The drive to school was flawless, even the stoplights were on my side. I walked Max to class, and spoke with his teacher, and she assured me she was ready.

Ready.

Seems everyone is ready—but me.

I stayed to watch, observing from the back of the class until the teacher gave me a signal that it would be a good time to “slip out.” I didn’t want to go, but I knew I had to. I sat in the parking lot for the rest of the day, just watching the minutes tick by, and playing games on my phone.

Picking Max up was almost worse than dropping him off. I had spent so much time conjuring visions of worst-case scenarios, that by the time I actually got out of the car, I had convinced myself they were true. In my head, Max was locked in a closet, kids teasing him, and the teachers frustrated at not knowing how to restrain him. I actually ran to his class and waited outside for the bell to ring. When the other kids came streaming out—many of them running—I started to panic, searching for my son. Where was he in the mix? Was he in another classroom somewhere? Is this going to work? This isn’t going to work.

He was the last to leave the classroom, walking in a perfectly straight line to the door, just as his teacher had instructed. I wanted to hug him, I was so proud. But I didn’t. Instead, I just sat on my knees, forced him to look at me, and asked him how his day was. Fine was all I was going to get. But fine was more than enough.

His teacher, Mrs. Bently, gave me a smile and thumbs up, so Max and I headed for the car. We haven’t talked the entire trip to Dusty’s—not because I don’t have a million questions, but because our therapist told me to try to keep other things to a normal routine. I’m not working today, but I know my dad is curious, so we’ll stop in before heading home with Claire. Max plays on the iPad on the way to Dusty’s—it’s a reward that he earns for doing well in therapy and for working hard. And today, Max worked very hard.

“Well, how’d it go?” My dad is the first to ask the second I walk in the door. Mason is standing on the other side of the bar, behind him, and as if on instinct…my eyes go to him.

“It went…great,” I let the smile crack now in full force, and my eyes water. I’ve held it together most of the day, but I’ve got to let some of it out. Max heads to the corner booth—just like every other day. Cole is quick to follow with his chocolate milk, and I watch as Max crawls to the center of the booth, his spot, where he can feel comforted by both sides of the cushions.

Mason is in front of me, hands in his pockets, and the same smile he left me with this morning is still on his face. “Told you it’d be all right,” he says, nodding his head in Max’s direction.

I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does, and now I’m sobbing, hands over my face, and my purse and Max’s backpack at my feet. Mason is fast, and his arms are around me in seconds, and I let them be. I grip at the back of his shirt, and bury my face deep in his shoulder, the tears pouring out now. I can’t stop the shaking, and every time I try to catch my breath and my body shudders, I feel Mason squeeze me harder.

My dad is next to us soon, and I feel his hand rubbing my back. He’s offering his shoulder now, too, but I can’t leave Mason’s—I won’t. I need it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice muffled by Mason’s shoulder.

“What’s to be sorry about?” Mason says, his voice soft in my ear. “You’ve been strong…still are. You needed this.”

I loosen my grip and let my hands slide down his shirt to his shoulders. It’s a nice shirt—it’s a plaid button-down, probably something from Abercrombie or something like that. It smells nice, too. Of course, I’ve just left a giant wet spot on the shoulder, and wrinkled the hell out of it.

I pull it straight as I back away and wipe at the spot I drenched with tears. “Oh,” I giggle nervously, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to need a new shirt.”

Mason looks down and rubs his hand along the wrinkles a few times before sniffing. “Nah, looks fine,” he says, his half-smile something I can’t help but stare at.

We hold our gaze, and I watch as his smile shifts into something more serious. I want to leave, but something inside me tells me to stay—to see this out. So I do. Mason reaches his hand up once again and slides his thumb gently over my cheek, his eyes trained on his hand. His brow is pinched in thought, and his lips part with a breath, like he’s about to say something—something important.

“Yay! First day of school, done!” Claire says behind me, her voice loud and unabashed. Whatever Mason was about to say, he’s not going to say it now. He’s still standing in front of me, and he’s still looking at me with the weight of everything he wants to say just hanging there in the balance. His brown eyes are almost golden they seem so warm.