How We Deal With Gravity(7)
“No, Claire. He didn’t hit it big. He’s a loser, and my dad’s taking him in,” oh god, I was going to regret saying that. She backs away from the door and flashes that mischievous smile she’s famous for—the one that’s been getting me grounded since fifth grade.
“Mason Street is sleeping…at your house?” she says, her eyebrows bobbing up and down just to annoy me.
I sigh heavily and sit down on the small step stool behind the door, folding my hands around my face and leaning forward. “Yes, Claire. Mason Street is sleeping at my house. At least, until I can get him to leave,” I say, standing back up and forcing myself to have a little backbone.
“Why would you make him leave, Avery?” she’s already pulling out her compact to check her makeup and touch up her lipstick. I can’t believe how predictable she is.
“You know Max won’t like it, Claire. And because, frankly, I think he’s a goddamned selfish *!” I say.
Claire just lowers her brow and studies me before answering. “You’re not being fair, you know. You still think Mason Street is the same guy he was at eighteen. But if you think about it, Ave, you’re nothing like the Avery Abbot of Cave Creek High School,” she says, sneaking a look back through the crack in the door.
Claire’s partly right—I’m nowhere near the girl I was at eighteen. That girl was hopeful and innocent. That girl didn’t have a little boy who depended on her for everything—a little boy who she wasn’t sure would be able to survive kindergarten, let alone this world. And that girl had fantasies about getting married—in a church, with a big puffy dress, and violins playing from a balcony—to a man who would help her raise their three kids and live happily ever after.
Yeah, I had veered far from the course that girl was on six years ago. Instead, I became the girl who got knocked up in college, who dropped out to have a baby, and who’s raising her son on her own, while she lives with her dad and tries not to drive off the bridge on her way home from work every night.
“Damn, Avery. Did you get a good look at him? I swear, girl—watching him talk to Cole is putting ideas in my head about those two,” she says in her teasing voice.
“Claire!” I slap at her arm.
“What? Do you know the last time I went on a date? And I mean a real date—not TV trays in your living room with your father,” she jokes. I smile and laugh softly, mostly because I feel a little guilty. Claire has given up her social life over the last three years just to help me get through school. Sadly she’s the husband Adam never was, and I wish like hell I could tell her to live her life, set her free. But I can’t, because some days she’s the only thing holding me together. And Max—oh, Max—he responds to her more than anyone else.
“Seriously, Avery. Come look,” she pulls me close to her by the door. I feel ridiculous, but I indulge her. “That—that man right there—is going to be down the hall from you…tonight!”
I squeeze my eyes shut at first, mortified that the boy whose name I used to doodle on my papers as a teenager might run into me late at night when I sneak to the bathroom in my pathetic T-shirt and sweatpants. Mason is in the middle of laughing when I open my eyes to look. He’s so much older, but god is he familiar. His smile was always my favorite; the way it dimples at the corners and stretches the width of his face. His hair has somehow gotten better, just long enough to split down the middle and curl over his eyebrows. He’s still wearing the white V-neck T-shirts and worn out jeans, but his body seems to fill them out more. He’s gotten a tattoo on one of his arms, and I’m dying to know what it says, but I don’t dare let Claire know that. She’s right. Mason Street is hot as hell. But that doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter for lots of reasons—the biggest being Max.
“I get it Claire. Mason is good looking,” I say, backing away from the door and lifting my palms to show her she wins, and her grin says she’s about to brag and tease me, but I cut her off. “But so what? There’s a reason he’s landed back here, Claire, and it’s not because he has his shit together.”
Claire offers me a conceding smile instead, and nods once. “Okay, I’ll lay off. But you totally have to give me the details on anything juicy tomorrow. Let’s go get Max so I can take him home,” she says, pushing through the door.
When we pass through, Mason is right there. He wasn’t coming in, but rather stopped, and I know he heard us, and that’s what halted him. I feel bad for a few seconds, knowing I judged him like he’s done to me so many times. But when I see the floppy blond curls on Max’s head as he slides from the booth, I forget all about Mason Street, because in my reality, he’s nothing.
“I’ll have him in bed by eight thirty. What time are you off?” Claire says, her eyes wide as she looks at me because she sees Mason standing right behind me. I ignore it all.
“I should be home by eleven. I just need to get Dad through the busy part. I’m on again tomorrow, so I don’t want to work too late tonight,” I say, bending down to try to look Max in the eyes.
This is always a struggle, but the therapists say it’s something I need to practice with him every chance I get. Max doesn’t make eye contact. He never has. It was the first clue we had that something was wrong. By Max’s one-year appointment, he wasn’t doing any of the things on the checklist for parents—no sounds, no emotional expressions, no pointing or acknowledging things around him at all. I was terrified he was blind, or deaf—or both. Adam and I fought about it—we fought a lot. I had to drag Adam with me to Max’s pediatrician, because he thought I was just overreacting.