Mason
Getting slapped by Avery Abbot was enough to make me change my entire opinion of her being weak. But getting put in my place, and being called a failure? Ooooph—that one stuck with me all night and well into this morning.
I left the bar after she ripped me apart, just glad that we were alone when she did so no one could give me shit for it. I gave myself enough shit. Feeling guilty was strange for me. I’m starting to wonder why I thought staying with Ray Abbot was such a good idea in the first place—he’s done nothing but tell me what a disappointment I am, and his daughter thinks I’m a complete jerk.
I am a jerk—who am I kidding?
I travel light. When I left home the first time, five years ago, it was with my giant football bag stuffed with every piece of clothing I owned. I still have the same damned bag, and the clothes inside haven’t changed much either. I dragged that and my guitar into the house last night, and into the small spare room with the blow-up mattress. I slept here a few times in high school—when I wasn’t getting along with one of my mom’s boyfriends.
Ray’s always been my escape plan. It’s funny; when I look back on it now, I think Avery kind of liked it when I stayed at her house. She used to sit in the hall when I sat on the spare bed and played a song. She’d never come all the way into the room—too nervous. But she would sit there, with her skinny legs folded up into her chest, hugging them to her body.
We’re the same age, maybe a few months apart, but she’s always seemed younger, like a child that I had to be careful around. She was good at school—student council, honor society…shit like that. I scraped by. Football, basketball, and girls—that’s how I spent my time. And damn, when Ray started putting me on stage, the girls part got really easy.
By the time I was a senior, Avery wasn’t interested in listening to me play any more. I didn’t really care because she was never my type. Somehow, though, she’s the only thing on my goddamned mind this morning.
This house is so quiet. I think Ray’s awake; I swear I can hear something happening in the kitchen downstairs. Everything in this house is old, but the kitchen is from the fifties. The cabinets have been painted yellow a few times, so much so they stick when you open them. The stove has coils, and they smell when you turn it on—burning off whatever was cooked last. The fridge vibrates when you open it because the suction is so strong you actually need to brace part of it with your foot when you tug on the door.
It’s almost eight in the morning, and I’ve been up for the last two hours. I pull my guitar onto my lap and strum it once, just to see if anyone notices.
Nothing.
I’ll play lightly. Avery and Max’s bedroom is on the other end of the hall, so I don’t think I’ll wake them. I loop the strap over my head, and position myself with my knee bent on the corner of the mattress. It’s not ideal, but I haven’t touched my guitar in days. I start to get scared I’ll forget what it feels like, where to put my fingers, if I don’t at least play for a few minutes.
This guitar has always been home. As soon as I touch the strings, I’m gone—there’s this melody I’ve been trying to work out for weeks. I haven’t written in months, but this one phrase seems to keep repeating every time I play. There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t seem to work it out. It’s kind of like my life.
My eyes are closed when I hear the sound of someone’s breathing. It’s not Ray, because his is heavy—labored. I’m hoping—damn it, I’m actually hoping—that I’ll see Avery at my door, when I peel one eye open and look right at Max.
He’s not surprised to see me. Avery must have explained to him that I’d be in their house. He doesn’t even seem to be nervous around a stranger. He’s just staring intently at my hands, watching my fingers move up and down the length of the guitar. It’s like he’s memorizing every movement, the way his eyes twitch a little with every motion.
I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, I’m shit with kids. I’ve never really been around them, except for my friends when we were growing up, but I don’t think that counts. I just keep playing instead of talking, and Max seems to be fine with that.
I start to change up the melody a little, and Max clearly notices, his eyes flashing wider for a fraction of a second—like a computer memorizing more data. He hasn’t moved a single step from his position in the very center of my doorway. His hands are limp at his sides, and he’s swaying a little. I’ve played for a good five or six minutes under his watch, and at this point I’m not even being quiet anymore.
“Do you want to try?” I say, my hands still making music.
Max doesn’t answer, but just continues to stare. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. I know he doesn’t like to look people in the eyes—I got that much from last night. And I know he doesn’t like to talk much. Hell, I don’t either—I get him more than he knows.
The sounds downstairs start to pick up, so I stop strumming and pull the guitar strap from around my neck. Max is still looking at it, but not moving from his spot. I lean it against the edge of the mattress, there and available, while I leave the room. Maybe it’s just a weird fantasy, but part of me feels like maybe if I’m not looking, Max will pick it up and start to play.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I lean back to peek to see if Max has gone into my room, but he hasn’t. I can still see his feet, his body swaying in the doorway. He probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with his mom—I can see Avery being strict with him, telling him not to touch stuff that isn’t his.
As soon as the smell hits my senses, I’m suddenly fifteen again. Ray’s skillet is bubbling with bacon and sausage—and I swear it’s swimming in the very same grease it was when he used to make me breakfast years ago.
“Now that’s how a man likes to wake up,” I say, pulling my arms over my head into a wide stretch and patting Ray on the back.
“Breakfast ain’t free, ya know. Take the trash out, would ya? There’s old eggs in there,” Ray says, nodding toward the trash bin by the door.
I salute him and run up the stairs quickly to grab my shoes so I can haul the trash outside. Max isn’t in my doorway anymore, but his own door is now closed. I wonder if he just went back to bed, or if his mom is awake? Who am I kidding—I just want to know if Avery’s home, and if I’m going to get to see her this morning.
I skip back down the stairs and grab the bag of trash by the door and walk it around to the side of the house. It’s funny how very little has changed. Ray’s GMC pickup is still pulled up on part of the lawn, and it looks like Avery’s taken over the Buick; I can see a booster seat in the back.
Avery’s mom used to pick her up from school in that car, but after she died from breast cancer, Ray just let it sit in the driveway—untouched. We were seniors when Ruthie passed away—I remember Avery changed after that, too. Not that we talked much then, but she always had this light in her, this fire. She was a go-getter, the one who was going to leave this place to change the world, make it better. But after her mom died, she sort of slipped into the background. I guess Adam was there to pick her up.
I kick the tire on the Buick out of fondness—I’m glad to see the tires full again. I take in the rest of the outside of the house on my way back inside, too. The paint is chipping, and the siding is slipping in a few spots. If I stay here long enough, I’m going to have to put in some work on the place. That’s the least I could do for Ray.
By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Avery’s made it downstairs. She’s wearing a gigantic long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of black leggings, her hair all twisted on top of her head. She looks like sunshine in the morning. She’s pouring a glass of juice, and mouthing something in a whisper to her dad. She hushes as soon as she sees me, and I feel like even more of a fucking loser than I did just an hour ago.
“Hey, Ray. You know, I’ve been thinking—I didn’t realize you had such a full house and all. I can just stay at the apartment. Mom’s still up on the rent…” I start, and I notice the fraction of a smile curl on Avery’s lips. She’s relieved, and it makes me feel like shit—but it’s short-lived, because Ray squashes my idea the second I suggest it.
“Shut it. You’re staying here. Now eat your breakfast,” Ray says, sliding a plate to me. I sit down and prop my elbows up on either side before grabbing a fork and digging in. I sneak a glimpse at Avery again, and the smile that started seconds ago has been replaced with a look of pain.
This entire trip back home is torture. My mind is spinning, trying to come up with an idea—a way out. But I’m broke. I mean I have a small amount in savings, but the label barely paid me a dime, and the guys are all sorting out their own shit, just as broke as I am. I’m stuck here. And as long as I’m not kidding myself, I’m probably stuck here for a while—at least until I can book myself some gigs and earn enough to try and make a go at this on my own.
Avery won’t even look at me. I try to open my mouth, start a conversation with her, at least a dozen times—but every time I’m left with my mouth agape, nothing to say. I could apologize, but I’ve done that. She doesn’t want to hear it. I could ask her what’s wrong with Max, but I’m not going near that conversation. That’s what earned me the asshole of the year honor in the first place.
“Max coming down?” Ray asks as he slides into his seat with a full plate of sausage and eggs. I’m so grateful he’s picked up the conversation.
“He should be. He was writing something upstairs. I couldn’t get him to stop,” Avery says, looking back to the stairs.
“I can go get him? Tell him breakfast is ready?” my words come out anxious and desperate, leaving my mouth so fast that I didn’t have time to think. Avery’s just staring at me with disgust, her brow pinched, as she slides out of her seat and heads upstairs. Fuck, I’m an idiot.
Ray chuckles to himself at my expense.
“Shut up, old man,” I say, shoveling a forkful of eggs in my mouth.
Avery is back seconds later, and Max is trailing behind her. He’s clutching a stack of notebook paper in his hand, and he won’t let go, even when Avery tries to take it from him so he can eat his breakfast. It’s kind of funny to watch the stand-off as she holds onto one end of the papers and Max the other, his opposite hand already working the fork to cut into a toasted pastry Ray put on a plate for him. I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me, which only fuels Avery even more as she shoots me a death glare.
I just shrug at her. I can’t win with this one, and I’m already in a hole so deep that I might as well just keep digging.
“Sorry, but my money’s on Max,” I laugh, causing her to huff and sit back in her chair, defeated.
Avery finally stands from the table to fix her own plate, and as soon as she does, Max puts the papers down flat next to him. I shake my head in amusement, kind of proud of him for winning this battle, when he slides the pages toward me across the table. I can feel everyone stop everything the second he does.
“Me?” I mouth to Ray.
Ray shrugs and raises his brow, no help at all. I turn to Avery next, and her hands are gripping the edge of the table, her eyes fixated on the papers, squinting at them like she’s trying to sort through a puzzle.
Max hasn’t moved the papers any closer, but they are now in the very center of the table. I don’t know what to do, and I’m so afraid of doing the wrong thing, that I’m almost stuck. I look at Ray again, wincing, just hoping that he’ll see how lost I am with this kid and help me out. Thankfully, he does, as he wipes his hands on his napkin and leans forward, moving his hand toward the papers.
“Max, mind if I see what you’ve got here?” he waits, and Max doesn’t respond. “I’ll give them right back.”
Ray slides the stack closer to him, and Max seems to be okay with that. He pulls a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on, crinkling the papers and stacking them neatly together in front of him so he can read. He’s half smiling as he flips through them, nodding. Finally, he starts to hum, and when I begin to hum along, we both freeze and look at one another.
“That’s a pretty song, Max. Did you just write that this morning?” Ray asks, his eyes locked on mine and a faint smirk on his face.
Max remains silent, his gaze fixed on his plate, but he nods yes. Avery comes back to the table, and she reaches slowly for the papers, not wanting to start another round with Max over them. Her dad slides them in front of her and tilts them so she can see, and I lean forward to look along with her. I would say it was unbelievable if I weren’t looking right at it. Max charted every note that I played for him this morning—every mistake and every improvisation that I strummed less than 30 minutes ago. Everything—exactly.
“Max, did you learn this from Grandpa?” Avery asks, her eyes finally coming to meet mine. She’s looking at me with surprise, but I’m looking at her. I’m looking at her because it’s the first time since we’ve come back together that she’s letting me, and I’m embarrassed that I never really saw her before. Her eyes—they’re fucking unbelievable.
Max finally puts his fork down and looks up from his plate, though not at any of us directly. “I heard Mason play it this morning. I wanted to see what it looked like, so I copied Grandpa’s music books,” he says, standing abruptly and heading for the stairs.
“Uhm, Max? You forgetting something?” Ray calls after him. Max stops at the bottom step, and looks up and to the side.
“Thank you for breakfast. I am excused,” he says before climbing the rest of the way up the stairs and back into his room.
The room is silent for the next few minutes while we all sort of put together our own versions of what just happened. Ray interrupts us first, standing, and sliding out his chair to begin clearing the table. I stand up to help.
I’m sliding scraps of food off a plate into the trash when I turn back and see Avery standing next to her father, whispering again. Her eyes are wider this time, and she’s smiling. Add her smile to my ever-growing list of shit I find drop-dead gorgeous about grown-up Avery Abbot. She catches my stare, and flushes—and the fact that she does makes me nuts.
“You heading to therapy this morning?” Ray asks over his shoulder, stopping Avery just before she starts up the stairs. She just nods yes and gives her dad a wink.
I wait until she’s out of earshot before I ask Ray. “What’s Avery in therapy for?” I’m so damned curious, and suddenly all I want to do is spend my day gathering facts and putting together Avery’s puzzle.
“It’s not for her. It’s for Max,” he says, running a washcloth under the water and turning to wipe down the table. I grab a dry towel and follow after him.
“Oh. I get it,” I swallow. I’m dying to know what’s wrong with Max, but I feel like nobody wants to come right out and tell me. Unable to stand it any longer, I finally break.
“What’s wrong with him? Max? I mean…what does he go to therapy for?” My words are jumbled, and on instinct I brace myself for Ray to knock my teeth out. Last time I talked about Max I got slapped—hard!
Ray pauses at my question, refolding the washcloth a few times on the table before knocking his fist on the wood lightly. When he looks up at me, his lips are tight—serious. “Max is an amazing kid,” Ray starts, his smile full of conflict—pride and sorrow. “Avery…she lives her life for that boy. He’s her center, her sun and moon all rolled into one.”
“Yeah, I get that. It’s plain to see,” I say, trying to show my respect. I’ve only witnessed a little, but Avery has my vote for mother of the year the way she defends Max. My jaw hurts just from memory.
Ray finishes wiping down the table, chewing at his top lip and nodding, like he’s working out what to say in his head before he fills me in. He pulls out a chair finally and leans back, folding his arms across his body, not really looking at me, but more looking beyond me, before finally coming back to meet my eyes.
“Mason, Max has autism,” he says. I nod like I understand, and I try my best to match the face he’s making, but I have no idea what the fuck autism really means. I know the word, sure. And I’ve heard about it. But I don’t know if it’s something in your brain or if it’s something that happens over time. Isn’t it, like, mental retardation?
“Oh, okay. I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry. How…how do you fix that?” I ask, raising a brow, wishing like hell I understood more than I do.
“You don’t, Mason. You don’t,” Ray says, and I can tell by the crack in his voice that this—Avery’s life with Max, Max himself—is what real-life problems look like. Ray stands to turn away, and I let him. He walks back to the sink to rinse out his cloth and to regain his strength. I sit down now myself, and try to understand what Ray is saying.
“So…how?” I start to ask, but I realize immediately that I don’t even know what to ask. I bury my face in my hands and rub my eyes, just trying not to sound like an insensitive ass more than I already do. “Was Max…born with it? What…I mean…I’m sorry Ray, I don’t think I really know what autism is.”
Ray’s slow to respond. He finishes cleaning up the kitchen, and then paces over to the stairway to make sure Avery and Max are still in their room. He leans against the banister before beginning, just to keep an eye out for them—probably to stop our conversation before Avery overhears.
“Max was one when we found out. Autism…well, it’s sort of like a really big linebacker in Max’s brain. It works against him, not letting certain things in and not letting certain things out. He didn’t talk for the longest time, and even now, his speech is…strange. It’s like he knows the words and when to use them, but the meaning isn’t quite right. He sort of doesn’t understand emotion,” Ray sighs, looking down and kicking at the bottom step.
“But what about the music? Those notes he just charted? How can he do that?” I ask, knowing that it would have taken me hours to figure out how to put all of that on paper.
Ray smirks, curling one side of his mouth up a little and tilting his head to me with a squint in his eyes. “Pretty cool, huh?” he starts. “He does stuff like that sometimes. Max memorizes things. You should see him put together a Rubik’s Cube.”
I don’t understand. I don’t get how Max can’t make eye contact or have a conversation, but can hear me play something for five minutes and then memorize every single nuance. “How?” is all I can ask Ray, and he chuckles at my response, probably because he’s thought the same thing himself.
“Damned if I know,” he says. “Avery says his autism makes it hard to do some things but easy to do others. She’s that kid’s champion, you know? She’s all he’s got. Me? I’m just the old man who lives here with him, who he lets talk to him…sometimes. Ha! But Avery—she’s the one that goes to battle. And Lord help anyone or anything that gets in her way.”
I let Ray’s words soak in. I have so many more questions, but I can hear Max and Avery making their way down the stairs, and I get the feeling by the way Ray was acting that having this conversation with me wasn’t something Avery wants to happen.
“Okay, Dad. We’re heading out. I’m off tonight—Claire’s got my shift. Too much homework,” Avery says, leaning over to kiss her dad on the cheek. I don’t move from my seat, careful not to startle her or draw her attention. I feel like I shouldn’t know the things I know, and I feel like knowing about Max has made me look at things differently. And for some reason, it’s all making me want to be around Avery even more.
Avery Abbot. Shit, I’m in trouble.