He was still in a foul mood when he came in the back door, heading right to the fridge and cracking open a beer. My father doesn’t drink a lot—part of his creed in running a bar, he says. So when he does, I know he’s feeling stress.
“Hey, you’re home early,” I say, my voice quiet enough so Mason doesn’t hear upstairs.
“Uhhh, yeah,” my dad grunts, kicking his boots off at the back door, and pulling all of his things from his pockets into one loud pile on the counter. He’s doing that thing where he barely makes eye contact with me, like he did the first time he ever caught me kissing a boy.
“I wanted to show you what Max made tonight,” I say, hoping this will pull him out of his funk.
“Let’s see,” he says, breathing deeply. It’s Max, and he always takes Max seriously, giving everything about him his full attention.
I open up the folded poster to show him the various pictures; I can see him scratching at his chin, trying to figure everything out. When realization of who everyone is hits him—he breathes hard and heavy.
“He put you in the father’s box. I thought that was pretty cool,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and squeezing. When he puts his hand on mine and holds it hard, I know he’s breaking down a little, so I stay still and let him have his moment.
“That…that one’s Mason, huh?” my dad says, pointing to the friend box.
“Yeah. Mason, uh…actually helped him with his homework,” I say, and my father just nods. “I overheard them. He didn’t want Max to be in any boxes alone.”
“What did Adam want?” my father asks, not even transitioning. His question jars me—I’m unprepared to answer, so I stammer, which only makes him get anxious. “Did he do something to you Avery? I swear to God, I’ll kill that punk.”
“No, Dad. No…I just wasn’t ready to talk about this with you,” I say, all strength completely draining from me. I sit in the chair next to him and look down, ashamed of what I have to tell him. “Adam’s getting married. He, uh—”
“That little shit!” my dad’s hand comes down hard on the table, and in seconds Mason is behind him at the end of the stairs. I meet his eyes and try to signal to him that this isn’t about him, but I think he knows.
“There’s more, Dad,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mason for strength. He steps down to where my father can see him now, and moves over to join us at the table. When he does, I can see my father instantly tense up. I don’t know if this is the best idea, but I want Mason here. I need him here. “He wants to sever his parental rights—basically disown Max. He’s hiding him from the new girl.”
The beer bottle flies across the kitchen fast, crashing into the back door and shattering into hundreds of wet pieces. It scares me, even though I know my father isn’t angry with me. He’s on his feet fast, tossing the chair to the floor behind him, and going to the counter immediately for his keys.
“That son of a bitch!” he yells, turning and pointing at me. “He can’t do this, Avery. He’s not going to do that to you…to Max!”
He’s out the door, swinging it so hard the deadbolt dents the inside of the wall. I can’t help but cry, and I reach to fold up the picture again, wishing I never came down in the first place.
“I got this,” Mason says, following my father’s footsteps outside. I had almost forgotten he was here for all of that, and I start to protest to stop him, but I think more than me, my dad needs Mason now.
It takes me a while to find the dustpan. We’re not one of those families that clean the house often—other than vacuuming and picking up clutter. I spare a peek out the back window and see Mason talking emphatically with his hands, my father’s hands stuffed in his pockets while his feet kick at the ground and his eyes stare at the dirt. I want Mason to get through to my father, to calm him. More than that, I want my father to trust Mason—like I’ve grown to.
The pain shoots up my arm quickly, and when I look down, there’s blood all over my hand. I move to the sink fast to get the cold water running, grabbing for the dishtowel to wrap it around my hand. I was being stupid, not looking at the glass shards on the floor. The cut is deep, and the pain stings; the blood isn’t really slowing down, but all I can focus on is the conversation happening on the other side of the window.
I take my eyes off for a few minutes to tend to my hand, wrapping the towel tightly and putting my entire body’s pressure on the wound as I lean against the sink.