“I bet you’re all wondering what I’m doing back in town,” Mason says, his eyes leaving mine for just a moment before coming back to find me. I give in and set my tray down, sitting in one of the seats to fully take him in. “I blew it.”

The crowd laughs, but I know Mason’s not really joking. He’s dead serious, and when the audience realizes this, too, they start to get quiet.

“No, it’s okay. Y’all can laugh. But it’s the truth. I tried doing this all on my own, but I wasn’t ready. I’m sure some of you have read about our failed concerts, fights in clubs, shit like that. Sorry, Ray…I know you don’t like it when I swear on stage.”

My dad just waves a bar towel at him and goes back to his business.

“You see, I was ready to leave this town when I was sixteen. And I don’t think my head ever matured beyond that, even though I was twenty when I finally left to tour. In my head…I was still sixteen. Sixteen and stupid,” Mason laughs at himself now, and the crowd starts to relax and join in. He has them—he has us all. He could tell us to vote for him for president right now, and we’d all mail in our ballots.

“Anyways. This isn’t about me messing up my tour. I wanted to get up here tonight to see if I could remember why I ever made this my dream in the fist place. I was so focused on success, I forgot about the ride. And I missed some pretty great things along the way.”

My breath held, I fight against my instinct to run—just to hear Mason out, to see what he says next. I’m terrified, because my heart is begging him to make this about me. But I know that, if anything, it’s about how badly he feels. It’s pity—for making me cry years ago, and for every other painful bit of my past that Claire gave away. My legs are aching to retreat, and I’m pushing my weight to the balls of my feet, readying myself to get back to work, when Mason absolutely floors me.

“If I could do it again…” he pauses, his eyes unmistakably on me now. “I would definitely kiss the girl in the closet.”

Oh. My. God.

Chapter 7: And Then There Were Four

Mason

That wasn’t planned. I mean I did want to say something that would let Avery know how sorry I am. But that last part? That came from somewhere else entirely. What’s weird is that I don’t regret it. Hell, I felt unbelievable the second the words left my mouth. Maybe it’s just the chase…but I sorta don’t think that’s it.

I saw something in Avery’s eyes. I’m not going to say it was forgiveness; I’m not naïve to believe I’ve even come close to earning that yet. But I think there is definitely a part of her that wants to forgive me.

She was gone by the time I wrapped up my set. Gone! I had the usual crowd waiting around to talk to me, buy me drinks, and all that shit. All I wanted to do was talk to Avery though; ask her what she thought. I saw Claire talking to her briefly, and then I watched Claire leave with Max. I was pretty excited that he stuck around too. But Avery was the one I really wanted to talk to. And she was already asleep—or hiding—in her room by the time I made it home.

The house was empty this morning. Ray always works long hours on the weekends. He goes in early to set up for Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday crowds are usually pretty full, too. Sunday is always country night.

I notice Avery’s car in the parking lot when I pull in to Dusty’s. She must have gotten up early to get out of the house before I woke up. I wonder how she talked Max into getting up early too?

They’re all sitting at the bar together when I walk in. Ray’s the first to notice me, and he slides a stool out next to him, waving me over.

“Mason, come on over. We’re having pancakes for breakfast. Made them myself on the grill,” he says, giving me a wink.

I climb onto my seat, and give Avery a sideways glance, but she’s looking only at the plate in front of her, nowhere else. Max is busy working with his fork to get his pancake into his mouth. His is cut into perfect squares, and his plate seems free of syrup.

“Hey,” Ray whispers to me, urging me to lean in. “Just so you know, these are gluten-free, and they pretty much taste like crap, so be generous with the syrup, okay?”

I nod once, and grab the syrup, making a layer of sweet, sugary goo on the plate before I add my pancake. I catch Avery’s reaction when she snickers at me, and I use it as an opening.

“What? You never syrup the bottom?” I say, cutting a huge bite, and stuffing it in my cheek. Ray was right—these are bland as hell. I reach for the syrup and add more to my plate.




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