How We Deal With Gravity(8)

But then our world was rocked. The doctor said the word autism, and the next day Adam was gone. I tried to find him for months, but eventually, I just gave up. A year later, I started to get money deposited into my account, and when I did a little investigating, I found out it was from him. Seems my father had a few words with his parents, and they forced Adam to do the right thing…financially.

The money’s nice, but when I’m piecing together my life with help from my dad and best friend, just so I can work as a waitress and take two classes a semester, I kind of wish Max had a father instead of some state-mandated child support stipend.

I can feel Mason’s stare behind me while I try to look Max in the eyes, and it makes me remember the sting on my hand from slapping him earlier tonight. I hate that he’s watching this, because I know he’ll have questions.

“Max, you need to look at me. I know you don’t want to, but you have to do it, just for a second, okay?” I say, my hands putting light pressure on both of his shoulders, just enough to keep Max still on his feet. He doesn’t like affection, so I try not to touch him too long. “Aunt Claire is going to take you home, and then she’ll go through your books with you, okay?”

Max nods yes once, so I know he heard me, but I really want him to use his words.

“I need to hear you. Can you say your words, Max?” I ask, my voice breaking a little, because I hate that I’m begging, and I hate that a stranger—at least in terms of my life—is witnessing this.

I look up at Claire, and she’s on the verge with me, hopeful, but sad all at the same time. She flicks her eyes to mine for a few seconds, and gestures with her chin to my right side. I reach in and pull out two candies.

“I need to hear your words, Max. And you need to make eye contact, just for a second. And then you can have two candies, even though it’s almost bedtime,” I say, and instantly Max’s pupils are square with mine. He holds my gaze for two full seconds, and then looks back down at the corner of the floor. “We need to read Planets. The page is marked,” and that’s all Max says.

I can’t help it that I cry a little—I do every time. Every little thing is such a huge milestone. Claire understands, and I’m so happy to see her smile when I stand back up and give her a hug. “Sure, pal. Auntie Claire will read Planets,” I say, also whispering, “Thank you,” in Claire’s ear.

“My name is Max,” I hear him say from below, already walking through the kitchen door.

“You’re right. Max, not pal. I’m sorry,” I say, laughing while I wipe my eyes with the tissue from my back pocket. Max doesn’t respond to anything but his name. Sometimes it’s a cute idiosyncrasy, but I worry that some day someone’s not going to find it as cute as I do. But I’ll worry about that hurdle another time. Today was a success—today, Max looked at me…for two whole seconds.

I don’t even acknowledge Mason when Max and Claire leave. Instead, I pick up my tray, and head to the back to bus a table that’s cleared. He doesn’t follow me, but he’s still hanging around. I can’t avoid the kitchen forever, so I finally pass him with a full tray and a bin of dirty glasses. I back through the door and he follows. Damn.

“Here, let me help. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s washing dishes,” he says.

“Yeah. Clever,” I say, fighting against my need to look at him after I speak to see if my words cut just a little. His prolonged silence lets me know they probably did.

Mason is reaching for the glasses as fast as I can pull them from the bin. He’s working so fast that it’s almost like he’s trying to impress me with his dishwashing work ethic. I dump the last few in before he can catch up, then slide the bin over and reach for my tray to head back out to the bar. I make it almost to the door before he stops me.

“Birdie, wait!” he says, and I cringe. My shoulders literally fold into my spine, I hate that name so much, and just hearing it now—after he called Max a weirdo—snaps something deep within.

“I’m not twelve anymore, Mason. My name’s Avery, for f*ck’s sake—Avery,” I say, my hand on my hip, and my lips pursed tightly. Mason looks down when I finish my mini-tirade, and draws in a deep breath before squaring back up with me. He’s always gotten away with his flippant remarks because he’s so damned good looking. And that might have worked when I was sixteen. But I don’t have time to take shit now, and the twenty-five-year-old me isn’t really impressed with his perfect-ass teeth and scruffy chin.

“Avery. Sorry. Some habits die hard,” he starts, and I’m already turning to leave. I can’t bear any more cleverness either.

“No, seriously, please…hear me out,” he says from behind me. I give him one more chance, and when I turn around, he’s walking over, his hands dripping from dishwater so much he has to pat them on his jeans. I can’t help but watch them when he walks. I used to stare at those hands in high school, when he’d sit up there on that stage and strum his guitar for hours at a time. I had goddamned fantasies about those hands, but I learned to hate them pretty quickly.

“Go on,” I say, keeping up my tough stance, and finally looking away from his hands to his face.

“I’m sorry about what I said…you know…about Max? I didn’t know he was your son. I never would have—” I butt in before he can get the last offensive word out.