“I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH she had to drink. If I had a guess, I’d say not a lot,” Mason provides, as I sit at the kitchen table staring into nothing.
He could be talking to me, but I don’t know. I don’t care about anything other than the massive ache of disappointment taking up residence in my chest.
I specifically told Amelia she wasn’t going to that party. She went anyway. She drank beyond what she should’ve, which is to say at her age possibly only one, and called the police to get her out.
She didn’t call me—her mother. Nor did she call my dad—her grandfather.
I should be angry. Livid that she’d make such an irresponsible decision in the first place. But more, I’m angry with myself for not acting on what I saw was coming. For not addressing her behavior, knowing she had every intention of going without permission.
Since our argument in front of her new friend this afternoon, Amelia avoided talking to both Averie and myself. She refused to answer when I asked how she was feeling. Her robotic response to simple questions was the only acknowledgment I’d gotten she was able to hear.
“She didn’t look too good,” Dad observes. “But she’s a good kid. Just made a bad decision.”
“She’s that,” Mason agrees. “She’s the one who called the party in after sensing something wasn’t right.”
The two nod in understanding. I say nothing. Calling in a party doesn’t make up for the fact you went without permission.
“She doesn’t fight like a girl,” Mason comments, pulling me from thought.
Twisting my neck to find him leaning his hip to my kitchen counter, I ask, “What does that mean?”
“She took her fingernails to a grown man’s face.”
“No, she didn’t,” I deny, my words barely heard.
My dad barks a laugh and I turn to him. When my eyes narrow, he clears his throat and quiets.
“Amelia hit another person?” I question. “A man?”
Mason nods, practically proud. “Asshole who had the party. He called her a few names she didn’t like.”
My mouth drops open, my hands shake at the vision of my daughter striking out against a grown man. What was she thinking?
“Thank you for bringing her home, Cole,” my dad returns, extending his hand to shake Mason’s.
Mason’s eyes are on mine. As he grabs my father’s hand, I challenge his stare and it softens just as it always does.
Goddamn him.
Here he is. In my home. In my family’s time of need. Caring about my girls. Talking to my father as if he does so every day.
Goddamn him.
“Katie, you good?” Dad redirects his attention to me to question.
When I aim my focus to his, worry blankets his once jovial facade. Worry for the company in our home or worry for Amelia. I don’t know.
He could still be upset with Averie. As soon as she heard from a mutual friend of the girls’ what her sister was up to, she demanded her cell phone in order to call 9-1-1. She wanted to turn Amelia in to serve her sister a lesson.
That’s when I took her phone away and sent her to her room.
With Thomas out of town for work, and unreachable for God knows what reason, I had no choice but to call the only backup I had. When I phoned Dad and explained what Mason had found, and that he was bringing Amelia home, he rushed right over.
I was frantic and scared. Now I’m angry and tired.
“I’ll give you two a couple of minutes,” Dad promises, walking toward me. Once he’s close, he rests his hands on my shoulders and leans in to kiss the top of my head. The gesture serves as a welcome comfort.
“I’ll go see if Amelia is ready to talk yet,” he tells me.
“Thank you,” I return.
Once he’s gone, I stand and make my way to the kitchen sink. There, I look out the window to the space Duke is buried. My body sways with visions of Mason and my girls huddled together in the grass.
That day feels so long ago. As all my memories of Mason do now.
“I was being a good mother, telling Amelia she couldn’t go to that stupid party,” I seethe, telling the window to my backyard all about it. “I knew something wasn’t right. Hell, you knew and tried to tell me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Mason rebuts. “Amelia’s a teenager.”
How did I miss this? Where have I been? Teenage girls don’t act out like this, do they?
“She used to be sweet. So thoughtful,” I tell him. “Somewhere along the way, she changed. And I’ve been too preoccupied to notice.”
“Katie,” Mason calls. “This isn’t all bad.”
Moving my focus to his, I prod, “What do you mean?”
“Let Amelia make her mistakes. She’ll learn from them.”
“No, Mason. She’s my—“
“Let her fail,” he says, this time more insistent.
“What?” I gasp.
“Amelia is young. She’s got a long life ahead. Better she fucks up now, while she’s here with you, than out there in the world alone.”
God, is this why I continue making bad decisions? Did I not fail enough growing up? Did Mason learn the same lessons? He was always alone. Without a mother’s kind touch. With little care provided to him from a loving father.
Makes sense, I guess.
Grabbing the sink to ground my thoughts, I offer, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“Honesty would be good,” Mason carefully and quietly returns.
“Honesty?” I copy, lifting my gaze to study the latch on the window.
“What’s going on, Katie?” he questions.
“Going on?”
Am I so transparent? The last person I could hide anything from is Mason. But the others? It’s possible the guise I’ve been living under is beginning to unravel. Connie said so herself. I unravel wherever Mason is near.
Shit.
Turning, I find his face hard. His jaw is ticking to each grind of his teeth.
“You’re more miserable than I thought,” he states.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I argue.
“Bullshit,” he calls. “The girls can see it. Your dad can see it. Guessing, your husband can too.”
“Again, Mason. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do.”
“You should go,” I dismiss. “I need to talk to Amelia.”
“Katie,” he calls.
Moving through the kitchen, fidgeting with odds and ends to distract, I tell him, “I need to call Thomas.”
He allows my avoidance but his eyes are on me. I feel them as I always do.
“I did the right thing,” he expresses between clenched teeth. “I sent you out of my house for the right reasons, and it pissed you off.”
He’s right, I am. I’m pissed at him and he did nothing wrong.
“I’m not angry at you,” I deny.
Mason exhales. With my back to him, I hear booted feet hit my tiled floor. He’s in uniform, so the sounds of his belt, shirt, and shoes are evidence he’s gaining distance.
“Tell me why you hate me,” he demands, so calmly I nearly trip.
Shit.
Stopping in place and setting down the papers in my hand I had gathered, I turn to him and aim to fix, “I didn’t mean that text the way it sounded.”
Mason’s angry laugh echoes through the room. “The message was pretty clear, Katie. So, what the fuck?”
He steps in close, his chest nearly brushing mine. I note under the kitchen lights, his eyes are tired and I wonder if he’s been losing as much sleep as I have.
My finger itches to run over his strong brow. To touch the lids of his eyes, forcing them closed to rest.
Sighing and being honest, I confess, “I never know what to say to you.”
“You knew what to say when you sent me that fuckin’ text,” he pushes. “So you hate me?”
I could never hate you.
“You know I don’t.”
“Then why?”
Because it’s easier for us both if you believe I do.
“Look, Cole,” I start.
“That’s not my name,” he clips, stepping closer. My back hits the edge of the counter and his body cages mine. “And you know it.”
“Mason, I—”
“Better,” he asserts. “Now tell me why you hate me.”
My eyes rove over his body. His strong arms that used to comfort when I needed them the most. The broad shoulders I once held for balance as I felt him moving inside of me. Those soft lips he used in reverence against my skin the last time we were together together.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he marks.
“You should probably go.”
As I shake my head, he demands, “Answer me, Katie.”
Moving the hair from my forehead, Mason’s finger runs the length of my temple and cheek.
“Fuck, but you’re so goddamn lost,” he tells me. “You’re stranded alone somewhere between the girl I knew and the woman you took on when I left.”
He’s right for so many reasons. As if admitting this, tears fall from my closed eyes. Mason’s body blocks the world away, leaving us together and alone.
Adding another punishing blow, he includes, “But I know who you used to be.”
“Stop it.”
“And you remember the girl you were, too.”
“I really can’t do this,” I tell him again, my voice a lost and distant plea.
Abruptly, sensing my demise, Mason pulls me into his chest. One arm wraps around my waist, his other hand slides into my hair. He cups the back of my head to him and clasps it tight. In this cocoon of selfish safety, I forget my place. My hands fist, desperately holding onto him as deeply as I can go.
Mason kisses the top of my head, resting his lips longer than needed.
“Don’t,” I tell him, trying to pull away.
He keeps his grip tight, holding me to his chest.
“Just settle,” he whispers. “You need this.”
He’s right, I do. Being in someone else’s arms, giving them my tears is exactly what I need.
A few seconds pass and Mason eases his hold. His hands cup my cheeks, drying the tears away. He scans my face as I do his.
“You good?”
“No,” I whisper on an exhale. “But I will be.”
His lips touch my temple, not as a lover but as a concerned friend.
“Oh shit.” My head jerks up in panic at my father’s voice entering the kitchen. “Need something from the fridge.”
Mason pulls back, clears his throat, and steps from my view of my father. Dad does what he can to ignore what he’s seen. He rummages through the refrigerator, pulling out two bottles of water and slamming it behind him. Before he turns to walk away, he stops.
Never in my life has there ever been anything more disgraceful than earning my father’s disappointment.
“Dad…” I call, unsure what else to say.
Dad holds up his hand, signaling me to say no more.
Mason moves, heading toward the door.
My heart constricts, watching him walk away, leaving me alone in a house I built with someone I feel very little for.
Without turning back, Mason slams the door shut.
At this thought, I hold my stomach and start to cry.