31. Mason
31
MASON
I ’d taken Grandad’s advice and tried to remember all of it in the week that had passed since I brought him home. I’d split my time between Bodhi and our dogs and Lana and the kids.
I’d officially asked Holland if I could take her to the father-daughter dance and she squealed so loud Ranger, Bear, and even Noodle had come running to see what was going on.
All in all, it’d been a good week, and this one seems to be even better. Dinner cooks on the stove as Holland and I sit on the floor and play a card game she made up that I still don’t understand. Unsurprisingly, she’s won every round.
Lana’s making the kids’ lunches at the counter when Beck flies into the door like a bat out of hell.
“He didn’t do it, Ma! He said he was gonna take care of it!” Beck roars as he slams the door closed behind him and throws his backpack onto the floor, his shoes in a pile next to it. “Now I’m never gonna make the team!”
“Beck, maybe…” Lana tries but the kid is too wound up, too emotional to be thinking straight.
“Holland, go upstairs, okay?”
“Why is he yelling?” she whispers, her bottom lip quivering.
Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, I give her a reassuring smile. “He’s upset, and sometimes we just need someone to help us work through it. Go play upstairs and I’ll send your mama up in a minute. Take Noodle with you.”
“Everyone is going! The coaches will know I’m not there! They won’t think I’m serious about playing! And you don’t even care! You just wanted Dad to fail and then you could be right—so it’s all about you!”
Holland doesn’t hesitate, leaving the cards on the coffee table before darting up the stairs as I stand slowly and close the distance to where Beck is standing with his fists clenched.
“Beck!” Lana starts but he cuts her off.
“This is such bullshit and you know it!” Beck yells the words, snapping like a whip and sucking all the air from the room. Lana blanches, her hand flying to her mouth as tears well in her eyes before she seems to come back to herself.
“That is not how you talk,” Lana says, her voice gaining strength but still so clearly shocked by his outburst.
“Put your sneakers on and get outside,” I murmur low and full of warning as Beck’s angry gaze slams into mine.
“You’re not my father!”
“Beck!” Lana scolds, but I shake my head because I’ve been here before and I know what he needs.
Be a good partner, father, and friend.
Grandad’s words echo in my head, and I’m thankful for it because right now, Beck needs a friend whether he wants one or not.
“Out. Side. You want to be a man? Talk like one? Act like one? Then get outside because that’s not how a man talks to a woman, and it’s sure as hell not how he talks to his mother.”
Face red and fists still balled at his side, Beck slams his feet into his shoes and pushes out the door. I don’t have time to change out of my jeans or grab sneakers, but I’ll manage. I drop my keys and phone on the counter before turning to cup Lana’s face.
“I’m going to help, okay? He didn’t mean it and I know that because I see the way he looks at you. Trust me to help, Dream Girl.”
“I trust you, I just?—”
“I know,” I breathe, placing a kiss on her forehead before dropping a soft one to her lips. “He needs to know how to channel his anger, and I’m going to help him do it in a way that’s safe for all of you, okay?”
“He’s hurting,” she whispers, her heart breaking right along with Beck’s.
“He is, but he can’t take it out on you like that either.” Grabbing two waters from the fridge, I tilt her chin up, the tears still holding steady in her beautiful green eyes. “We’ll be a while, okay? Don’t worry; we’ll be just right outside.”
“Okay.”
“Go get Holland into the shower and get her settled. She likes that new chapter book you picked up from the library.”
“God, I don’t deserve you.” She chokes out a laugh and I narrow my eyes which makes her laugh for real.
“I’ll be back and then we’ll talk about that too.”
“Can’t wait,” she says wryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
I nod and then shove my feet into my work boots and walk outside.
Beck stares at me from the driveway, arms crossed and looking every bit the part he’s trying to play.
Dropping the water bottles into the grass, I kneel down and tie one boot and then the other, not bothering to brush the dirt from my knees as I walk out into the road.
“Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
Pointing to the tree about fifty yards ahead, I look at him. “There. Ten pushups. Run back here. Ten burpees. Run back, ten squats.”
“I’m not doing that,” he huffs.
“Yes, you are. For two reasons,” I say, squaring off with him but giving him space so I’m not crowding him. “There’s no substitute for hard work, and if you want to make the football team then every day is a day to improve and make yourself better,”—I pause—“physically and mentally. But more importantly, you’re not going to talk to her or anyone else like that,” I say, pointing at the house.
“You don’t get it,” he practically spits at me.
“No? Then you can explain it to me after we run.” I nod toward the invisible start. “Line up.”
Beck stands next to me and I count down, pushing off hard and beating him to the tree. “Let’s go,” I command, dropping to the ground and counting off our ten pushups before popping back up to my feet. “Again.”
And we do.
Again and again.
We race hard, feet pounding on the pavement, our breath coming in pants. He’s fast but I’m faster, and even if I can’t walk tomorrow, I won’t let him win. Not tonight.
“Get some water,” I tell him as he pulls up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
He reaches for the bottle, his hand shaking a little at the movement but pride still a chip on his shoulder as I line up.
“Again.” My tone leaves no room for argument, and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs. He’s starting to break, but he’s not there.
Not yet.
So I count us down, and we run.
The second set is brutal, and my legs burn as we finish it out, my thighs not appreciating the way the denim chafes with each squat.
Beck braces his hands on his knees before standing straight and lacing his fingers behind his head and staring up at the evening sky.
“How many more do we need to do?” I ask, downing the last of my water as Beck’s gaze snaps to mine. We stare at each other for a beat before his arms drop down to his sides and his shoulders slump.
Beck shakes his head, but I’m not convinced, so I back up and stand on our invisible line.
“You sure? Because it doesn’t look like it.” I make a show of stretching my arm across my body. “I got plenty of juice left and nowhere to be.”
It’s a half-truth because I really don’t want to run anymore, but it’s not my decision. I took control and now I’m giving it back, letting him tell me what he needs.
“I didn’t mean to yell at her,” he says quietly, his eyes full of tears, and I nod, because I know. “She just always took care of stuff when we lived with Dad, but it’s different now. The camp is a lot of money, and I didn’t want to ask her to pay for it.” He pauses like he’s a little bit uncomfortable or even ashamed to admit it. “Dad has the money and he’s trying to buy our love anyway.”
The words are very adult, but Beck is still a child. He’s a little boy trying to be a man, and I remember those days.
He swipes at a rogue tear as it trails down his face.
“When I was your age, I was really angry all the time. I lost a lot when I was young, and as I got older, I couldn’t control the rage. Life hadn’t been kind to me. So I leaned into the feeling and let it consume me. I liked it.” I let the admission hang between us, our breathing returning to normal, and wait for his question.
“But you’re not like that now.”
“I’m not.”
“What happened?”
“My brother saw me spiraling.” I point to the road, the dust having settled. “He taught me how to turn all those feelings into something positive, something I could work with.”
“So you ran?”
“I ran and when I couldn’t run I did pushups or sit-ups until I couldn’t do those anymore and then I did something else. I kept going until I could breathe again.” Taking a step forward, I level my gaze with his. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be pissed and hurt, and you’re allowed to just be twelve.”
His eyelids flutter closed and this time when the tears begin to fall, he doesn’t stop them, his lips pressed into a hard line as his body releases it all. Closing the distance between us, I pull him against my chest and hold him, his hands fisting my shirt as he sobs, the adrenaline and the weight of everything coming to a head in this moment.
It’s a whole lot like déjà vu, and I hold him tighter, just like Bodhi held me.
“You’re a good fucking kid, Beck,” I murmur. “The best.”
“I hate him so much,” he breathes, the words barely a whisper but so damn brave to finally be said aloud.
“You need to talk to your mom.” He pulls back and looks at me but doesn’t let go, so I don’t either. “She can’t help you if you don’t tell her what’s going on. Custody is tricky, but you’re old enough to have an opinion, and I’ll support you guys every way I can.”
“Really?” he says and I nod. “Okay,” he breathes, releasing me as he uses his shirtsleeve to dry his face.
“Tell me about the football camp.”
He does, wringing his hands together as he tells me more details than I expect about the program that’s held at Blackstone University and run in conjunction with the team there. It’s a big deal, his enthusiasm bleeding through the defeat.
“But the signups are closed.” His shoulders slump like it just might be the end of the world.
And it might be.
“How about this,” I say carefully. “Let’s talk to your mom and see what we can figure out. We know a couple of people over at the college, and maybe we can get an extension on the signups.”
“But it’s too much money.”
“We will talk to your mom, because she’s the boss, right? And I would never do anything to disrespect her, so this is entirely her call but…”
“But what?”
“If you’re willing to work for it, I can maybe ask a friend of mine if you can help on the farm. Do you think you’d be up for that?”
“Yes!” he says, a tentative smile curving up his lips.
“The important part is that we talk to your mom and see what she thinks, okay? You guys are a team, and you need to figure out how to communicate because life is hard. ”
I put extra emphasis on the word, and he chuckles as he picks up the empty water bottles from the grass.
“Okay. I need to shower and then I’ll apologize to Ma.”
“That’s a good plan. Maybe stop in and say goodnight to your sister—she was worried.”
His eyes are glassy as he nods, and I’m sure he’s gutted thinking he hurt Holland, even indirectly. Again, it’s a feeling I’m very familiar with.
“Hey, Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” He swallows hard, the bottles crunching in his hand. “I love you.”
Looking up, I blink away the tears, needing to clear my throat twice before slinging my arm over his shoulder and steering us toward the door.
“I love you too, more than you know.”