Avery
Some days start on a high note. Today was one of them. I was so sure I was going to get a full-on meltdown from Max over those papers. Normally, I would have bribed him to give them to me with a candy. But with Mason watching the whole thing, I just felt foolish. I don’t want him to think I bribe my son to do everything…though, some days, it feels like I do.
When I saw the music, what he wrote—uh! I was blown away; that kid has this power to move me, I swear he does. He’s always flipping through my dad’s old music books, but I know no one’s ever explained it to him—how notes work, what the lines and dots mean. He just figures some things out.
I bet Mason thought that was weird, too. I bet he can’t wait to get together with his band, sit around and talk about the weird girl he went to high school with and how she has this weird kid. Whatever. Fuck Mason Street! His weird is my amazing!
Max has been asleep for hours. It was a long day for him. We met with two doctors, and it was a double-therapy day. Jenny, our head therapist, has been working with me for weeks, maybe months, to get Max ready for kindergarten. He’ll be joining the class a little late—he’s been learning one-on-one, and he’s actually doing really well with the academic side of things. That’s never been Max’s problem. In fact, he learns some things really fast. Memorization—that’s his gift. It’s the social part that scares the hell out of me. I don’t make friends easily, how can I expect him to? Add on top of that his lack of patience for anyone slower to catch on than he is, and a schoolyard disaster won’t be far behind.
This is what we’ve been working on the most. Patience—keeping his frustration in check. Eye contact and socializing will be skills Max works on every day at school, but he’ll never get there if he makes enemies out of his classmates first.
Today has wiped me, completely. Just imagining my afternoons when Max starts school in a few days is daunting. In many ways, it will ease some of the burden. But I carry Max with me, even when we’re physically apart. It’s the worry—constant, painful, without remedy. But I’ve survived today, and I’ve earned tonight.
I take my basket of bath products and set myself up for a little relaxing reward after the long day. It’s my first evening off—truly off—in…I don’t know how long. The bath water hugs me, and the bubbles crackle softly, almost lulling me into a light sleep. I can feel the pull within my chest, my eyes falling shut, but my mind reminds me that my fingers are pruning and that I have a warm bed and—gasp!—a book waiting for me down the hall.
My toes are toying with the drain, trying to convince the rest of me to leave the water, when I hear Mason’s guitar softly filtering through the wall. It’s faint, and…beautiful. His playing was always perfection. I used to listen to him with my dad, just in awe. I have no musical talent—zero. I wish I did; I’ve learned music can be a great calming therapy for kids like Max. It’s not calming when I sing, however. Things just feel out of order, so I stick to reading him stories instead. Good thing I’m majoring in English.
I wait through four or five iterations of the same melody. It’s the one Max wrote down this morning—I recognize it. Mason was never happy with his music, always trying to find the better way to play something. That’s what he’s doing now—he’s obsessing, and catching him makes me smile.
Stepping from the water, I leave the drain in place, careful not to make any noise as I dress so I don’t interrupt his playing. I pull on my soft cotton shorts and one of my dad’s old T-shirts for bed and flip off the light before I step quietly down the hall to Mason’s door.
His back is to me, so he doesn’t notice when I slide down to sit in the doorway. I can still see his fingers from here, as they work their way up and down, pausing right when they should and gently grazing the strings when it’s called for. I think that’s what made me fall in love with Mason Street in the first place—long before I really knew him, before I fell right back out of love with him. Watching him play, the way he loves that instrument, the way his brown eyes shut and his lips whisper small phrases, ideas for lyrics. That’s the reason women love musicians—it’s all right there in Mason’s hands, his eyes, his lips. Mason is the perfect package…on the outside. I could almost forget everything watching him now.
He stops playing for a few seconds, and I catch my breath. The small noise causes him to turn around, and I can feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Maybe it’s dread. This moment—the one that was so nice before he began talking—is about to be ruined. I just know it.
“Oh, hey Birdie. Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he says. Birdie. Still with the fucking Birdie.
“Avery, Mason. My name’s Avery,” I say with a heavy sigh. I’m about to get up and leave when he swallows and nods, not putting up a fight. Thank God, I don’t have it in me tonight.
“Sorry. Old habit, like I said,” he turns away again, focusing back on the guitar propped up on his leg. “Sorry, am I too loud? Max is probably sleeping, huh? Shit…I didn’t think.”
“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t wake easily. It was nice,” I can feel my eyes flair open when I realize I’m complimenting him, and my pulse speeds up. I decide to let it go, smiling and playing friendly.
Everything feels suddenly awkward, so I look down at my fidgeting fingers and bare feet. I’m smirking to myself when Mason notices.
“What are you smiling at?” he asks, tucking a pencil behind his ear and flipping a page on a small notebook on his mattress.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I’m embarrassed he caught me, but I can feel him urging me on, so I continue. “It’s just…I was just thinking…here I am, twenty-five years old, and I’m in the same exact place, you know? Like, literally! I’m probably even wearing the same thing I did when I was fourteen or fifteen and I used to listen to you play.”
I look down again immediately, because I feel foolish, like some groupie. I used to get so jealous over the girls that would come see Mason play at Dusty’s, like they didn’t have a right to him. They would go on and on about how talented he was, how much they loved his music. But they didn’t really. They liked the idea of Mason—the sexy guy playing a guitar.
It was always more than that for me, though. For me, it really was the music. And then slowly, the older we got, the more it became about the boy playing the song. That boy disappeared though, and I don’t think he’s ever coming back. But sometimes…sometimes when I see Mason play—for himself, not for a crowd, like he is tonight—I start to think that maybe that boy is still in there. And maybe he’s growing up.
I look back up when I realize how long we’ve both been quiet. Mason is hugging his guitar now, his legs turned to face me, and he’s looking at me differently. He’s going to ruin this.
“You never come in,” he says, his brow pinching and his lips shut tightly, considering. I don’t know how to answer him, so I just shrug.
“I don’t like interrupting. You’re being…creative,” I say, averting my gaze again because I can’t take the attention. Mason is so damned confident. It’s off-putting.
“Ha, you’re funny,” he starts with a chuckle. I raise an eyebrow, not really following where he’s going with everything. “I’m being creative. Haven’t you been listening? I can’t figure out a simple bar. I’m just wavering all over the place, and nothing feels right. I don’t even know why I thought I could do this in the first place. Bir…I mean, Avery—there is nothing creative going on for you to interrupt. I’m not sure there ever was.”
Now it’s his turn to look away. He kicks his guitar case open with his foot and leans forward to place his guitar inside and close it again. He lets his hands linger on the case for a few seconds before he flips the locks in place and then slides the case over to the wall. His eyes are locked on it, and for the first time ever I swear I see a look of disappointment on Mason Street’s face. Maybe it’s my motherly instincts, or maybe it’s how much Max has changed me as a person, but suddenly I’m on my feet and stepping inside Mason’s room, sitting down beside him.
“You wanna know something?” I say, my heartbeat racing in my throat. My voice is shaky, and I can feel actual nerves starting to build in my belly.
Mason leans forward and buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and smoothing back his hair before turning to look at me—and when he does, my heart stops suddenly. I’ve only been this close to Mason Street once in my life, and his eyes are the same gold they were then. I’m pretty sure my body is covered in sweat now, but I ignore it. I remind myself I’m an adult, and Mason Street doesn’t have any power over me.
“Sure, I wanna know something,” he says, his lips twitching into that faint cocky smile permanently etched into my mind. Even his smile is the same. Why am I sharing this with him? Why do I care? Why can’t I just let Mason Street suffer a little?
“Oh, it’s stupid. Never mind, I’m sorry…” I start to get up, forcing myself to remember that I put Mason Street and all of my girlhood fantasies about him in a box—a box I locked up with an imaginary key and threw into the depths, never to be dug up again. I’ve almost convinced myself to leave when his hand grazes mine, urging me to stay.
“Please. I want to hear,” he says, his smile gone, and his eyes locked on the place where his fingers are barely touching my skin. My brain is totally confused by his touch. I’ve hated him for so long. But I loved him before that. And now, with him here, in our house—I’m not so sure I can keep hating him. But I’m also kind of mad at myself that I don’t want to. I feel…weak.
“Okay, this is a secret,” I sit back down and let out a deep sigh. I can feel his eyes on me, and I give myself a short glance to decide if he deserves this. Maybe I’m imagining it, and maybe I just want to make it be there, but there’s a desperation I see in his face that tells me he does. So I give in and share a little piece of me, let him see himself through my eyes. “One time, when you were staying with us for a weekend—I think you were sixteen? You were messing around with some old songs that you could cover. Do you remember?”
Mason takes a deep breath, almost like he’s giving up. “I guess. I don’t know, Avery. I used to do that shit all the time,” he says, almost deflated.
“Okay, yeah. But this day was different. You were putting together a list of cover songs, stuff you wanted to play at Dusty’s—just you. No band,” I wait, and he nods, remembering. “You were toying with ‘Wild Horses’ by the Stones. You kept slowing it down, even more, changing it up and playing around with the melody. You worked on it for almost an hour. I swear…you sang that song maybe a hundred times.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he says, the corner of his lips pulling up into a fond smile. “I never did play it. Couldn’t get it right.”
“That’s just it, though,” I say, looking away, afraid that if I have to look at him I’ll chicken out. Instead I focus on the small string hanging off my shirt, twisting it around my finger.
“You had it right, Mason. You had it so right. Every single time you played it—it was right. And when you weren’t looking…” Oh god, oh god, oh god. I’m really going to do this. “I, uh…I sort of recorded it.”
I don’t even have to turn my head to feel the full force of his smile. I don’t know if I feel giddy or mortified—either way, I just made Mason Street’s entire fucking day. I’m biting my lower lip with enough force that I’m sure my teeth are going to puncture it when I finally get the courage to look at him again, and sure enough—he’s grinning ear-to-ear.
“Look, I didn’t tell you that to make you get all goofy on me,” I say, standing and smoothing out my shorts so they hang a little lower on my legs. Suddenly, I feel vulnerable even having my bare feet on display in front of him.
“I know, I know,” he says with a light chuckle. He follows me to his doorway, leaning on the frame as I step into the hallway, to safety. He says he knows, but his damn smile is still in full force.
“It’s just…” I purse my lips, trying to find a way to say something to him that might make a difference. Something that will penetrate him—not the usual gushing and flattery he’s used to from women. “It’s just you’re so goddamned talented, Mason. My dad always believed in you. And so did I.”
When I see his body twitch, I know my words were right.
“Goodnight, Mason,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm, like we’re old pals. It feels stupid, but it’s the only way I can think of leaving. He doesn’t say anything back until I’m almost to my door.
“Hey, Avery?” he whispers, and I turn to find him looking at the floor, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he looks up, it’s almost as though I’m looking at that sixteen-year-old again, the one who used to matter.
“Yeah, Mason?” I say, my stomach an absolute mess with nerves.
“Thanks. Just…thanks,” he says, shrugging his shoulders up and smiling with tight lips.
“Sure, Mason. Anytime,” I say. I close the door and let my forehead fall flat on it, and I stay there, frozen, for a good two minutes. I think I may have just made an enormous error in judgment. I promised myself I would never fall for Mason’s charm again. But something seems so different. Maybe…maybe it’s me.
Max is bundled in his weighted blanket, fast asleep. He’s always been good at falling asleep, and I feel lucky. Many kids with autism struggle, and I don’t know how their parents survive. I need these few hours in the evening—alone. I need the me time to let my brain stop, though I often spend those hours finishing up homework or researching something for Max. But that’s my choice—and at least I can put my headphones on and just be.
Max and I sleep next to one another in a set of twin beds. The separate mattresses make it a little easier—this way he won’t be disturbed when I crawl in and out of bed. I grab my headphones and my laptop and nestle into my pile of blankets. I was planning on reading, but that course changed the second I heard Mason playing the guitar.
It only takes me a few minutes to find the file—I converted most of my old recordings to digital files last year. I never listened to the ones of Mason, though. I was too afraid of how it would make me feel, and I’m pretty emotionally spent as it is most days.
I double click the folder open and pause, not sure if I’m ready for this. It’s like my hand has other plans though, because in seconds, I see the “Wild Horses” file open up on my play screen and Mason’s guitar is filtering in my ears. It’s more beautiful than I remembered—his voice sounds so young, but his playing was perfection. And even though he was just a teenager, there was so much emotion to every word that left his lips.
His band website is still up, even though the label dropped them. The links are to personal email addresses, so I decide to take a chance and open one to him. I attach the file and then stare at it for about 20 minutes…starting, stopping, and deleting until I find the right thing to say.
You know me, always have to prove I’m right. Thought you might like to hear what I hear.
-A
Send. It’s done. The adrenaline pouring through my veins now is thick, and I swear I could run a marathon. I just opened a door that I’m pretty sure can’t be shut. I just hope it’s a safe door, and doesn’t come with regret. I push my laptop to the side and shut the screen before snuggling deeper into my covers. I’m going to be getting up early in the morning and doing my best to leave the house before anyone else—Mason—is awake.