How We Deal With Gravity(29)
“Oh yeah, and what point is that?” I ask, going back to drying the stack of glasses in front of me.
“That I’ll kick their ass out in this parking lot if they start shit with you. That point,” Mason says, reaching over and popping a pretzel in his mouth before heading back to his seat, giving me one last grin.
He defended me. And damn it, I like that he defended me. I can feel Cole’s stare, but I ignore him, and keep working on the glasses until I run out and need to load in more.
“Cole, can you bring in another rack? Last thing I want to do is drop more,” I say. Cole chuckles and smirks at me before heading to the back, slinging his towel over his shoulder. He’s back with more in seconds.
“So, just curious,” he says while he drops the new bin in front of me, and I immediately go to work drying and loading. “Are you helping me because you wanted to help out? Or…are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding,” I answer fast, my tongue pinched between my teeth while I concentrate on a spot on one of the glasses.
“Uh huh. Sure,” he says, laughing softly while he walks back to the other end of the bar.
All right. I’m hiding. But no one needs to know that other than me. And so far, it’s working out for me. The bar is filling up, and I’ll be busy with customers soon. Barb just got here, and I know she’ll want to wait on her son and his friends, so I can keep to myself. It’s my survival plan.
The first hour flies by. It’s open mic night, so the acts are starting to arrive. I always like open mic—it’s the best and the worst of karaoke. And sometimes, the bad acts are worth more than a dozen great ones. There’s a guy with a violin who took up the corner booth, and I can’t wait to hear his story.
Barb’s been handling Mason’s friends, and true to his word, no one has uttered a single Birdie since he told them to stop. I must be cashing in some karma, because my tips have been over-the-top tonight, too. The last table left me thirty bucks!
I take my break in the back for a few minutes, and pull out my phone to check on Claire and Max. It’s barely seven, so I know he’s still awake. She usually sends me a quick note when he goes to bed, but she hasn’t yet.
Super busy tonight. Say goodnight to Max for me. I probably won’t see your text until late.
I wait a few seconds, and Claire quickly responds.
Good. Hope the tippers are generous, LOL! I got a marriage proposal from an old man today. Can you beat that?
One day, Claire is going to say yes to one of the old ranchers who hit on her. She always jokes, but I think she’s thought about it before. I want my friend to find love—probably more than I want to find it myself.
No, you got me there. But Ben did call me Birdie!
I roll my eyes remembering his voice. I think the nickname bothers me more now than it did back then—probably because I’ve had years to really think about it, and build it up in my head.
He’s an ass.
How’s Mason?
I stare at her text for a full minute, because I don’t know how to answer that. Mason has been taking up a lot of my mental space. What he did for Max at the barber was so unexpected. I don’t know why my son is so taken with him, but I guess apples don’t fall far from their trees. I just can’t help but feel like the other shoe is going to drop soon, so I keep him at an arm’s-length. I’m willing to be friendly. But I won’t call him friend.
Oh, you know…he’s Mason. He’s not as drunk as the other guys, so that’s good, I guess.
I wait for her to write back, but she doesn’t. I know it’s almost time to start prepping Max for bed. I hate that I don’t get to tuck him in most nights. But Claire always reminds me that I’m only missing the routine. Max has never been an affectionate kid. He’ll hug me, when forced. Sometimes, when I’m holding his arms down after an anger episode, I imagine that I’m holding him and rocking him to sleep. It’s similar—I’m calming him. But he doesn’t seek my touch out—ever. I used to cry over it, but I buried those feelings when I realized there were some things that Max’s autism was never going to let us overcome. He loves me. He just doesn’t say it with words or embraces. And that’s okay.
The crowd is pretty steady over the next three hours. That’s how open mic night usually goes. The first few acts aren’t much to brag about, but the later the evening gets, the more likely it is someone good will go on. That’s how Dad tries out potential spotlights. If they can win over the open-mic-night crowd, he’ll usually offer them a weekend.
There’s a girl with a guitar closing tonight, and she’s pretty good. I can tell my dad thinks so too, because he’s been hanging around the edge of the stage. He’ll offer her a weekend, and I’ll love watching her face light up. Every single person that plays the Dusty’s stage has a dream. Even when they say they don’t when they step up there, they’ve got one by the time they step down.
This girl is a dreamer. She’s young, maybe about nineteen or twenty. She’s good, too. Even Mason and his friends are listening. I haven’t been to their table all night, so I take a deep breath and head over to help clear some of the glasses. I don’t want to look like I’m avoiding them.