“You’re right Max. But it’s because your body is still growing, so we need to make sure we take care of it,” I say, sparing a small glance at Mason. He hasn’t lifted his head from his plate once, and from the look of his breakfast, he isn’t very hungry either.
“What’s on our schedule for today?” I say, going to the small whiteboard on the fridge. It’s the zoo—sort of the last place I want to be today, but I will go.
“Zoo, and you said this time I can feed the giraffe,” Max says, standing and carrying the crumbs from his shirt over to the trash. Max doesn’t really like to be messy, so he’s always meticulous about cleaning up after a meal.
“I’d like to come,” Mason says, completely knocking the wind out of me.
“We won’t be there all day. I have homework, so we’re only staying through lunch, and it’s kind of expensive to get in without the pass,” I say, trying to deter him.
“That’s fine. Five minutes—five hours, I’ll take what I can get,” he says, and the pained look on his face makes me start to soften my resolve. But then I remind myself that I can’t just swoon because my heart and body wants Mason Street—I have to use my head.
“Here, you can use my pass. Just hold your thumb over the part that says senior,” my dad says, flicking the card from his wallet onto the counter. I grimace at my father when he does this, and he just pulls up one side of his mouth and shrugs.
“Fine, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” I say, and Max cleans the rest of his table space and heads up the stairs to change and get ready.
“Well, I’ll be home early tonight. I’d like to hear about that deal you made, Mason. Maybe you and I can chat about it later?” my dad says, purposely asking in front of me. I was pretty sure Mason’s meeting was a success. I vaguely recall him saying something about a deal last night, but I didn’t really have the mental space to ask him about it. That…wasn’t really my focus. And that was the problem. I’d lost my focus. It was time I got it back.
“That’d be great, Ray. I’ve got some questions about it,” he says, his eyes on me the entire time.
I can’t look at him squarely, and whenever my eyes hit his, my heart actually stings. My dad packs his small cooler and gathers up his books before heading out the door, and the second it shuts behind him, it feels like the room gets a million times smaller—the air completely gone.
“Ave, we have to talk,” Mason says, his voice desperate.
“Well, I guess we have all day,” I say, banging about the kitchen. I get more and more forceful with everything I touch, first slamming the cabinet when I reach for a coffee mug, and then tossing dishes in the sink rather than setting them down. I finally snap one of the plates in two, and it forces me to come to my senses.
Mason doesn’t interrupt me, and he doesn’t chastise me for acting out. He just sits there and watches, never once judging. He’s making this so unbelievably hard.
Max is downstairs seconds later with his usual zoo-ready backpack. He likes to use the binoculars, and he has a book on all of the animals. He’ll read us the paragraph about each one, and he likes to see them all, so I know that I’m in for at least two hours of walking.
The drive is silent—and I’m grateful Max is in the car. It gives me time to prepare my thoughts, to play out every possible alternative Mason might throw my way. Of course, when he’s sitting right next to me, it’s hard to stick to my plan. His smell has permeated my car, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to get it out completely. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and black jeans, and it’s probably my absolute favorite look on him, so I keep my eyes plastered to the road.
We get to the entrance, and the man scanning passes at the gate does a bit of a double take when he runs Mason’s card under the machine. I can tell he’s thinking about questioning it, but then he looks at Max, already wearing his binoculars and anxious to get to the first animal, and he waves Mason through.
It only takes us minutes to get to the first section—the lizards and snakes. Max will be busy here for several minutes, so I stand back with Mason while Max moves from window box to window box.
“Avery, what can I do?” he asks, and I wish like hell I had an answer for this one. I planned for this question, so I give him the only response I can.
“Nothing, Mason. Nothing,” I say, my stomach twisting at the actuality of what’s about to play out.
“It can’t be nothing. I’m so sorry—truly, deeply, unbearably sorry. For everything,” he says, and I know he is. And I forgive him. But it still doesn’t change the fact that he and I aren’t a good idea.