by Ginger Scott
Avery keeps coming downstairs, asking us questions about what she should wear. She finally settles on a pink and yellow dress that ties behind her neck. It’s beautiful—she’s beautiful. And that dickhead Adam doesn’t deserve it.
Avery’s nervous—first-date kind of nervous. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with us, just chewing her nails, and watching the clock. She’s meeting Adam somewhere in town, not wanting him to come near the house—near Max—until she knows more.
When the time comes for her to leave, she stands and walks with Claire to the door, away from Max’s view, and gives her friend a hug. I stay in my place at the table, but I catch her eyes, and when I do, she keeps them on mine. I nod slowly, letting her know she can do this—she can handle whatever he throws at her. Her eyes are telling me she can’t, but I know she can. And I’ll be right here, waiting for her to come home.
I help Claire get Max ready for bed, watching her go through the list with him one item at a time—teeth brushing, pajamas, story time. I ask Max if I can read tonight, and he’s surprisingly okay with it.
“You have to read all of chapter eleven. That’s where we stopped; it was eleven. Make sure you read eleven,” he’s very insistent, and it makes me smile. I’m tempted to tease and start with chapter twelve instead, but I know Max isn’t someone you can do that with.
“Chapter eleven, The Rules of Gravity,” I pause for a second to look over the back and front cover of the book. It seems kind of advanced, and I look at Claire who just shakes her head and smiles, so I get comfortable on the floor next to Max’s bed and read on. “Gravity is a natural force that gives weight to an object. It is the force that attracts all heavenly objects to one another.”
I read three pages of something that feels more like a sixth grade text book, and I notice the few times I look up at Max, that his eyes are closed tightly, but his lips are saying the words along with me. I can’t help but smile at my inner thoughts; knowing how easy science is going to be for this kid. He may have so much to overcome socially, but hell…I would have given anything to understand half the crap I just read. And I’m twenty-five!
When I’m done, we shut off the light, and tiptoe the rest of the way out of Max’s door. Max isn’t asleep yet; I can tell he’s not. But Claire says he’ll lie there and pretend until he actually falls asleep—because that’s what he’s supposed to do.
“I’ll stick around, wait for her to get back,” Claire says, picking up our plates from the table, and cleaning up the kitchen from our small mess.
“You don’t have to. I mean…I’m not going anywhere,” I say, unable to hide the guilty grin on my face.
“No band tonight?” she says, dusting away the last few crumbs from one of the chairs before pushing it in all the way.
“Nah. I texted Ben, told him we’d hook up tomorrow night and rehearse,” I say, pushing my hands in my pockets and holding my breath, almost like I’m waiting for her to change her mind.
Claire studies me for a few extra seconds, her eyes focused and intense, before giving in. “Okay. I’ll call it a night then,” she says with a shrug. “If you think you’ll be okay.”
“I’ll be okay. If Max wakes up, I’ll just follow his lead,” I say, and she pauses to look up the stairs before coming back to me.
“He likes you, Mason. She likes you, too,” she says with a certain sense of warning to her tone. I don’t have a reply for her, and I don’t think she wants one—she wants me to know how Avery feels. For some reason, Claire is rooting for me, and I’ll take anyone in my corner that I can get.
I walk Claire to the front door, and flip the porch light on so she can see her way to her car, and so Avery can see her way home. “Remember what I said, Mason,” Claire hollers over her shoulder while she opens up the passenger door and dumps her stuff inside.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Don’t fuck this up,” she says, her smile big, and I hold up two fingers, giving her my scout’s honor. Yeah, I’m a real Boy Scout.
I don’t know what I was expecting when Avery came home. For the next two hours, my emotions pretty much run the gamut, and the longer it takes, the more stressed out I get, until I’m full-on pacing from the kitchen to the living room. I actually pick up a book that’s sitting on the coffee table, some stupid romance of Avery’s, and I even read a few pages—like I’ve read a book…for fun…ever! I feel like the father of a teenage girl—the way I keep flipping up the blinds with every set of spotlights that come down the road, and when it’s finally hers, I can’t help but open the front door and stand out on the porch.
“You didn’t need to wait up,” she scoffs, brushing by me quickly, and heading right up the stairs.
Oh no. This is not happening. I may screw things up a lot, but this time, whatever’s up her ass, well…that ain’t my fault—it’s his. I follow her to her door, and catch up to her just as she reaches for the handle, and I pull it first, keeping it shut.
“Mason, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” she’s fuming. Whatever that asshole did, his time will come. But she is not making this about me tonight. I step in closer, and force her to look into my eyes, and it takes her several seconds to break away.
“Seriously, Mason. I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice softer, but not by much. Her nostrils are still flaring, and I can tell she’s still angry. She’s not going to go to sleep. She doesn’t have to talk to me, but she’s got to let out some of this stress from this…this…crap deck she’s been dealt.
“Come with me,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine, and pulling her reluctantly behind me. She tugs in resistance a few times, so I wriggle my hand higher on her forearm to show her I’m not backing down, and eventually she gives in and follows me back down the stairs to the front door, but not without stomping her feet.
“Max is sleeping; I can’t go anywhere,” she sighs.
“I’m not an idiot; just come out front,” I say, leaving her standing on the porch while I run out to my car.
“Wait a second, where’s Claire? Did she leave you here…alone?” She’s shouting at me, and I already know where this is going, and I’m stopping it before it starts.
“She left after he went to bed. Like I said, I’m not an idiot. I can handle watching the house while a child is sleeping,” I half yell and whisper, waving my hands over my head while I sift through the crap in my trunk. I’m yell-whispering—what the hell? I’m so angry and frustrated right now; I want to kick something, but all I can think about is how I owe this damn girl a kiss, and how more than anything I want to give it to her—I want to give it to her right now. But to hell if I’m gonna make her associate my lips with whatever pissed-off juju she’s got brewing in that head of hers. And if last night wasn’t the right time, right now sure as hell isn’t.
I find what I’m looking for, and slam the trunk closed.
“Jesus, Mason! Quiet, you’ll wake Max up!” she says, and I can’t help but stop in my tracks at her absolutely ludicrous statement.
“Really? You think I’m making a raucous? You don’t think all this is probably enough to wake up half the damned street?” I say, pointing into the fully lit and wide-open house behind her, then circling her and finally pointing all around us in one big-ass motion.
She slips out a small giggle at first, then she covers her mouth, trying to hold it in, but she can’t, and pretty soon she’s laughing, full-on belly laughing. Oh my god, she’s laughing. It’s the greatest sound ever, and all I want to do is kiss her!
“You…” I point to her, “are going to ruin me woman.”
Her smile grows when I say that. I’m not even sure where it came from. I’ve never given anyone an edge like that; never let them know they have anything—any power—over me. But she laughs like that, one more time, her arms wrapped around her body and her green eyes lit up under the moon, and yeah…I’m ruined.
“Now get down here,” I say, and she steps cautiously down the steps, still unsure abo
ut me.
“Golf clubs? What are we doing, breaking windows? You want me to drive over to his hotel, take a club to his Tahoe, and go all Carrie-Underwood-song on him?” she asks, but takes the club anyway, gripping it tightly, like a baseball bat, to the point where I start to think she might just beat the hell out of my car.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, pushing the club back down because, hell, she’s making me nervous. I hold up one finger so I can run over to the side of the house. I come back with about 15 Coke cans cradled in my shirt, and I drop them on the ground.
“Shhhhhhh!” she says, all serious at first, but soon her smile creeps in. She’s playing with me—this is good, this is the right direction.
I stand a can up on a small steppingstone in the middle of her yard and hold my finger up, like I’m calculating the wind. She laughs quietly, and it’s raspy, and it’s sexy, and I want to make her do it again. I scrunch up my shoulders, and then crack my neck to both sides to focus on my swing. I line it up like I really know what the hell I’m doing, like this—hitting a can with a golf club—is a thing people do.
I take a deep breath, and then I hit the shit out of the can, sending it about 30 feet into the street. I set the next can up for her and move the few pebbles I kicked up out of her way.
“I don’t know, I think I need a different club,” she jokes.
“I only have two. Got 'em at a garage sale,” I say, and she squints at me. “What? You never know when you’re going to need a driver and a…lemme see that for a sec? Yeah…a seven iron.”
“Well, then I want the driver,” she says, reaching for my club. I move it back, playing with her. It’s probably not the night to flirt—just a second ago she wanted to murder someone. But I can’t help it, and I think it’s helping her forget.
“I don’t know…this isn’t just any driver,” I say, flipping the club handle over in my hand to read the brand. “It’s a Big Bertha…Big Bertha? Shit, if I knew they made clubs with names like roller-derby broads, I would have taken this game a whole lot more seriously a long time ago.”
She’s laughing again, so I give her the club, and her eyes linger on mine for a split second longer than they have all night. Everything about what I’m feeling right now is probably wrong, and I won’t take advantage of it—this friction we’re both feeling—but there’s something there. And I know she feels it, too.
Avery lines up her shot, changing her grip, and bending her knees before wiggling her ass for effect. She’s doing it for a laugh, so I do—but all I’m thinking about is her unbelievably adorable ass in that pink and yellow dress. She gets more serious when she moves her arms back to swing, and when she drives the club head through the can, sending it almost as far as mine, she’s no longer smiling.
“Give me another,” she says. It’s almost a command, so I line one up for her and stand back to let her swing. She hits this one almost as far, a breathy grunt escaping when she swings.
“Another,” she says, so I do it again, and she swings harder this time.
She finishes every can in the stack, and I run to the side of the house to get her a dozen more—every single one of them she sends to the street. By the last one, she’s breathing hard, but she pulls the club back behind her head for one last rip anyhow.
“He’s getting married,” she says, and I can feel every ounce of hurt she’s feeling wash over me while she sends the last can to the curb. She holds the club out and stares at the aluminum carnage for a while longer, and I let her.
“She has two kids, and he’s adopting them,” she turns to look at me with complete emptiness. She is walking devastation—and I know why. “He wants to waive his parental rights…for Max.”
I’m speechless. All I can do is stand there in front of her and mirror the same goddamned stunned face she’s making. I want to hug her, pick her up in my arms and tell her she’s worth so much more, but my feet are buried in a thick cement of fear and regret. I don’t know a single thing I can say that will make this—any of this—even remotely okay.
“Can he…do that?” I ask, swallowing hard. My question seems so pitiful, so small, but it’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Guess so,” she says, shrugging, and looking down at her feet where she drops the club. “He doesn’t want her to know about him.”
I’ve been in exactly five fights in my life, and I was drunk for every single one of them, but what’s raging through my veins right now is so much more powerful than the whiskey from the road. I know in that instant that it’s not a matter of if I see Adam Price again, but when. And when I do, I’m going to make sure he’s got a permanent mark to carry around to let the world know what a grade-A asshole he is.
If I could get in my car and hunt him down right now, I would. But tonight, Avery needs me, and I don’t care if I have to be up all night just to get her to sleep. I’ll figure out how to get Max to school in the morning if I have to, I’ll make lists and call Claire. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that pained look on her face go away, if only for a while.
“You wanna drink?” I say, nodding to the porch behind me.
“Yeah, I do,” she says, her lip barely curling at the corner. I wait for her to catch up, and when we both take the first step onto the porch, I feel her fingers against mine, and I grip them hard.
Avery
I told Mason to make us rum and Coke, and I can tell he made it super weak. I might as well sip on cough medicine, but I appreciate that he’s being so sensitive. We take our drinks up to his room, and shut the door so we don’t wake up Max; the second his door closes my heartbeat picks up its rhythm.
Adam shocked me tonight. He shocked me by showing up in the first place. But as strange as it sounds, what he said didn’t surprise me at all. Maybe it’s because I wrote his parenting rights off in my own mind years ago, or maybe it’s because he was always selfish and worried about what people think.
Adam’s words hurt—they hurt to hear because they were about Max. But they didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me were my instincts. Adam was busy doling out fake apologies, talking about how this is all for the best, and how he’ll still pay his child support, but that we have to make it seem like a business venture. And all I wanted to do was run home—to Mason.
“You want me to play something?” his voice startles me.
“Huh? Oh…if you want…I guess,” I say, my eyes trained on his fingers, and how they grip his guitar.
“Nah, that’s okay. I only thought it might distract you,” he says. He starts to put the guitar back on the floor, but I grab his forearm to stop him. When I touch his skin, I hear him gulp, and his eyes flicker to my hand.
“I’d like that. Play something…anything,” I keep my voice soft, almost like we’re sneaking around. It’s barely nine at night, but here behind Mason’s closed door, it feels like the wee hours of the morning.
“Anything…hmmmm? Okay, well…I was sort of messing around with this; let me know what you think. I thought I’d play it with the band this weekend,” he says, tuning lightly and dampening his strings to play quietly. I recognize the song instantly. It’s Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You.” My dad played a lot of Otis records when we were kids, and he and Mason used to play those songs together in the garage. But they never sounded anything like this.
I spend the first half of the song just watching his hands—the way they move, the careful selections they make, and the perfectly timed moments. When he hits the chorus, I’m drawn to his face. His eyes are closed; he’s feeling this so much. That’s how Mason sings—he feels every word, his lips breathing life into each lyric. It’s a song I’ve heard a thousand times, maybe more, yet when Mason sings, it feels entirely different.
He opens his eyes for the last verse, and I look right into them. I know it’s an act—when Mason sings, especially on the stage, he has this power of singling you out and making you feel like he’s making this poetry, and it’s just for you, and you alone. But tonigh
t, I’m the only one in the room. There’s nowhere else for his eyes to go, but I think even if there were, they’d still be here, in this place, with me.
When the song is over, the air feels thicker, and I can tell it’s making him uncomfortable. I straighten my legs for a stretch, and then bend my knees to stand, but Mason halts me.
“You don’t have to go. I mean…unless you want to. We can talk. We can talk about stupid pointless stuff, I mean. Not the heavy shit,” he shrugs and flashes a single dimple that has me back on the floor again.
“Okay. What do you want to talk about?” I ask, grabbing an old sweatshirt I find on the floor, and folding it up into a ball behind my neck.
“Come here,” Mason says, moving to the far side of his blow-up mattress and laying back with his arm out. I’m weighing this one, everything inside me screaming for me to curl up into his arms, but this tiny voice warning me not to. “Stop trying to find my damn angle, Avery. I feel bad you’re lying on the floor is all.”
He’s right, so I crawl over to the mattress and slide in next to him, my weight making the mattress bounce and shake like a birthday fun house. “Gee, yeah, Mason. This is so much better than the floor. You’re a real gentleman,” I joke, and he pokes me in the side.
I kick the straps of my sandals loose from my ankles, letting them fall to the floor. Reaching down for his blanket, I pull it over my knees, mostly because I’m still wearing a dress, and the quilt makes me feel less exposed somehow.
“All right, Miss Abbot. Let’s see—why don’t you tell me about something I don’t know. Like…oh, I know! What’s with Max and the planet book? Like, seriously—I learned something from that bedtime story tonight,” Mason asks. I love that he’s asking about Max, and I love the details he notices about him, like how unbelievably smart he is.