“That’s her son,” Cole says—short and sweet. Fuck, I’m an ass**le.
My face must clue him in at how shocked I am, so he turns around and leans on the back of the bar to give me his full attention for a few minutes.
“I thought she wasn’t married? Is she divorced?” I ask, moving the ice a little lower and wincing.
“Something like that. The dude married her, and then bailed right away. Some guy from your high school, I think. Some Adam or something?” Cole says, and I know immediately.
“Adam Price. He was our student body president. He and Avery were into all that honors class shit,” I say, remembering what a smug ass**le Adam was back then.
“Yeah, that’s it. Adam. He left when Max was one. Ave’s been doing a damn good job with that kid on her own, though,” Cole says, turning back to his work, and not realizing how much he’s kicking my ass with every single word. Shit! I just mocked the kid of a hard-working single mom because he didn’t thank me for bringing him chocolate milk.
“Oh, this is bad. I should apologize. I was kind of a prick to her,” I say, looking over at the booth where she’s sitting next to her son, my stomach turning over and over with guilt and shame. Who the hell am I? I’m just some loser musician who got dropped from his label, thrown out of a club in Tulsa for drinking too much, and sent home to lick his wounds.
“She’ll get over it,” Cole says.
He says that now, but I think if Cole knew half the shit I’ve done, he’d take it back. In fact, he’d probably have a good long talk with Avery warning her to stay away from men like me. And he’d be right.
Chapter 2: People Don’t Change
Avery
“Claire, it’s been an hour. When are you going to get here?” I ask, hiding in the back locker room, away from those damn stalker-eyes of Mason’s. I feel like he’s watching everything I do, just waiting to judge me or laugh at me. I swear, all it took was him calling me Birdie to make me feel seventeen again. I had to check the mirror to make sure my braces were, in fact, gone.
“I’m pulling in the lot. I just need to find a spot, okay? What’s the big deal anyhow? You’ve brought Max in before. Your dad doesn’t mind, and Max is always good at Dusty’s,” she says. I can hear her keys jingle, followed by the beeping of her door, and I’m immediately filled with relief that she’s here.
“Just meet me around back,” I say, sprinting through the kitchen, hoping not to get stopped. I make it to the back door, and prop it open with my foot to let Claire in.
“Okay, I see the door. Be there in a sec,” she hangs up, and a few seconds later I feel her pull the door completely open.
“Hey, Manny. Hey, Sal!” she says, walking over to hug the guys. Claire works at Dusty’s, too, but she’s usually on the morning and early afternoon shift and doesn’t get to see the guys much. I don’t know how I’d survive without my best friend. She works all morning, and then spends the evening with Max so I can get a few shifts in during the week. She’s gone through a lot of training, and she’s amazing with Max. She’s the one who finally got him to put his own socks on—in under a minute.
Max has a hard time focusing on things he doesn’t want to do. In fact, lately, unless it has to do with the moon or the stars or how the earth rotates, it doesn’t have a place in Max’s world. But Claire’s managed to find ways around the distractions.
Basically, we bribe him. And I used to cringe at it—felt like I was treating my son like a puppy. But Claire has taught me that it’s really just human nature to work toward goals, to seek rewards. So when Max does something I want, or something Grandpa wants, he gets something he wants—simple.
My pockets are always full of tart candies. Max likes sour things. But he can’t eat certain foods, and most candy upsets his stomach. There’s only one store in Cave Creek that sells the gluten-free tarts, and if they ever discontinue them, I will throw a one-woman protest of epic proportions.
“Okay, so where’s Max? And what the hell has you so worked up?” Claire says, pushing her purse back up her shoulder and leaning on the prep table in the kitchen.
“Remember Mason Street?” I say, my mouth watering with the need to vomit just saying his name.
“Ave, the whole state remembers Mason Street. Wait, is he…here?” she’s already bolting for the swinging door and cracking it open. I love Claire to death, but subtlety is not one of her strong points. “Where is he? What does he look like in person? Is he still hot?”