by Ginger Scott
Yeah, I had veered far from the course that girl was on six years ago. Instead, I became the girl who got knocked up in college, who dropped out to have a baby, and who’s raising her son on her own, while she lives with her dad and tries not to drive off the bridge on her way home from work every night.
“Damn, Avery. Did you get a good look at him? I swear, girl—watching him talk to Cole is putting ideas in my head about those two,” she says in her teasing voice.
“Claire!” I slap at her arm.
“What? Do you know the last time I went on a date? And I mean a real date—not TV trays in your living room with your father,” she jokes. I smile and laugh softly, mostly because I feel a little guilty. Claire has given up her social life over the last three years just to help me get through school. Sadly she’s the husband Adam never was, and I wish like hell I could tell her to live her life, set her free. But I can’t, because some days she’s the only thing holding me together. And Max—oh, Max—he responds to her more than anyone else.
“Seriously, Avery. Come look,” she pulls me close to her by the door. I feel ridiculous, but I indulge her. “That—that man right there—is going to be down the hall from you…tonight!”
I squeeze my eyes shut at first, mortified that the boy whose name I used to doodle on my papers as a teenager might run into me late at night when I sneak to the bathroom in my pathetic T-shirt and sweatpants. Mason is in the middle of laughing when I open my eyes to look. He’s so much older, but god is he familiar. His smile was always my favorite; the way it dimples at the corners and stretches the width of his face. His hair has somehow gotten better, just long enough to split down the middle and curl over his eyebrows. He’s still wearing the white V-neck T-shirts and worn out jeans, but his body seems to fill them out more. He’s gotten a tattoo on one of his arms, and I’m dying to know what it says, but I don’t dare let Claire know that. She’s right. Mason Street is hot as hell. But that doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter for lots of reasons—the biggest being Max.
“I get it Claire. Mason is good looking,” I say, backing away from the door and lifting my palms to show her she wins, and her grin says she’s about to brag and tease me, but I cut her off. “But so what? There’s a reason he’s landed back here, Claire, and it’s not because he has his shit together.”
Claire offers me a conceding smile instead, and nods once. “Okay, I’ll lay off. But you totally have to give me the details on anything juicy tomorrow. Let’s go get Max so I can take him home,” she says, pushing through the door.
When we pass through, Mason is right there. He wasn’t coming in, but rather stopped, and I know he heard us, and that’s what halted him. I feel bad for a few seconds, knowing I judged him like he’s done to me so many times. But when I see the floppy blond curls on Max’s head as he slides from the booth, I forget all about Mason Street, because in my reality, he’s nothing.
“I’ll have him in bed by eight thirty. What time are you off?” Claire says, her eyes wide as she looks at me because she sees Mason standing right behind me. I ignore it all.
“I should be home by eleven. I just need to get Dad through the busy part. I’m on again tomorrow, so I don’t want to work too late tonight,” I say, bending down to try to look Max in the eyes.
This is always a struggle, but the therapists say it’s something I need to practice with him every chance I get. Max doesn’t make eye contact. He never has. It was the first clue we had that something was wrong. By Max’s one-year appointment, he wasn’t doing any of the things on the checklist for parents—no sounds, no emotional expressions, no pointing or acknowledging things around him at all. I was terrified he was blind, or deaf—or both. Adam and I fought about it—we fought a lot. I had to drag Adam with me to Max’s pediatrician, because he thought I was just overreacting.
But then our world was rocked. The doctor said the word autism, and the next day Adam was gone. I tried to find him for months, but eventually, I just gave up. A year later, I started to get money deposited into my account, and when I did a little investigating, I found out it was from him. Seems my father had a few words with his parents, and they forced Adam to do the right thing…financially.
The money’s nice, but when I’m piecing together my life with help from my dad and best friend, just so I can work as a waitress and take two classes a semester, I kind of wish Max had a father instead of some state-mandated child support stipend.
I can feel Mason’s stare behind me while I try to look Max in the eyes, and it makes me remember the sting on my hand from slapping him earlier tonight. I hate that he’s watching this, because I know he’ll have questions.
“Max, you need to look at me. I know you don’t want to, but you have to do it, just for a second, okay?” I say, my hands putting light pressure on both of his shoulders, just enough to keep Max still on his feet. He doesn’t like affection, so I try not to touch him too long. “Aunt Claire is going to take you home, and then she’ll go through your books with you, okay?”
Max nods yes once, so I know he heard me, but I really want him to use his words.
“I need to hear you. Can you say your words, Max?” I ask, my voice breaking a little, because I hate that I’m begging, and I hate that a stranger—at least in terms of my life—is witnessing this.
I look up at Claire, and she’s on the verge with me, hopeful, but sad all at the same time. She flicks her eyes to mine for a few seconds, and gestures with her chin to my right side. I reach in and pull out two candies.
“I need to hear your words, Max. And you need to make eye contact, just for a second. And then you can have two candies, even though it’s almost bedtime,” I say, and instantly Max’s pupils are square with mine. He holds my gaze for two full seconds, and then looks back down at the corner of the floor. “We need to read Planets. The page is marked,” and that’s all Max says.
I can’t help it that I cry a little—I do every time. Every little thing is such a huge milestone. Claire understands, and I’m so happy to see her smile when I stand back up and give her a hug. “Sure, pal. Auntie Claire will read Planets,” I say, also whispering, “Thank you,” in Claire’s ear.
“My name is Max,” I hear him say from below, already walking through the kitchen door.
“You’re right. Max, not pal. I’m sorry,” I say, laughing while I wipe my eyes with the tissue from my back pocket. Max doesn’t respond to anything but his name. Sometimes it’s a cute idiosyncrasy, but I worry that some day someone’s not going to find it as cute as I do. But I’ll worry about that hurdle another time. Today was a success—today, Max looked at me…for two whole seconds.
I don’t even acknowledge Mason when Max and Claire leave. Instead, I pick up my tray, and head to the back to bus a table that’s cleared. He doesn’t follow me, but he’s still hanging around. I can’t avoid the kitchen forever, so I finally pass him with a full tray and a bin of dirty glasses. I back through the door and he follows. Damn.
“Here, let me help. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s washing dishes,” he says.
“Yeah. Clever,” I say, fighting against my need to look at him after I speak to see if my words cut just a little. His prolonged silence lets me know they probably did.
Mason is reaching for the glasses as fast as I can pull them from the bin. He’s working so fast that it’s almost like he’s trying to impress me with his dishwashing work ethic. I dump the last few in before he can catch up, then slide the bin over and reach for my tray to head back out to the bar. I make it almost to the door before he stops me.
“Birdie, wait!” he says, and I cringe. My shoulders literally fold into my spine, I hate that name so much, and just hearing it now—after he called Max a weirdo—snaps something deep within.
“I’m not twelve anymore, Mason. My name’s Avery, for fuck’s sake—Avery,” I say, my hand on my hip, and my lips pursed tightly. Mason looks down when I finish my mini-tirade, and draws in a deep breath before squar
ing back up with me. He’s always gotten away with his flippant remarks because he’s so damned good looking. And that might have worked when I was sixteen. But I don’t have time to take shit now, and the twenty-five-year-old me isn’t really impressed with his perfect-ass teeth and scruffy chin.
“Avery. Sorry. Some habits die hard,” he starts, and I’m already turning to leave. I can’t bear any more cleverness either.
“No, seriously, please…hear me out,” he says from behind me. I give him one more chance, and when I turn around, he’s walking over, his hands dripping from dishwater so much he has to pat them on his jeans. I can’t help but watch them when he walks. I used to stare at those hands in high school, when he’d sit up there on that stage and strum his guitar for hours at a time. I had goddamned fantasies about those hands, but I learned to hate them pretty quickly.
“Go on,” I say, keeping up my tough stance, and finally looking away from his hands to his face.
“I’m sorry about what I said…you know…about Max? I didn’t know he was your son. I never would have—” I butt in before he can get the last offensive word out.
“You never would have what, Mason? You never would have made fun of him if you knew he was mine? But if he’s someone else’s child, someone else’s son, then he’s fair game to call names?” I can tell I’ve backed him into a corner, because the shameful look on his face is the same one I’ve imagined putting there millions of times.
“He’s five, Mason. He’s just a kid. But there you go, swooping right on in and exploiting whatever makes him different,” I’m on a roll now, and Mason is getting a lifetime of my pent-up resentment. “Gahhhh, you are exactly the same person you were when you left. No wonder you ended up back here. Some fucking music career, Mason—why don’t you go back and tend to your dish soap?”
I spin around so fast, and leave him standing there alone, I don’t have time to take in what I know is a crippling look of shock. For once in my life, I said the exact thing I would have pretended to say when I relived the day in my shower. And it feels wonderful.
Chapter 3: Speaking Max
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.