Chapter 30
MASON
Twinkling Christmas lights dance around the entrance of the Fanning household.
On the outside, one would think the Fanning household is warm and welcoming, especially given that it’s still November and they already have their Christmas decorations up.
It’s stupid for him to think otherwise.
His parents are well respected and adored by the town. They aren’t a particularly powerful or coveted name, but they’re lauded for their pens. Their ability to shapeshift with their words. Just like they want Mason to do.
He hates that he’s let his resentment grow so much within him. That he’s spent hours practicing in the mirror and imagining scenarios where he tells them how he feels.
That he can’t be the writer they want him to be. That he wants to spend his days proving theorems and teaching physics or math to students like him, who want to know more. He knows he has to tell them at some point.
They’re going to find out about his major whether he likes it or not, but tonight he doesn’t want things to blow up just yet.
He wants Thanksgiving to pass like it usually does. He can’t escape them for the next few days, and if they find out, everything ends for him. The rest of the semester will be hell on earth, and never getting to see Callum again will only make it worse.
He wishes Callum was standing next to him on the frosty stoop with his strong, unyielding hand in his. He wishes Jenna was waiting for him inside with a warm, inviting smile to shield him from his parents’ scrutiny. But the Fanning household is not where dreams and wishes come true.
It’s where they festered and curdled before being tossed away for something more realistic.
He knocks on the door, hoping that they won’t hear him. That somehow his ride back from Montgomery with Jenna was delayed by traffic.
The door swings open. “Mason! You’re back!” his mom exclaims and runs in to hug him.
He smiles and hugs her back, her perfume almost choking him. It smells like home. But home is a paradox now.
“Yeah, I’m finally back,” Mason chokes out, surprised that his mom is hugging him so tight. She isn’t necessarily unaffectionate, but the tightness of her hug still startles him.
“Mason!”
His dad comes in from the kitchen and hugs him, slapping his back in the way that every man seems to do.
“Hi, Dad.”
His dad closes the door behind him.
“How was the drive?”
“Jenna was thankfully a more careful driver; she just dropped me off. She says hi,” Mason replies.
“It was nice of her to drive you, that way I could help your mom set everything up for dinner.”
Mason smiles thinly as he takes off his coat and hangs it up.
“And how’s The Goldberg? You’re doing quite a good job on the games,” his mom asks, trying to mask her judgement, but Mason can see through it.
He removes his boots, and they move to the living room, where pine garlands and twinkling lights dangle above the fireplace mantle.
He glances at the mantle and his chest clenches as he sees pictures of his writing as a kid, his work on the Northwood High paper, and in the middle is his latest work on The Goldberg.
He licks his lips, taken aback by seeing it. Even with the disdain and the judgement, they’re still proud of him. They still support what he does.
“Yeah, I—I uh, I’m having fun learning about football. People even give me fist bumps and high fives in the hallway…”
He looks back at the framed newspaper article. It stares at him like it’s telling him to feel guilty that his parents don’t support him.
They do support him. They love him. But they don’t love and support him in the way that he needs.
Mason sits, and his parents follow suit in their respective love seats, looking at him expectantly.
“It took a bit of time, but I’ve realized that sports was what I felt good at writing surprisingly. It was like the words… flew off the page for me. I couldn’t stop when I started. I decided to follow where that took me instead of forcing myself into a box.”
It’s all true. He blinks rapidly as he realizes everything he’s said is not a lie.
When he writes about sports, the words do fly off the page.
But in reality, writing about Callum is what makes it so easy.
If anyone else was running around with a ball, Mason would surely have written something completely different and more dry or cynical.
His mom smiles, a genuine one. She’s not judging him. She’s happy that he’s passionate about writing.
She sighs. “Well, I have to say I had my reservations, but hearing you speak about it like that makes me feel better about it. I’m proud of you, Mason.”
His chest lifts at the approval. It’s all he searches and aches for. To hear those words.
But he wants to ask why she cares so much about what he writes. What if he’s successful with it? And he is. Everyone is reading it.
“You sound a lot like me, Mason,” his dad days. “I felt the same way when I started writing. Didn’t get the genre right at first, but when I did… I couldn’t stop.”
Mason nods, tightly pursing his lips, so he seems interested, but he’s not.
Mason gets up from the sofa. “I’m gonna make some coffee.”
He throws his phone on the table and walks to the fridge in a feeble attempt to get his parents to change the subject and to soothe his aching chest.
He doesn’t want to lie anymore. He wants to sing about Callum. He wants to have a monologue about the beauty of physics. He wants to tell them about how much he’s learned by putting himself out into the world of sports and how doing that got more out of him than writing ever did.
But he knows it can never happen. He’s in a self-made jail cell with the bars made of barbed wire.
His phone vibrates.
“You got a midterm grade back, Mason!”
Mason immediately slams the fridge door closed, seeing his mom leaning over his phone on the table, peering down at it like it was her business. Like she can tell he’s hiding something.
She furrows her eyebrows. “From… Physics 205?”
Mason’s heart races, but he knows the rehearsed line.
“I took a physics class as an elective, remember?”
His mom opens her mouth in realization and nods, sitting back down in the loveseat.
He rips his phone from the table to check the notification.
PHYS 205: MODERN PHYSICS AND RELATIVITY, MIDTERM 2: A+
His heart soars and he gasps. He aced it. He wants to scream and jump for joy. He wants to tell Callum. He wants to tell Jenna.
It’s all he wanted.
His parents raise their eyebrows at him like they’re confused as to why he’s so happy.
“I got an A+!” Mason says, clutching his chest.
He’s so glad. He wants to run laps around the house.
It’s more than just getting a good grade; it’s being given the validation that physics is something he should keep pursuing and keep putting his time into.
That as much as his parents could tell him that writing is his true passion, it wouldn’t matter. It’s science. It’s physics.
“Congratulations, Mason,” his mom says, her voice unsure but glad.
“Congrats, son,” his dad says, his smile more genuine, but the look of bewilderment in his eyes, wondering why Mason is so ecstatic over a grade from an elective.
“Hopefully, you get the same ones for your journalism classes,” his mom says.
The doorbell rings and both of his parents get up.
When they leave the living room, Mason sinks into the couch, feeling like a weight has been lifted. He could tell that his parents were weirded out, but he was being honest.
He’s getting bolder. And why should he care about his boldness? He aced two of the midterms so far. He should be proud of it, even if it isn’t the class his parents want him to be acing.
He takes his phone out and texts Callum and Jenna separately about the news.
He puts his phone back down. It might be trivial, and he knows it’s just a grade, but what other support does he get? He can’t get it from his family, so he has to rely on himself.
Maybe the lying was more tolerable now that he knows he has that passion within him and a confirmation that he should keep going. But at what point would enough be enough?
He looks over at his parents as they talk to one of the neighbors that dropped by to give them some pumpkin pie, and he wonders what will happen when they find out.
It terrifies him, but it entices him as well. He wants to rub it in their faces that they were wrong. They always were.
He just wishes that when the time comes, his entire world won’t crumble beneath his feet.