys now, while you’re here to guide him,” my dad says, shaking my hands against the table, literally trying to shake reason into my body. “You love Mason, and Avery, he’s a good man. He’s real, and he’s going to drop the ball sometimes, and he might make you have to make some hard choices, make some changes in your life. But don’t give up on your own happiness just because you’re afraid it’s too damn hard to have. Because Ave, you only get to have right now once in your life—there are no re-dos, there is no going back and doing right now again. You get this once, and you can take a chance on it, or live regretting you didn’t. I can tell you what, though…the Avery that takes a chance on her own happiness is going to be a hell of a lot stronger for Max than the one that gives up.”
I’m too terrified to cry, but my insides are holding on, just waiting for the sobs to come pouring out. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I say, my voice cracking with my own fear.
“Go,” my dad says, his lips tight, and his face daring me. My legs are wobbly as I try to stand, and my hands shake as I reach for my purse and pull out my keys. “Girl, I can’t drive you, so you’re going to have to pull yourself together. Just breathe—and go tell that boy you love him, and you’ll see him soon.”
I nod yes and race through the door, dropping my purse open on the porch, spilling the contents everywhere. I shove everything back inside, and toss it in the passenger seat of my car, firing up my engine and actually peeling out of the driveway when I leave. My heart is thumping in my chest, and it races faster and faster the harder I press my foot on the pedal. The streets are quiet, and the main drag is dead on a weekday night, so I don’t even bother to stop at the four-way stop between my neighborhood and Barb’s. I circle through her apartment complex, but I don’t see Mason’s car, and panic fills me.
“Ben’s!” I think, slamming the car in reverse, and pulling back out on the main road through town. Ben is closer to the city, in a rougher part of town, so I slow down as I get closer, careful to watch for any other drivers. I recognize Ben’s car out front, so I know which small house belongs to him, but I don’t see Mason’s car anywhere. I keep the engine off and I wait, like I’m stalking him in the dark. Minutes pass, and not a single car drives down Ben’s road—nothing to even give me hope. I’m about to give up when a light flicks on at the side of the house, and the side gate swings open. I get out of the car without even thinking, just hoping it’s him.
“Mason?” I say, my voice a loud whisper.
“Oh shit! Damn, Birdie. You scared me,” Ben says, and my heart literally explodes with disappointment.
“Is Mason here?” I ask, my mouth watering with the need to be sick.
“Nah, he took off an hour or two ago with Matt and Josh. They had some things to take care of, and I think they were going out for a while, meeting Kevin and one of the bands we’re leaving with tomorrow. You need something?” he asks, and I don’t know what to say. I need Mason. I just stare at my phone, considering calling him, but I can’t help but note the shakiness of my fingers as I slide them back and forth over the phone screen. My whole body is shaking, so badly that I have to hold myself up against Ben’s car.
“Are you…all right?” Ben asks, his face bunched at the sight of me. I feel really ill, and my body is covered with beads of sweat.
“Yeah, I uh…I suddenly don’t feel very well. God, I’m sorry,” I say, shuffling my feet backward closer to my car, suddenly questioning everything I’m doing.
“You want me to just tell him you stopped by?” Ben asks. I stop and look at his feet, scratching at the side of my face, and tugging at my lip while I think about his question. I could call Mason right now. I could sit here at Ben’s house, or in his driveway, and just wait. Or I could have Ben tell him to call me. But the end is always the same—I’m always…waiting. I’ll be waiting for Mason, just to tell him I’ll keep waiting. And that’s the change I would have to make in my life—to decide to wait on Mason for the rest of my life. Because in my heart, I know that the second he gets on that bus in the morning, his career is going to take off—he’s that good. And I have to decide if I want to wait for those moments he can fit me in between everything else. And I don’t know if my heart can take all of the doubt and worry that comes along with Mason’s success.
“You know what, it’s nothing,” I say, and my pulse slows down as soon as I give in. “I’ll just…I’ll just call him later this week. Really, it’s not important.”
Ben just nods and shrugs his shoulders. “A’right then. Well, see ya when I see ya! Hey, maybe the next time we play Dusty’s we’ll be fucking millionaires!” he says, tossing the small bag of trash in the can outside and heading back through his gate. All I can do is smile and hold up my hand, a total farce to the self-loathing now kicking off inside. I get back in my car, and I drive home. My dad has gone to bed, and I’m thankful—I don’t think I can handle having him talk me into risk ever again. I’m starting to think regret is just easier, and I resolve myself to learning how to swallow it.