She sits down and holds her face in her hands, her body shaking with each sob. I stand there and look at her—at this mess I made. “Avery, I was only trying to help,” I say, pleading.

“He screamed for an hour and fifteen minutes, Mason. The neighbors called the cops. I know the guy who showed up, and that’s the only reason it didn’t get worse. He walked to the backyard and saw me, holding him…fucking rocking back and forth and waiting for it to stop. You can’t just do things like that, Mason. You have to live up to Max’s expectations. Forget about mine,” she says, standing to her feet and brushing by me. “Can you just finish cleaning this up? I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She doesn’t turn back around to look at me again, and I’m glad, because I think if I saw the disappointment on her face it would kill me. I spend the next hour cleaning every last piece of glass from the patio and fixing what I can on the telescope. By the time Ray gets home, I’ve completely survived being drunk, and have gone straight to hungover.

I fill him in over an entire pot of coffee, and he does his best to console me, but I can tell I’ve let him down, too. By the time I shower and lay in my bed, it’s four in the morning. My eyes are fighting to stay awake, but I’m losing the battle, and quickly. The only thing left running in my mind is my biggest fear—that I might not be the kind of man who can do this either. That maybe I’m just as weak as Adam Price.

And maybe Avery deserves something better.

Chapter 20: Paperweight

Avery

I don’t want to go downstairs. Max is already at the table with my dad. I can hear them going about business as usual. For Max, last night isn’t even a memory. He’s already on his checklist of what today brings. It’s Sunday, and usually we do something fun. I don’t even remember what we had planned now. Maybe it was the zoo.

Mason’s door is open, so I know he’s left his room. I can’t hear his voice downstairs though. And I don’t think I can handle seeing him.

When he didn’t show up at the house after his meeting, I was nervous. When the night grew longer, and he didn’t respond to any of my texts, I started to feel dread. And then nine thirty came and went, and Max noticed, growing more and more agitated each minute. I didn’t know how to set up the telescope. It’s old, and my dad has repaired it more times than I can count. I didn’t have it mounted steadily, and I know that’s why it tipped over so easily when Max pushed on it.

I know my dad won’t care. The broken lens isn’t a big deal. The thing that keeps eating away at me though is that damn letter from Adam. I know Mason meant well, but I don’t think he realized exactly how self-absorbed Adam was. Maybe it’s my fault; I didn’t portray an accurate picture after my dinner with him that night. My feelings—Max’s feelings—are of no consequence to Adam, and Mason must have put the fear of God into him for him to have even written the letters in the first place.

Adam actually blamed me for Max’s autism. He pointed to some article he read that said the “mother’s genes are the main contributing factor.” I know that’s bullshit, but that’s because I’ve done nothing but live, eat, and breathe research about Max’s diagnosis since the day his first doctor wrote it down on a file.

That’s Adam, though. When I look back at our relationship, I can see those pivotal moments—warning signs that he was not a good person. He wasn’t really a gentleman in high school, demanding we go dutch to prom, always calling the shots in our relationship. He was more interested in making sure my father loved him and approved of his plans for me, than involving me in the decisions and planning our future together. Adam picked where we went to school. He dictated whether I took morning classes or evening classes. And our pregnancy was because he insisted on not using protection.

I’m not saying I was completely complacent, but our lives definitely happened according to Adam’s will. His leaving forced me to be strong, and in some small way, I’m thankful for that. I need to be strong—Max needs me to be strong. And I have to be strong now.

Mason is sitting with his back to me at the table when I finally walk down the stairs. I know he hears me come down, and I can visibly see his shoulders tense.

“Out of bacon. Do you want some eggs?” my dad asks, his face telling me he’s in on everything that happened.

“I’m not very hungry,” I say, and Max picks up on his opening.

“I’m not hungry sometimes, but you make me eat,” he says, taking a bite of his pastry. He’s hungry this morning, so I’m not even sure why he’s being contrary.