“Oh, hey Birdie. Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he says. Birdie. Still with the f**king Birdie.

“Avery, Mason. My name’s Avery,” I say with a heavy sigh. I’m about to get up and leave when he swallows and nods, not putting up a fight. Thank God, I don’t have it in me tonight.

“Sorry. Old habit, like I said,” he turns away again, focusing back on the guitar propped up on his leg. “Sorry, am I too loud? Max is probably sleeping, huh? Shit…I didn’t think.”

“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t wake easily. It was nice,” I can feel my eyes flair open when I realize I’m complimenting him, and my pulse speeds up. I decide to let it go, smiling and playing friendly.

Everything feels suddenly awkward, so I look down at my fidgeting fingers and bare feet. I’m smirking to myself when Mason notices.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, tucking a pencil behind his ear and flipping a page on a small notebook on his mattress.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I’m embarrassed he caught me, but I can feel him urging me on, so I continue. “It’s just…I was just thinking…here I am, twenty-five years old, and I’m in the same exact place, you know? Like, literally! I’m probably even wearing the same thing I did when I was fourteen or fifteen and I used to listen to you play.”

I look down again immediately, because I feel foolish, like some groupie. I used to get so jealous over the girls that would come see Mason play at Dusty’s, like they didn’t have a right to him. They would go on and on about how talented he was, how much they loved his music. But they didn’t really. They liked the idea of Mason—the sexy guy playing a guitar.

It was always more than that for me, though. For me, it really was the music. And then slowly, the older we got, the more it became about the boy playing the song. That boy disappeared though, and I don’t think he’s ever coming back. But sometimes…sometimes when I see Mason play—for himself, not for a crowd, like he is tonight—I start to think that maybe that boy is still in there. And maybe he’s growing up.

I look back up when I realize how long we’ve both been quiet. Mason is hugging his guitar now, his legs turned to face me, and he’s looking at me differently. He’s going to ruin this.

“You never come in,” he says, his brow pinching and his lips shut tightly, considering. I don’t know how to answer him, so I just shrug.

“I don’t like interrupting. You’re being…creative,” I say, averting my gaze again because I can’t take the attention. Mason is so damned confident. It’s off-putting.

“Ha, you’re funny,” he starts with a chuckle. I raise an eyebrow, not really following where he’s going with everything. “I’m being creative. Haven’t you been listening? I can’t figure out a simple bar. I’m just wavering all over the place, and nothing feels right. I don’t even know why I thought I could do this in the first place. Bir…I mean, Avery—there is nothing creative going on for you to interrupt. I’m not sure there ever was.”

Now it’s his turn to look away. He kicks his guitar case open with his foot and leans forward to place his guitar inside and close it again. He lets his hands linger on the case for a few seconds before he flips the locks in place and then slides the case over to the wall. His eyes are locked on it, and for the first time ever I swear I see a look of disappointment on Mason Street’s face. Maybe it’s my motherly instincts, or maybe it’s how much Max has changed me as a person, but suddenly I’m on my feet and stepping inside Mason’s room, sitting down beside him.

“You wanna know something?” I say, my heartbeat racing in my throat. My voice is shaky, and I can feel actual nerves starting to build in my belly.

Mason leans forward and buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and smoothing back his hair before turning to look at me—and when he does, my heart stops suddenly. I’ve only been this close to Mason Street once in my life, and his eyes are the same gold they were then. I’m pretty sure my body is covered in sweat now, but I ignore it. I remind myself I’m an adult, and Mason Street doesn’t have any power over me.

“Sure, I wanna know something,” he says, his lips twitching into that faint cocky smile permanently etched into my mind. Even his smile is the same. Why am I sharing this with him? Why do I care? Why can’t I just let Mason Street suffer a little?

“Oh, it’s stupid. Never mind, I’m sorry…” I start to get up, forcing myself to remember that I put Mason Street and all of my girlhood fantasies about him in a box—a box I locked up with an imaginary key and threw into the depths, never to be dug up again. I’ve almost convinced myself to leave when his hand grazes mine, urging me to stay.