Avery Abbot. Shit, I’m in trouble.
Chapter 4: Familiar
Avery
Some days start on a high note. Today was one of them. I was so sure I was going to get a full-on meltdown from Max over those papers. Normally, I would have bribed him to give them to me with a candy. But with Mason watching the whole thing, I just felt foolish. I don’t want him to think I bribe my son to do everything…though, some days, it feels like I do.
When I saw the music, what he wrote—uh! I was blown away; that kid has this power to move me, I swear he does. He’s always flipping through my dad’s old music books, but I know no one’s ever explained it to him—how notes work, what the lines and dots mean. He just figures some things out.
I bet Mason thought that was weird, too. I bet he can’t wait to get together with his band, sit around and talk about the weird girl he went to high school with and how she has this weird kid. Whatever. Fuck Mason Street! His weird is my amazing!
Max has been asleep for hours. It was a long day for him. We met with two doctors, and it was a double-therapy day. Jenny, our head therapist, has been working with me for weeks, maybe months, to get Max ready for kindergarten. He’ll be joining the class a little late—he’s been learning one-on-one, and he’s actually doing really well with the academic side of things. That’s never been Max’s problem. In fact, he learns some things really fast. Memorization—that’s his gift. It’s the social part that scares the hell out of me. I don’t make friends easily, how can I expect him to? Add on top of that his lack of patience for anyone slower to catch on than he is, and a schoolyard disaster won’t be far behind.
This is what we’ve been working on the most. Patience—keeping his frustration in check. Eye contact and socializing will be skills Max works on every day at school, but he’ll never get there if he makes enemies out of his classmates first.
Today has wiped me, completely. Just imagining my afternoons when Max starts school in a few days is daunting. In many ways, it will ease some of the burden. But I carry Max with me, even when we’re physically apart. It’s the worry—constant, painful, without remedy. But I’ve survived today, and I’ve earned tonight.
I take my basket of bath products and set myself up for a little relaxing reward after the long day. It’s my first evening off—truly off—in…I don’t know how long. The bath water hugs me, and the bubbles crackle softly, almost lulling me into a light sleep. I can feel the pull within my chest, my eyes falling shut, but my mind reminds me that my fingers are pruning and that I have a warm bed and—gasp!—a book waiting for me down the hall.
My toes are toying with the drain, trying to convince the rest of me to leave the water, when I hear Mason’s guitar softly filtering through the wall. It’s faint, and…beautiful. His playing was always perfection. I used to listen to him with my dad, just in awe. I have no musical talent—zero. I wish I did; I’ve learned music can be a great calming therapy for kids like Max. It’s not calming when I sing, however. Things just feel out of order, so I stick to reading him stories instead. Good thing I’m majoring in English.
I wait through four or five iterations of the same melody. It’s the one Max wrote down this morning—I recognize it. Mason was never happy with his music, always trying to find the better way to play something. That’s what he’s doing now—he’s obsessing, and catching him makes me smile.
Stepping from the water, I leave the drain in place, careful not to make any noise as I dress so I don’t interrupt his playing. I pull on my soft cotton shorts and one of my dad’s old T-shirts for bed and flip off the light before I step quietly down the hall to Mason’s door.
His back is to me, so he doesn’t notice when I slide down to sit in the doorway. I can still see his fingers from here, as they work their way up and down, pausing right when they should and gently grazing the strings when it’s called for. I think that’s what made me fall in love with Mason Street in the first place—long before I really knew him, before I fell right back out of love with him. Watching him play, the way he loves that instrument, the way his brown eyes shut and his lips whisper small phrases, ideas for lyrics. That’s the reason women love musicians—it’s all right there in Mason’s hands, his eyes, his lips. Mason is the perfect package…on the outside. I could almost forget everything watching him now.
He stops playing for a few seconds, and I catch my breath. The small noise causes him to turn around, and I can feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Maybe it’s dread. This moment—the one that was so nice before he began talking—is about to be ruined. I just know it.