How We Deal With Gravity(13)

This is what we’ve been working on the most. Patience—keeping his frustration in check. Eye contact and socializing will be skills Max works on every day at school, but he’ll never get there if he makes enemies out of his classmates first.

Today has wiped me, completely. Just imagining my afternoons when Max starts school in a few days is daunting. In many ways, it will ease some of the burden. But I carry Max with me, even when we’re physically apart. It’s the worry—constant, painful, without remedy. But I’ve survived today, and I’ve earned tonight.

I take my basket of bath products and set myself up for a little relaxing reward after the long day. It’s my first evening off—truly off—in…I don’t know how long. The bath water hugs me, and the bubbles crackle softly, almost lulling me into a light sleep. I can feel the pull within my chest, my eyes falling shut, but my mind reminds me that my fingers are pruning and that I have a warm bed and—gasp!—a book waiting for me down the hall.

My toes are toying with the drain, trying to convince the rest of me to leave the water, when I hear Mason’s guitar softly filtering through the wall. It’s faint, and…beautiful. His playing was always perfection. I used to listen to him with my dad, just in awe. I have no musical talent—zero. I wish I did; I’ve learned music can be a great calming therapy for kids like Max. It’s not calming when I sing, however. Things just feel out of order, so I stick to reading him stories instead. Good thing I’m majoring in English.

I wait through four or five iterations of the same melody. It’s the one Max wrote down this morning—I recognize it. Mason was never happy with his music, always trying to find the better way to play something. That’s what he’s doing now—he’s obsessing, and catching him makes me smile.

Stepping from the water, I leave the drain in place, careful not to make any noise as I dress so I don’t interrupt his playing. I pull on my soft cotton shorts and one of my dad’s old T-shirts for bed and flip off the light before I step quietly down the hall to Mason’s door.

His back is to me, so he doesn’t notice when I slide down to sit in the doorway. I can still see his fingers from here, as they work their way up and down, pausing right when they should and gently grazing the strings when it’s called for. I think that’s what made me fall in love with Mason Street in the first place—long before I really knew him, before I fell right back out of love with him. Watching him play, the way he loves that instrument, the way his brown eyes shut and his lips whisper small phrases, ideas for lyrics. That’s the reason women love musicians—it’s all right there in Mason’s hands, his eyes, his lips. Mason is the perfect package…on the outside. I could almost forget everything watching him now.

He stops playing for a few seconds, and I catch my breath. The small noise causes him to turn around, and I can feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Maybe it’s dread. This moment—the one that was so nice before he began talking—is about to be ruined. I just know it.

“Oh, hey Birdie. Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he says. Birdie. Still with the f*cking Birdie.

“Avery, Mason. My name’s Avery,” I say with a heavy sigh. I’m about to get up and leave when he swallows and nods, not putting up a fight. Thank God, I don’t have it in me tonight.

“Sorry. Old habit, like I said,” he turns away again, focusing back on the guitar propped up on his leg. “Sorry, am I too loud? Max is probably sleeping, huh? Shit…I didn’t think.”

“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t wake easily. It was nice,” I can feel my eyes flair open when I realize I’m complimenting him, and my pulse speeds up. I decide to let it go, smiling and playing friendly.

Everything feels suddenly awkward, so I look down at my fidgeting fingers and bare feet. I’m smirking to myself when Mason notices.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, tucking a pencil behind his ear and flipping a page on a small notebook on his mattress.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I’m embarrassed he caught me, but I can feel him urging me on, so I continue. “It’s just…I was just thinking…here I am, twenty-five years old, and I’m in the same exact place, you know? Like, literally! I’m probably even wearing the same thing I did when I was fourteen or fifteen and I used to listen to you play.”

I look down again immediately, because I feel foolish, like some groupie. I used to get so jealous over the girls that would come see Mason play at Dusty’s, like they didn’t have a right to him. They would go on and on about how talented he was, how much they loved his music. But they didn’t really. They liked the idea of Mason—the sexy guy playing a guitar.

It was always more than that for me, though. For me, it really was the music. And then slowly, the older we got, the more it became about the boy playing the song. That boy disappeared though, and I don’t think he’s ever coming back. But sometimes…sometimes when I see Mason play—for himself, not for a crowd, like he is tonight—I start to think that maybe that boy is still in there. And maybe he’s growing up.

I look back up when I realize how long we’ve both been quiet. Mason is hugging his guitar now, his legs turned to face me, and he’s looking at me differently. He’s going to ruin this.

“You never come in,” he says, his brow pinching and his lips shut tightly, considering. I don’t know how to answer him, so I just shrug.