by Ginger Scott
Avery
I’m pretty sure I’ve formed a habit. I almost didn’t go back to Mason’s room because it was so late by the time I had my paper done. But…I promised. And I wanted to be there. I wonder if I could ever get to the point where Max would understand me sleeping in Mason’s room instead of ours? I wonder if I could ever get to the place where I’m not living with my dad? I wonder if I would ever live with Mason?
When I make my way downstairs, breakfast is at the table, and everything seems just like normal. Max is breaking off pieces of his pastry, taking small bites and chewing them longer than necessary. Mason is picking at a piece of bacon, and my father is loading up his own plate.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to force the redness from my face.
“Breakfast is ready,” my dad says, sliding a full plate my way. Breakfast is important to my dad—it’s his thing. He’s always made it for me, ever since I was a little girl, and having him do that still, even knowing that I’m with Mason, fills me with a sense of relief that some things never change.
I sit down next to Mason, but I leave enough space between us to keep it friendly, not make my dad uncomfortable. I guess I’m also hiding things from Max on some level, too.
I notice the table is shaking a little, and on instinct, I move my hand to reach for Max’s leg, but I stop short when I realize it’s not his that’s bouncing up and down—it’s Mason’s.
“You getting ready for a sprint race?” I say, nodding my head toward his leg. He looks down at it and smiles tightly, shifting his feet to cross them at the ankles.
“I…I uh, gotta talk to you,” he says, keeping his voice low and leaning over closely to me. What he says has my mind racing a million miles a minute, backtracking on last night, and already diving into the deep end of heartbreak.
“Okay,” I say, forcing my voice to be strong rather than break out in tears. I step outside and Mason follows; I fight against my instinct to turn around and slap him immediately.
“I wanted to talk to you about this last night, but well, we didn’t really talk,” he says, his mouth pulled up into a half smile, throwing me a little.
“Mason, what is this about?” I can’t help the way that comes out, and I can tell he hears the suspicion in my voice.
“Oh god, Avery. No,” he laughs a little, coming over to reach for my hand. I give it to him, reluctantly. “I need to talk about Max.”
In one moment, I’m relieved, but in the next, I’m full of worry. “What about Max? What happened?” I say, my body moving to head back inside to my son.
“He’s fine. No…no, he’s fine,” Mason says, laughing lightly and pulling me back to him. “It’s just…I did something. And I probably should have talked to you first, but I was there, at his school, and it all just came out sort of fast, and I had to do something.”
I’m sure the face I’m making still reads panic, because Mason takes a deep breath and apologizes again. “Let me start over,” he smiles. “I drove by the school, and I saw Max, sort of hiding out alone. It hit me, and I know it’s not my place, but I stopped in and talked to his teacher during the recess. She said he’s having a hard time making friends, which I know…is part of his challenges. But, I just wanted to help. So, I’m coming in today, to be his sort of, I don’t know…show and tell?”
Listening to this has me grinning so hard it’s actually hurting my jaw. I am so overwhelmed by Mason’s love for Max it has me wanting to cry. This moment, on top of the hour of sleep I got, has me incredibly emotional. “That’s…amazing, Mason,” I say, just hugging him to let him know I approve.
“You’re sure? I mean…I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds. I know Max isn’t expecting it, so…I’m not sure what I do here,” he lets his shoulders slump with a deep breath. Max does like order, but things like this can be managed, and while I may not be able to help Max make friends instantly, I can help him be okay with bringing one to school for the day.
“I got this part,” I say, smiling at him. “What time are you coming in?”
“His teacher said nine,” he says, his hands in his pockets of his baggy jeans.
“Okay, let me take the lead on this,” I say, tugging at his arm, and urging him to follow me back inside. Max is just finishing breakfast, and my dad seems to have covered mine with a napkin. He pulls it off when I come back inside, never once taking his eyes off his newspaper.
“It was getting cold,” he says, clearly annoyed that Mason and I are messing around with his routine. Like Max, my dad likes things a certain way, too—but I think that’s just because he likes to be the boss.
“Hey, Max? I need to talk to you about something. Can you look at me for just a few seconds?” I say, taking one small bite of my bacon, and wiping my hand on the napkin. Max looks in my direction, but not in my eyes—close enough. “Your teacher called last night while you were sleeping. She wanted to let you know that there was a change for today. You’re supposed to bring a guest to school, just for a little bit, and she asked if it could be Mason. He’s going to come in at nine.”
Max twists his lips and looks away, not comfortable with something being different. “Why are we having a change? Thursdays are for centers. I get to do the planet center,” he says, his legs swinging a little in his seat.
“Yes, and that will all be the same. This is just one small thing she’s adding to the day,” I say, and his legs slow just a little. I look at Mason, and urge him to join the conversation.
“Max, the teacher wanted me to talk about music. But, she also wanted you to show the program you’ve been working on,” Mason says, looking at me for approval. I nod for him to keep going. “I won’t be there long, but I’m going to need your help.”
Max doesn’t look at Mason while he’s talking, but the second he’s done, he stands and walks to my purse, reaching in to pull out the iPad. “I’m going to take this to school,” he says, putting it in his backpack.
“Okay, but just for today,” I say, not really sure what Mason has planned, but hoping this works out.
Mason
I promised Avery I would text her the second I left Max’s class. She wanted to come, but she had to turn in her paper. I feel pretty good in Mrs. Bailey’s hands—I like Max’s teacher, and I think she’s on board with my crazy idea.
I’m standing in the hallway with my guitar at 8:55 a. m., and I can hear the sounds of chairs and desks scooting along the floor. I knock at her door, and hold my breath, hoping she hasn’t forgotten. When she opens it and smiles at me, I feel relieved. “Glad you could make it,” she says.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, holding up the guitar and moving the strap over my neck and shoulder.
“Class, we have a special guest today. This is Max’s…” she looks at me quickly, squinting, and questioning what to call me. She knows I’m not his uncle.
“Friend,” I say. “I’m Max’s friend.”
The guitar always gets attention—women and kids fall for it every time, and it has Max’s entire class quiet and staring at me for what happens next. “Hi,” I say, my voice a little higher than normal from my nerves. I perform in front of people all the time, but for some reason, having a couple dozen five-year-olds bake me with attention has my pulse ticking up a notch.
“Does anyone in here play an instrument?” I ask, sitting on the edge of Mrs. Bailey’s desk, resting the guitar on my knee. A few kids raise their hands, and I ask them what instruments they play. Some say piano, and others make up instruments or don’t really answer with an instrument at all.
“Okay, does anyone in here write music,” I ask, knowing one kid will surely raise his hand. He has to. Max’s eyes are looking forward, and when I ask that question, I can actually see his pupils flex, and his hand shoots up instantly.
“Max, you write music?” Mrs. Bailey asks, herself a little surprised.
“Yes,” he says, his hand back down, and his attention once again somewhere not quite at me.
“That’s
right. Max does write music. And actually, he has been writing a song on this really cool program on the iPad. I was hoping he could show everyone, because I’m not very good at it,” I say, looking at Mrs. Bailey for reinforcement.
“Max, do you have your iPad with you?” Mrs. Bailey asks. Max doesn’t say anything, but instead goes to his backpack along the wall and pulls out the iPad, bringing it to his desk. He flips it open, and starts working on the program at his desk, not really understanding that he should show it to the rest of the class. I’ve got to help him out here.
“Max, I don’t think the others in the class can see, and they’re new to that program like I am. Can you stand up front and show it once?” I ask, hoping I’m not pushing for too much. Max moves to the front of the class, and flips the iPad around holding it in front of him for a few brief seconds before turning it back so only he can see it. It makes me laugh inside, but I keep it to a smile.
“Can we show them how it works? I’d like to play something, and then maybe you can write it on the program?” I ask, waiting for Max to acknowledge me. He doesn’t, but he’s standing still, waiting with his finger in place, so I think he’s with me on this. I play a little bit of the song I’ve been working on, and I can see Max shake his head, probably because he already knows this song. He taps out a series of notes really quickly, and when he hits play on his iPad, the music I just played replays to perfection.
This is where Max suddenly leapfrogs over me and my cool guitar in the eyes of his classmates. A few kids actually say “Whoa,” and some near the front are standing, trying to get closer to see what Max is doing. Mrs. Bailey motions to them to stay in their seats, and she smiles at me, urging me to do it again.
“Okay, but you’ve heard that one before Max. Let’s try something different,” I say, and I can see his eyes immediately move to my hands, just like the first time he watched me play. I play a different song this time—one of my earlier ones that I used to play with Ray, and I let it go on for about thirty seconds, just to challenge him.
Max’s hand is fast at work when I am done. He puts all of the notes in place and sets the iPad to play as a piano, then sets it to begin. Not a single note is off—it’s amazing. I didn’t really do anything complex, but I know that if I had to write these songs on paper, it would take me several minutes, maybe even an hour, to get down what Max does in seconds.
We repeat our demonstration a few more times, and each time, the kids react and look at Max—a little differently. When my time is up, Mrs. Bailey announces that it’s time to get ready for recess and then centers. I watch Max put his iPad back in his bag and take his seat, anxious to get to the planet center.
Before I leave, I pull Mrs. Bailey aside and ask her to keep an eye on Max’s bag and his iPad, and she assures me she will.
I can hear the kids running to the playground behind me while I walk out to the parking lot, their feet trampling the pavement fast to get to the monkey bars and ball basket. I spare a look when I’m putting my guitar back in my trunk, and I search for Max. Just like yesterday, I’m having a hard time finding him in the sea of five and six year olds running in all directions. My heart sinks a little when I finally spot his feet sticking out of the tunnel, and I feel stupid for even trying. But then a girl with long brown braids walks over and bends forward, saying something in the tunnel; I see Max’s feet shift, his body scooting closer to the end of the tunnel, then she climbs in the other side, and puts her feet up just like his.
They don’t talk, and I can barely make them out from the fence, but she’s staring at him. And she’s staying by his side, while the rest of the playground goes on like normal. My eyes are actually tearing up, and if anyone ever caught me crying, I’d deny the hell out of it, but seeing Max not be alone is maybe the best thing I’ve ever seen—other than his mother’s smile.
I text Avery the second I’m in my car.
Max did great. There’s a girl sitting with him. One down, the rest of kindergarten to go!
I wait for her to respond, and I know she will. I know she’s probably been staring at her phone ever since the time hit nine o’clock. Her reply comes seconds later.
I’m so happy!!!
Me, too.
Chapter 17: Jitters
Avery
“Why the hell are you so nervous,” Claire asks over the phone, while I toss every piece of clothing I own on the floor, looking for something—anything—that will make me feel like a pretty girl on her first date.
Max is staying with Claire at Dusty’s until the crowd lets up, and Cole is taking over her shift. I’d give anything for those two to hook up, but I know neither one would make the first move. Claire talks a big game, but she’s really quite the wallflower when push comes to shove.
“Claire, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been on a date?” I say, not really thinking about it until she fires her answer back at me.
“Yeah, about half as long as it’s been for me,” she says. Ouch.
“Sorry,” I say, sitting down on my bed and hoping something will jump out at me. “Claire?”
“What, pumpkin?” she asks, the sass back in her tone. I’m about to make her day.
“I…slept with him,” I swallow hard, waiting for her reaction.
“What! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! Avery Abbot, you better tell me everything this time—no glossing over the details. I want Cinemax porn kind of details, you hear me? It’s not every day that your bestie gets to see the hottest man to ever be spawned in your hometown without his clothes on!” Her tirade has me laughing, and I promise her I will give her every last juicy drop. It will embarrass the hell out of me, but she’ll harass me until I tell her, so it’s best to just get it over with.
“I’ll fill you in tomorrow, while the band’s playing. But look, I’ve gotta go now. He’s going to be here any minute, and I’m still wearing sweatpants,” I sigh.
“Who cares, he’s just going to rip them off of you,” Claire teases.
“Not helping!” I giggle.
“Just go with simple and comfortable. I’d wear jeans,” she says, hinting that she might know a thing or two about my date.
“Jeans, hmmmm?” I ask, kicking out a few piles on my floor to unveil my favorite pair.
“Yep. Now have a good time, and don’t worry about anything. We’ve got you covered,” she says, hanging up before I can grill her for any details.
Jeans—I can do jeans. I slip on my favorite comfortable pair with the small jewels on the back pockets and pair it with a black tank top—this look never really goes wrong. I put my low black boots on just in case I need to do any walking—what if we really are tipping cows? I brush out my hair, and tip the ends with an iron so the waves look even, and then splash a little bit of my body spray on my neck just in time for there to be a soft knock at my door.
Deep breath. I barely get a glimpse of him before his lips are crashing into mine and he’s dipping me backward, holding me close to his body so I don’t fall. I start to laugh when I feel like his grip is slipping, and he teases me, pretending to let go only to catch me and pull me back to my feet.
“First off, you look amazing,” he says, and I smack at his arm.
“You didn’t even look at me!” I protest.
“I did, in that split second when I almost dropped you. I looked at you and your hotness,” he smiles, the freaking dimples doing their job. “And two, I had to get that out of the way or else it’s all I’d be thinking about doing. I should be good for the next hour then.”
“Hour?” I protest, knowing full well I can’t go that long without kissing him again. Especially with him smelling like that, and wearing those light blue jeans that sit low enough on his hips that when he raises his arms I can see those two muscles leading into his boxers, which peak out right above the waistline.
“Okay, maybe ten minutes,” he winks, holding out his hand. I grab it and am immediately soothed by the sensation of his fingers intertwined with mine. It�
�s such a simple touch, holding hands. But having Mason’s wrapped around mine feels so natural, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.
Mason leads me to his car, and I look around for clues while he walks to his side. He catches me, and starts laughing. “You’re not going to find a map in here,” he says, looking over his shoulder while he backs out onto the road.
“Can you give me any clues?” I ask, and he just slips on his sunglasses and smiles.
“I can tell you that you’ll be out all night. Good thing tomorrow’s Friday,” he says, his eyebrows raised just above the rims of his glasses.
I huff, but it’s really only for pretend. Truth is, Mason could be driving me to a grocery store where he plans to walk the aisles for hours, and I’d happily join him. These last few weeks have been a dream, and I never want to wake up.
We pull up next to a barn about thirty minutes north of Cave Creek, and Mason jumps out quickly, rushing over to my side to get my door. “I can let myself out of a car ya know,” I say, though I secretly like that he’s going full-gentleman tonight.
“Just preserving your energy,” he says, tipping his glasses down to give me a look that has my body tingling and wishing we were alone. He holds my eyes for a few long seconds and then shakes his head. “Damn.”
“Damn, what?” I ask.
“Just…damn,” he smirks, and I blush.
Mason leads me to the other end of the barn where there’s an older man saddling up a few horses. “Hey there. Are you Jeff?” he asks, and the man dusts his hands against his jeans, sending puffs of dirt in the air, before turning around to shake Mason’s hand.
“That’s me. You must be Mason?” he says, his mustache groomed into this perfect handlebar. We have a lot of cowboys in town, but the further away you get from the big city, the more authentic they are. Jeff here looks like he’s probably the real deal.
“I’ve got ‘em saddled for ya. You’ll want to follow the green trail on the map. Dinner’s at eight,” he says, handing the reigns over to Mason. When I realize Jeff is leaving us alone, with two ginormous horses, I start to laugh nervously.