by Amelia Wilde
Just like that, Mason knew exactly who had given Aria a copy of his old lease.
“You went through my desk upstairs, didn’t you?” Mason asked, setting his beer calmly on the bar, determined not to give Parker the satisfaction of seeing him angry.
“Well now, it’s my desk, ain’t it? In my house, after all,” Parker drawled, smile still wide on his face. “And I figured that little girl had a right to go through your things after what you put her sister through.” His eyes narrowed as his smile grew thinner, meaner. “Guess she must have found something, or you wouldn’t be drowning your sorrows quite so early in the day, now would you?”
Mason let his eyes drift over Parker’s face, imagining what it would feel like to smash his fists into his uncle’s smug grin or blacken one of those hateful eyes, but he wasn’t drunk enough to start throwing punches.
Or maybe he was already too drunk, buzzed enough that it didn’t seem worth the effort. Nothing seemed worth the effort. He might as well stay right here on this stool for the rest of his life. At least he’d be sure never to see Lark again. She didn’t come to places like this. She probably didn’t even know Buddy’s—the cheapest, shit hole bar in Summerville—even existed.
“So what was it?” Parker smacked his lips, as if savoring the taste of Mason’s failure. “I thought those old poems were pretty embarrassing, but girls like shit like that.”
“The lease,” Mason said, unable to tear his eyes away from his uncle’s mouth as Parker smirked and smacked, lapping up his only nephew’s misery like he licked his fingers after fried chicken. “I signed it before I asked Lark to marry me.”
“Ah.” Parker nodded, grinning so hard his dimple popped. “Well then, that would do it all right. She must have wanted to shove a pole up your lying ass.”
Mason nodded slowly, triggering low laughter from Parker. But for the first time since Mason was a fifteen-year-old kid, his uncle’s obvious enjoyment of his failure didn’t make him angry. It only made him…confused.
“Why do you hate me so damned much?” Mason asked in an even tone.
“What?” Parker asked, some of the humor going out of his eyes, though his smile stayed in place.
“Why do you hate me?” Mason asked again, genuinely curious. “I mean, I’m your only relative left in Summerville, and I was a star when I was a kid.”
Parker snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” Mason said, determined not to let him off the hook. “Most uncles would have been proud to have their nephew playing first string on the basketball team, and graduating the top of their class. Why not you?”
Parker’s smile curled, becoming something closer to a snarl. “You think you’re something, don’t you?”
“A lot of people thought I was something,” Mason said. “But not you, not Don Parker. So why not? You jealous?”
Parker’s eyebrows lifted. “Of you?”
“Of me,” Mason said, staring Parker dead in his cold, flat eyes.
“I ain’t jealous of jack shit. I was you, boy,” Parker said, smile returning. “I had a scholarship to play ball, but I gave it up to stay in this dead end town and keep your mama out of trouble. God knows our mama couldn’t be bothered.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “If it were up to her, we’d have lost the farm and been living on the streets by the time I was seventeen. I worked my ass off after school to get the things me and Tanya needed, while Mama sat on her ass in front of the T.V. I paid for.”
“Did my mom ask you to give up college?” Mason asked, trying not to seem too interested. In all the time he’d lived with his uncle, Parker had never talked this much about his childhood, or Mason’s mother.
Parker scowled. “Of course not. She didn’t have to. A real man doesn’t have to be asked. I gave up my chance at a better life to stay here and protect her, but she managed to get herself pregnant anyway.” Parker turned to his beer, staring down into it.
“I saved up the money to help her get rid of it, but she said she was in love,” he continued with a sneer. “She and Mike Stewart convinced Mama to sign the papers they needed and got married. That lasted six months before your daddy ran off and Tanya moved back in with us, bringing you with her. And then I had two more mouths to feed and one ass to keep in diapers.”
His hands tightened around his glass as he looked back at Mason. “I could have been something. I could have played professional ball or been a doctor or a lawyer or whatever I wanted to be. Instead I got you, and your little nose in the air and that look in your eye that always showed how much better you thought you were than the rest of us. Truth told, I think that’s why your mama ran off. She couldn’t stand to stay here and be looked down on by her own damn kid anymore.”
Mason blinked. That should hurt. All of it. Everything Parker had said.
But it didn’t. Not a word. Mason didn’t feel hurt or angry, only numb and sad and, surprisingly, a little sorry for Parker.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said, taking another long drink of beer.
“What?” Parker asked, face pinching.
“I’m sorry I fucked up your life,” Mason repeated. “Wasn’t my intention. Doubt it was my mom’s, either. She was only fifteen.”
Parker scowled. “I don’t want your apology.”
“Then what do you want?” Mason asked.
“I don’t want shit from you. Never have, never will.”
Mason smiled and leaned in closer to his uncle. “Now you’re lying, Parker. You’ve been wanting to stick it to me, and watch me fail the way you did ever since I was a kid. But guess what? I’m not going to roll over and play dead. Never. No matter what you do to me, no matter how you gloat when I fall short of what I reach for. Never. You get that?”
Never, he thought again to himself, resolve banishing the whiskey haze. He was never going to be like his uncle.
And he didn’t belong in this bar.
Parker started cussing, but Mason barely heard him. He reached in his wallet and tossed a twenty on the bar for the drinks, then stepped off his stool.
“Thank you,” Mason said, interrupting the stream of obscenity. “If you hadn’t come in here, I would have spent a lot more time feeling sorry for myself.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Parker snapped.
“I don’t think so. And I think you’re going to need a new hobby,” Mason said, clapping his uncle on the back in the same chummy way Parker had greeted him on the way in. “It’s not going to be nearly as much fun messing with me from here on out.”
Parker had a few more choice words to say to that, but they drifted in one of Mason’s ears and out the other, becoming a nonsensical hum that buzzed harmlessly around his head as he walked to the door and pushed out into the sunshine.
Outside, it was quiet except for the soft rush of traffic a few streets over and the chitter of birds nesting in the ruins of the old train station a hundred yards away.
It was a beautiful day and he was alive to walk around in it. No matter how foul he felt, no matter how miserable he was over what had happened with Lark, he was alive when so many weren’t.
It seemed like a simple thing to be grateful for, but it wasn’t simple, not really. There were so many people in the world who wasted their aliveness, who hung back when they should reach out, who sat out when they should join in, who hung on when they should let go, and he didn’t want to be one of them.
It had taken years of hard work on himself for Mason to feel like he was living his life right, and he wasn’t going to give up on that because a dream had died. Even if it was the brightest dream, the best dream, the one thing he most wanted in the world.
No. He wasn’t going to waste the gift of being alive. He was going to get up, brush himself off, and move on.
Even if he had to do it all with a broken heart.
26
Two months later
There is nothing more miserable than a sunny Georgia afternoon in July.
All day
it had been as hot as Satan’s kitchen, the bugs had waged war against the appetizers (and very nearly won), and the humidity had pressed in on the wedding party like a dog’s hot, damp breath.
The bride spent half the reception rushing to the bathroom to spray more hairspray on her up-do in a vain attempt to maintain control of her naturally curly hair, and the guests consumed twice as much water as wine to keep from passing out on the dance floor.
“Thank goodness that’s over,” Melody said, dumping a load of empty serving trays in the back of their new Ever After Catering van, the one they’d bought after booking four more mega weddings in August, and two in September.
Business was good. Very good. Lark couldn’t complain, even when grilling T-Bones in hundred-degree heat.
“Why any woman would plan an outdoor reception in July is beyond me,” Aria agreed, collapsing onto the grass by the truck and shrugging out of her tuxedo vest.
They’d been one server short tonight—Natalie had called in sick with a case of the summer flu—so Aria had suited up to fill in. She’d finished the last minute touches on the wedding cake, and spent the rest of the night circling with drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. Lark had offered to take over after the meal was served, but Melody had insisted that Aria should stay on duty. She said something about Aria having a sunnier smile or something that Lark hadn’t paid much attention to.
She had a hard time paying attention to anything these days. It felt like she was drifting through her life, going through the motions, but not plugging in the way she used to. She didn’t get a rush when she walked into the kitchen to start a job anymore. She didn’t get nervous around fussy brides; she didn’t even care when the old people complained about the gourmet salad dressing and asked for a bottle of Ranch, instead. The job just didn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.
Nothing did.
“I’ll tell you what kind of bride,” Melody said in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing over her shoulder, though the bridal party had left an hour ago and the last of the guests were drifting out to their cars in the front parking lot. “A bride with a bun in the oven!”
“No,” Aria said, wrinkling her nose. “No way.”
“Yes, way,” Melody said, plopping down on the grass beside her sister. “I heard her mom talking after she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. The bride was four months pregnant. They had to move the wedding up from the original date in November so she’d still be able to fit into her dress.”
“Oh my God, but she was so tiny!” Aria shook her head. “By the time I was four months, I looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.”
“You totally did,” Melody agreed, giggling when Aria nudged her in the side with a sharp elbow. “Sorry, but you did. I would never have imagined your stomach could get as big as it was by the end.”
Aria lifted one shoulder. “At least I didn’t get stretch marks.”
“Good genes,” Melody said with a sigh. “I hope I got them. Not that I would really care. Babies are worth a few stretch marks.”
“My friend, Hannah, calls them battle scars,” Aria said with a smile.
“Is there anything else left inside?” Lark asked, already backing toward the outdoor kitchen at the edge of the botanical gardens.
She didn’t want to talk about babies. It was one of the many topics that reminded her of a perfect night that she wished she could forget.
“No, I got everything. Sit and visit for a minute.” Melody patted the grass beside her and Aria.
Lark glanced at her watch. “I really should get home, y’all. I’ve got to get up early and get all the silver shined so it will be ready for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon.”
“No you don’t,” Aria said. “It’s my turn to prep the serving plates. Mom’s going to watch Felicity so I can take care of it first thing.”
“Sit,” Melody repeated. “Take a load off. It’s not so bad now that the sun is setting.”
Lark sighed and fiddled with the van keys. “Honestly, I’d rather head on home. We’ve got a forty minute drive and I really don’t feel like—”
“Sit!” Melody and Aria said at the same time, giving Lark her first hint that this wasn’t going to be a friendly, sisterly visit.
If she had trusted her instincts, she would have bolted right then.
But she didn’t, and so she sank grudgingly down to the sweet-smelling grass and sat cross legged next to her sisters, watching the pink sunset light turn purple and the air begin to flash with sleepy-looking lightning bugs, twilight turning the garden into an even more romantic place than it had been during the day.
Lark closed her eyes against the beauty of the scene, only opening them when Melody laid a warm hand on her arm.
“This has gone on long enough,” Melody said. “We’re worried about you.”
“What has gone on long enough?” Lark asked, playing innocent though she had a pretty good idea what her sister was talking about.
Melody was talking about the numbness, broken only by periods of intense sadness and bouts of prolonged crying Lark did her best to do in private, but couldn’t always, not when she spent up to twelve hours a day working with her sisters. Melody was talking about Lark’s inability to care the way she used to, and the way her smile had gone into mid-summer hibernation.
She was talking about Lark mourning the loss of Mason.
“You know what I mean,” Melody said. “If you miss Mason that much, you should call him.”
“I can’t call him,” Lark said, rolling her eyes. They’d had this conversation half a dozen times already. It was getting ridiculous. “And you know why. So give me a break, okay?”
“Then let’s find you someone to talk to. A counselor or something,” Melody said. “If you’re determined not to give that poor man another chance, at least give yourself one. You can’t live like this.”
“I’m fine,” Lark said, wanting to stand up and storm away, but lacking the energy.
That happened a lot lately. She just…ran out of steam, and couldn’t seem to get going again. It was hard to believe she used to be one of those people who could go all day on three hours of sleep and a few cups of coffee. It was hard to believe she’d ever been the smiling, beaming person in the picture on the side of the van.
“You’re not fine,” Aria said, chiming in. “Trust me, I know what depression looks like, Lark. I was there not so long ago, remember?”
Lark shrugged. “Well, you snapped out of it. I will, too. Just give me some time.”
“No,” Melody said, surprising Lark with the heat in her tone. “You don’t get more time. Aria is dealing with an unrepentant asshole who is too much of a jerk to even send money to help support his daughter, let alone come see his baby girl. You’re bringing this on yourself.”
Lark’s eyebrows drew together, anger stirring inside her for the first time in weeks. “I am not bringing this on myself. You know what happened.”
Lark was careful not to look at Aria. She had gone through a period of blaming her sister, but had come to realize that wasn’t fair. Aria might have stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, but Mason was to blame.
Only Mason, and that’s why she would never see him again. Never. Even if her soul shriveled up and died while she was trying—and failing—to get over him.
“This is what I know,” Melody said, holding up a finger and ticking it off. “I know Mason made a mistake four years ago that he promised never to repeat again. I know he went to counseling and said it changed him for the better. I know he loves you and treated you very well when he—”
“For five days!” Lark took a deep breath, and lowered her voice. “Five days doesn’t prove anything.”
“What about the letters?” Melody asked. “I know he’s been sending you one every week since you told him to leave town. Have you even been reading them?”
Lark’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about the letters?” she asked, refusing to answer Melody’s question.
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She hadn’t been reading them, but that was none of her sister’s business.
“Mason called me and asked if you’d been getting them so I…checked your mailbox a few times,” Melody said, sitting up straighter and lifting her nose in the air.
“You talked to him behind my back?” Lark said, outraged. “How could you, Melody? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We are on your side,” Aria said, laying a slim hand on Lark’s back. “We love you, and we want you to be happy. That’s why we decided we had to talk to you tonight.”
“Gang up on me is more like it,” Lark said, only slightly mollified.
“Consider it a March family intervention,” Melody said, showing no sign of backing down. “When Mason left the first time, we all put up with the crying and the moping and the feeling sorry for yourself for months and months on end, but this time it’s different.”
Lark flinched, too shocked and hurt by her sister’s words to work up a response.
“You were young before,” Melody continued. “And it was your first broken heart, and Mom and Dad told us to give you time to learn how to heal. But you’re twenty-five now. You’re a grown woman with a successful business, who’s already been down this road. Even if Mason had done the same thing he did four years ago—which he didn’t—there would be no excuse for the way you’ve been acting.”
“I’m ready to leave,” Lark said, standing up.
Melody popped to her feet, blocking Lark’s path to the driver’s side of the van. “Mason never should have run away without any explanation, but at least he’s done the work on himself to make sure he’s not going to hurt someone like that again. Now it’s your turn, Lark.”
“My turn to what?” she asked, voice rising.
“To do the work. To grow up and take responsibility for your feelings and realize no one is perfect. Not even you.”