“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**k’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.
“You never would have what, Mason? You never would have made fun of him if you knew he was mine? But if he’s someone else’s child, someone else’s son, then he’s fair game to call names?” I can tell I’ve backed him into a corner, because the shameful look on his face is the same one I’ve imagined putting there millions of times.
“He’s five, Mason. He’s just a kid. But there you go, swooping right on in and exploiting whatever makes him different,” I’m on a roll now, and Mason is getting a lifetime of my pent-up resentment. “Gahhhh, you are exactly the same person you were when you left. No wonder you ended up back here. Some f**king music career, Mason—why don’t you go back and tend to your dish soap?”
I spin around so fast, and leave him standing there alone, I don’t have time to take in what I know is a crippling look of shock. For once in my life, I said the exact thing I would have pretended to say when I relived the day in my shower. And it feels wonderful.
Chapter 3: Speaking Max
Mason
Getting slapped by Avery Abbot was enough to make me change my entire opinion of her being weak. But getting put in my place, and being called a failure? Ooooph—that one stuck with me all night and well into this morning.
I left the bar after she ripped me apart, just glad that we were alone when she did so no one could give me shit for it. I gave myself enough shit. Feeling guilty was strange for me. I’m starting to wonder why I thought staying with Ray Abbot was such a good idea in the first place—he’s done nothing but tell me what a disappointment I am, and his daughter thinks I’m a complete jerk.
I am a jerk—who am I kidding?
I travel light. When I left home the first time, five years ago, it was with my giant football bag stuffed with every piece of clothing I owned. I still have the same damned bag, and the clothes inside haven’t changed much either. I dragged that and my guitar into the house last night, and into the small spare room with the blow-up mattress. I slept here a few times in high school—when I wasn’t getting along with one of my mom’s boyfriends.
Ray’s always been my escape plan. It’s funny; when I look back on it now, I think Avery kind of liked it when I stayed at her house. She used to sit in the hall when I sat on the spare bed and played a song. She’d never come all the way into the room—too nervous. But she would sit there, with her skinny legs folded up into her chest, hugging them to her body.