“You think I can fix any of that? I mean—I know I’m way beyond saying sorry now. But, I guess…you think maybe I can get her to not hate me?” The words sound pathetic as they leave my lips, but I’m all right with that. Turns out, I am kinda pathetic. And the fact that Avery said the things she said last night makes me an even bigger ass**le—because I don’t deserve them, but she’s a f**king saint for saying them anyway.
“You can always fix it, Mason,” she says, her lips curled into a half smile. “That girl—she’ll always see the best in you. Even when she doesn’t want to.”
The door swings shut behind her, and despite sitting in the middle of a crowded restaurant, I feel completely alone. I have to find Ray. And I have to get him to let me go on tonight. Because I have to go back to the beginning and see if I can get shit right this time around. And I’m pretty sure it all starts with Avery Abbot.
Chapter 6: The Sound of That
Avery
Somehow, I made it out of the house before anyone saw me this morning. And somehow—somehow!—I got Max to cooperate. He didn’t like the change in routine. And he dug his heels in hard with me this morning. But a few extra candies, along with the promise of more time with the planet books tonight, and I managed to stave off any meltdowns.
Once I sent that email to Mason, I didn’t sleep much. I even got up to Google how to retrieve it a few times, but all of the answers seemed fairly technical, so I gave up. I wanted to send it to him. I’m just afraid it will come back to bite me. Being nice to Mason Street always does.
For some reason, though, Max seems to be taken with him. Max doesn’t really notice new people. Besides Dad, Claire, his few therapists, and me, everyone else is just a cameo player in the play of Max’s life. He remembers names, though. He always remembers names. But people who haven’t worked with him, who haven’t earned that spot in his circle, are just associated with the job they do. Cole is the guy who brings Max his chocolate milk at the bar. And Bill, the older man who checks out our groceries, is the guy who sells Max his apples. I’ve tried to explain to Max that those people have full lives too—bigger than just that one thing they do for Max. But he doesn’t really listen or care to know them more than he has to.
That’s not the case with Mason, though. This morning, on our way to his one-on-one kindergarten session, Max asked me about Mason’s guitar. He asked me what kind it was, and how hard it was to learn how to play. I didn’t know the answers, so I told him he should ask Mason, and he said he would. Our entire exchange was surreal—no bribes exchanged, no rewards needed to be dangled to get Max to want to talk to Mason. He has a question, and Mason has the answer—and Max made the connection on his own.
Maybe that’s why my heart sank a little when I pulled into Dusty’s and saw Barb’s car parked out front. I knew she’d be back—she always comes back. But I know as soon as she realizes Mason is staying with us, she’ll insist that he stays with her, now that she’s back in her apartment on her own.
I scan the lot for Mason’s Dodge Challenger, but it isn’t here. I’m instantly relieved. I know I’m going to have to be a big girl and face him sometime, but the longer I can put that off, the better.
I hurry inside with Max so I can get to my locker and change before anyone comes in. Cole gets Max set up with his chocolate milk in the corner booth, and I take a few minutes to jot down a short reminder list for the homework I need to get done this weekend. Saturdays are hard, only because we’ve been building in so many therapy sessions with Max, so I’ve been pushing all of my homework to Sundays. A lot of people burn the candle from both ends, but sometimes I feel like I just threw my candle in a skillet to melt the entire damn thing at once.
“So, you hear Barb’s back?” Claire asks from behind me.
“Yeah, I figured. Saw her car in the lot,” I say before putting my books away and flipping the clip on my locker to shut it tightly.
“She’s a hoot! That woman gets more action than I do, and she’s almost fifty!” Claire says, pulling her Dusty’s shirt from over her head, and swapping it out for a blue tank top from her locker. “She’s going to be on with you all night. It’ll be nice to have the help. There’s gonna be a bit of a crowd.”
There’s always a crowd on Saturdays, but nothing I can’t usually handle, so I wonder what Claire means. Someone big must have been added last minute. When I finally turn to square up with her, she’s sitting sideways on the small bench next to me, smirking. And I know that smirk—she’s up to something.