“I don’t really play much anymore, and it just seemed like a waste. I got her out when you first came to see me, sent her over to Pitch Fork’s for tuning up. Just turned out I had an occasion to give it to you,” he smiles, and I know he’s proud of me. I also know he knows how conflicted I am about leaving, but he’s a good enough man not to make it worse with a lecture about the promises I made.

I strum a chord, and it sounds like it did the first time I heard it, my mind flooded with memories—from the first time I drank chocolate milk on the stool out front to the first time Ray pushed me up on that stage. I want to race home and test it out, plug it in and see how it sounds…but then I’d also have to show it to Avery, and we’d have to talk about it, talk about me leaving, about me disappointing her, and letting down Max. And she’d have to remind me that there’s nothing I can do to make her change her mind…again.

“I know I should probably say it’s too much and I can’t accept it, but…I’m not going to lie, I want it,” I smile, and he laughs at my honesty. I play a few more chords and then hand it back over for him to tuck safely in its case.

“The handle’s shot, so be careful when you lug it around. You might want to invest in a better case,” he says, handing it over to me completely.

I can’t get over looking at it in my hands. The depth of his gift isn’t lost on me, and it has my eyes tearing a little, so I set the guitar down on my chair and walk around the desk to give him a hug.

“I’m proud of you, Mace. Real proud…no matter what happens, huh?” he says, pulling me square with him, his hands on my shoulders. “Ave’s real proud of you too. She’ll come around; she’s just careful. She has to be. You get it, right?”

“I do,” I say, my heart absolutely sick knowing that after tomorrow night’s dinner, there’s a chance I may never see Avery Abbot again.

Chapter 21: Dinner for Four

Avery

Early this morning, I told Max about having dinner with Barb. I told him, because I knew if I made solid plans with him, I couldn’t back out. And I want to back out—I want to desperately. But I’d hate myself for it.

I sent Mason a text, and told him we’d meet him at his mother’s apartment. He was gone early this morning, and I noticed everything was cleared out of his room. My dad said he was spending the night with the guys because of their early start on Tuesday, but I know Mason is just avoiding me.

I’m not angry with him. Honestly, I’ve blown it with Max millions of times. And the more distance I get from the letters coming from Adam, the more I appreciate Mason making him write them. The result might not have been very good, but the intention was heartfelt. It doesn’t change the fact that me being in a relationship with Mason is a bad idea. I need to have one hundred percent of my focus on Max and his success, and anyone else in my life needs to have those same priorities. Mason doesn’t—and that’s okay.

I brought Max’s dinner. I know Barb will understand. I have it clutched in both of my hands in a small Tupperware container while we wait at the front door. Max is fidgety today. He had some additional homework to finish after school, which of course wasn’t part of his plan. I bribed him with a few extra candies, and I’m sure he won’t want his dinner. I’m also sure he remembers how I skipped breakfast the other day, so this evening might end up getting cut short.

Mason opens the door, and he’s dressed nicer than I expected. His shirt is a white button down, tailored to his chest, and the ends aren’t tucked in to his black dress pants. He’s wearing black dress shoes, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing a piece of the tiger’s tail and a really nice silver watch. He waves us in; when I pass, he pulls me in for a hug, and kisses the top of my head. He smells like a dream.

“Sorry, we’re a little underdressed,” I say, looking down at my flip-flops and long maxi skirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail before we left, so at least I look like I gave some thought to how I looked. Max is wearing purple shorts and a yellow shirt, and he looks a little like an Easter egg.

“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes hovering over my face for a few long seconds. “I dressed up for my mom. I got the sense this was a big deal to her.”

Not sure what to do, I hand Max’s dish to Mason. “It’s for Max. He won’t eat other food, so I brought his normal dinner,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place.

“Right, good idea. I’ll let my mom know. Come on in, we’re in the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, walking to the back of his mother’s apartment. I follow him, taking note of all of the pictures of Mason on her walls. It’s like reliving my own youth seeing him grow in school portraits. I stop at one—a family collage holding several photos in the same frame.