“He’s not going to do that, Ave. Listen to me—that guy…he felt bad. I mean, horrible! He even asked me if I ever thought you’d forgive him,” she’s sitting next to me now, shaking my arm and trying to get me to give in. I think she’s probably sugarcoating it all now for my benefit. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere in Mason’s selfish-ass brain, there’s a little hint of guilt. I stand up and let out a big sigh before plastering a pretend smile on my face.
“Okay, Claire. If you say so. But you’re definitely staying tonight. For as long as Max will let you,” I drop my smile when I look at her, making sure she understands my tone while I tie my apron around my waist, and flip my head over to toss my hair up in a bun. I’m not messing around tonight, and I’m not going to do anything that will make Mason think I’m concerned in the least about what he thinks about me.
I open the swinging door and walk through, promising myself that I won’t look up at the stage once tonight. And I had every intention of keeping that promise—right up until my eyes landed on Max…sitting next to Mason…and talking, while playing a game on the iPad. Max is talking. And Mason is listening. And I’m frozen at the door, just watching my son have a semi-normal interaction with a man he just met.
Not wanting to interrupt, I slip through the door quickly and walk over to where Cole is lining up the glasses for the night.
“Hey, how long’s that been going on?” I ask, motioning to the corner.
“A good ten minutes, I guess. He seems to really like Mason. Kid’s said maybe a dozen words to me ever, and two of those are chocolate and milk,” Cole laughs.
I lean forward, keeping my head low so Mason doesn’t notice I’m watching. Max is pointing to things on the iPad, and Mason is just watching and nodding. Max is talking. He’s talking a lot. He never makes eye contact. There’s still a barrier. But he’s engaging Mason—without a single reward waiting for him in the wings, other than the pleasure of talking to someone else.
Unable to take it any longer, I pick up a stack of menus and walk to the corner booth, pretending that I need to bus and prep a nearby table. I catch Mason’s eyes on me for a brief second as I approach, but he quickly looks back at the iPad. I can tell he’s uncomfortable that I’m getting closer though; I see him noticeably shift in his seat. His eyes dart to me again, and on instinct, I flash a friendly smile, just like I would any other patron in the bar. Mason’s eyes widen a little at my reaction, and I can see the start of a smile curl at his lips, but he quickly brings a hand up to his chin, propping his weight on the table while he settles his concentration back to Max.
“This is how you add the instruments,” Max says, his voice very serious while he slides his fingers rapidly around the iPad screen. “You have to know the numbers. The instrument numbers need to match the ones on your lines.”
I have no idea what Max is showing Mason, but he’s rapt with it. Once I set the table, I move closer to the booth, stopping right next to the edge where Mason’s knee is sticking out. I see him physically tighten up to get smaller when I’m there, pulling his leg in and tucking it under his seat. He actually seems nervous, his leg bouncing up and down under the tabletop while his hands fidget in front of him.
“So, what’s so exciting over here?” I ask. Mason’s leg bumps hard into the underside of the table when I speak, and the saltshaker tips on its side, spilling granules in front of both of them. I hold my breath at first, knowing how little Max likes messes. My son moves the iPad from his view, but only for a moment before moving it back and continuing with his lesson on whatever app he’s showing Mason. I slowly reach forward with a napkin to wipe the mess onto my tray, amazed.
“It’s called Garage Band,” Max says, always only giving me just enough to satisfy the question.
“Are you teaching Mason how to use it?” I ask, leaning a little closer so I can see the screen. Mason leans forward as I do, like he’s trying to maintain some force field between us. He’s so uncomfortable, and I could kill Claire for this bucket of awkward she threw in both our laps.
“I am. He is a fast learner,” Max’s choice of words makes me giggle. He’s heard us say the same words to him during his therapy sessions. Funny that he’s paying a twenty-five-year-old the same compliment.
“Good. Well, it’s nice of you to teach him,” I say, then force myself to leave. As much as I want to stay and watch, I also want to pretend that it’s normal that Max is showing something to Mason—and I don’t want to do anything to screw it up.