11. Mason
Mason
The days have blurred together since getting to Florida, and I’ve never been more tired.
My eyes want to close on their own as I make the drive from Fort Lauderdale to Naples.
I have to turn the music up and chug some water to help the pull of exhaustion I feel.
It’s only a two-hour drive, but the headache I have makes it feel like five.
When I pull up to our house in Pelican Bay, everything looks…
the same. I don’t know why I thought after being away from home for the first time that it would feel so different being back, but I just feel…
back, like no time has passed, like I haven’t been trying to escape what this place holds for the last eight months.
I walk up to the big, black, window-paned double doors, and before I can get my hand on the doorknob, it’s yanked open. My brothers are on the other side, pulling it with all their strength.
“Mason! Mason!” Easton shouts.
“Mase!” Asher screams right behind him.
I bend down to hug them, and I don’t care how big they’ve gotten; I still wrap my arms around them and scoop them up.
What’s the point of all these workouts and football training if I can’t still hold both my boys?
“Did you bring us your football from school?” Asher asks.
“Of course I did. What kind of brother do you think I am? I brought you both one,” I tell him with a smile.
The footballs are definitely from the store, but they’ll never know that.
When I left for school, they told me I had to bring them the football we use on the team. It’s just college football, but they treat me like I’m some big-shot player now.
Rose walks over to us when she sees me. “Hey, Mason. How was the drive?”
“Hey, Rose,” I greet back. “It wasn’t too bad, just felt like a little cruise.”
“Good. Well, come on in. Give your stuff to Henry to put up in your room. I have to start dinner in the kitchen. Your dad will be home soon.”
Henry is already at my side, taking my bags from me. I run back out to my car to grab the boys’ balls, and then take them out in the backyard before dinner to play a little.
I’ve missed their laughter and smiles…even their fighting. Those boys can argue and fight about anything.
I didn’t have any siblings growing up, so I don’t know if it’s a boy thing, a twin thing, or just a sibling thing, but they can go at it for hours. If one says the sky looks blue, the other will argue that it’s green just because he can, and neither will accept defeat.
We play for what feels like forever, running around the yard, throwing the ball, me teaching them how to catch, them fighting over which ball is theirs, and tiring me the hell out.
Their energy is endless. I’ve got stamina, but those boys are little energizer bunnies on crack who never turn off.
They tire me out more than any workout or game can.
I bring them back in, and like I’m back on autopilot, I take them upstairs and bathe them, pouring the bubble bath in until it rises higher than the tub and they squeal, laughing.
Rose walks in and tells me that she or the nanny would have taken care of them, but I wave her off and tell her it’s no trouble.
I miss my routine with them. It’s the only thing that makes me feel at home in a good way.
I wrap them up in their hooded towels and push them into the hallway, telling them to go get their clothes on.
I hear the sound of my dad’s voice downstairs and make a beeline back to my room, avoiding him until I have to see him at dinner.
The boys run into my room not long after, and we spend the next hour watching part of a Marvel movie until Rose comes to find us, telling us to come downstairs for dinner.
They drag me down the stairs and then start running to the table, fighting over the seat they both want, like there aren’t eight other open chairs at the table. I just shake my head and let them battle it out caveman style as I sit down at one of the plated seats.
The mood feels like it shifts instantly when my dad walks into the room. Maybe it’s just my mood, but it fills the room with a heaviness all the same.
“Son,” he says, greeting me.
“Dad,” I nod back with no emotion.
He sits at the head of the table, and Rose places his plate down last before sliding into the seat closest to him. My dad prays over the food, and I almost laugh at the sight.
This man has never opened a Bible before or stepped inside of a church outside of a funeral and a wedding.
I still don’t know how he didn’t get struck down when he did.
He starts asking the boys how their day at school was before looking at me and starting his 21-question game.
“How’s A&M treating you?”
“Good,” I reply.
“How are your grades?”
“Good.”
“Do they have you on the field yet?”
“Yep.”
“How’s the Sig house?”
“Fine.”
“You know, the best years of my life were spent in that house.”
“I bet…”
His smile fades a little after a while, getting annoyed with my tight responses.
“I built a reputation at that school, son,” he tells me. “Don’t embarrass our name now, you hear me?”
I push my fork around my food, trying to be back on that beach, in the water, no worries, no voice in my head telling me all of the ways I’m not good enough around here.
“If you’re not the best in the classroom, field, and at work,” he continues, “you’re nothing. Remember that.”
“You don’t let me forget,” I say sarcastically.
Easton thankfully interrupts the fun conversation.
“Are you staying home for good now, Mase?”
I run a hand over his head. “Sadly, no. But I promise I’ll come visit every chance I get, okay?”
I smile down at him, even knowing that’s a lie. I want to avoid this place. I want a future somewhere else. I still want them in it, and I don’t know how to do that when what I want is to run as far away from this place as possible.
They’re so young. Every time I have to leave them, my heart breaks. They deserve someone here growing up who’s present and cares about them. I know Rose loves her sons, but she’s gone just as much as my dad. They’re being raised by nannies and butlers now that I’m at college, and I hate it.
After dinner, I help get the boys tucked into their beds and promise to spend the whole weekend doing whatever they want before I have to leave again.
Then I end up sitting on the floor outside their door until I hear their laughter and talking fade into a silence that makes me miss their voices instantly.
I pull myself up and walk down the hall to the room my mom used to stay in by herself, the one that’s been stripped of all the memories of her. I slip in and lie down on top of the perfectly tucked comforter, staring up at the ceiling.
I miss my mom so much it physically hurts some days.
Some days, my mind drags me down into the pit of pain and holds me there, relentless in its efforts to break me.
I wish she were still here. I wish I had someone on my side who built me up and didn’t constantly look for ways to tear me down.
I so badly want to not care what he says to me or thinks about me, but it’s fucking hard not to care.
And Rose is no better than him, just another one of my dad’s puppets.
She’s nice, but she’ll never go against my dad.
She’d never stand up for me when he gets too harsh, when his demands get to be too much.
My mom always stood up for me. No matter what my dad said or did, she made sure I knew how wrong he was about me.
I just wish I could hear her voice again. I wish I could hug her. I wish she could be here to see the man I’m turning into. I want to be someone she can be proud of. I don’t want to be a failure to her.
The tears fall on their own, and they catch me by surprise when I feel them hit my arm.
I never cry, haven’t since she died, other than angry tears with my dad.
Crying and all that emotional shit isn’t allowed around here.
Any feelings that show weakness are something you’re taught to keep inside.
But I don’t care tonight. I just miss my damn mom…
and I hate my dad. I don’t want to be anything like him, yet I feel like my biggest fear of being just that might come true, whether I want it to or not.
I end up falling asleep in there without meaning to, and I’m woken up by the curtains being slung back and my dad’s voice rumbling through the room.
“Get your ass up, Mason,” he says flatly. “I told you to set an alarm, and you can’t even do that. How are you supposed to keep a job, show up for clients, or run a damn business when you can’t even get up off your ass on time?”
I pull my arms down from where they were resting behind my head and try to stretch the stiffness out. I feel heavy and exhausted—from shitty sleep and crying most of the night.
“Can I get a damn response, son? Am I talking to the wall?”
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. “My alarm was set.” I look down just as my phone goes off.
My dad just rolls his eyes. “Get up and get dressed. I’m leaving in 30 minutes.”
I’m still yawning as he walks out of the room aggressively, and I just plop back down on the bed for a moment, trying to mentally prepare myself to live up to his expectations today.
I rub the back of my neck as I walk into the garage, where my dad is waiting in one of his Mercedes. The suit he had waiting in my room for me feels suffocating even though it isn’t tight.
I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door without saying anything, already ready for this day to be over with.
“Fix your posture. You look like shit.” He stares over at me with disdain. “You’re a man now, act like it. Show the world who you are without having to say anything.”
The fuck does that even mean?
I sit up a little straighter, but still slouch enough not to be his little soldier.
“When are you going to get a haircut, son? You look like a homeless surfer boy and not a businessman. That shaggy mess might work in college, but you won’t be taken seriously anywhere around here with it.”
I just give him a nod and hum in response as I look out the window.
We pull up to a high-rise building in the city, with glass windows, valet parking, and every inch designed to scream wealth.
We both get out of the car, and he tosses the keys to the valet as we walk in and head up to the floor where we’ll be meeting with Rick, who is the head of the intern program here.
“We’re all excited to have a Sinclair shadowing this summer,” Rick says. “We’ll make sure you learn the ropes—property portfolios, investments, client relations, all the things. Big shoes to fill, huh?”
I nod. “Yeah, pretty big.”
My dad nudges my arm and gives me a look that tells me I need to drop the shit attitude and try to impress this man, as if I care about any of this.
He grins proudly, as if he built me himself. “He’s ready for it, been teaching him about responsibility since he could talk.”
I want to say, No, you’ve been teaching me fear since I could understand it, but I just nod.
We go over logistics and summer plans, then he talks to my dad, catching him up on the program’s progress and its impact on the company.
When we head back out of the building, my dad is already lecturing me about everything I did wrong in there, everything I need to be better at, everything I need to change, and everything I need to be prepared for.
I reply back automatically as my mind drifts to being back in Texas again. A place where I can pretend to be whoever I want and not just who someone expects me to be.
* * *
I tackle the boys into the grass, both of them squealing.
They pile on top of me, giggling, trying to pin me down.
“Not strong enough!” I tease, flipping them over. “You gotta eat more chicken nuggets if you wanna beat me!”
We’re all laughing so hard it hurts, and then, out of nowhere, Asher looks up at me, cheeks red from playing. “I want you to stay home with us, Dad.”
I freeze. The words hit like both a punch and a hug.
Easton corrects him quickly. “He’s Mason, dummy.”
Asher shrugs. “Sorry.”
I swallow hard and pull them both into my arms.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “I’m not Dad, buddy. But I love you, okay? Both of you. I always will.”
They nod, already distracted by the football rolling away.
I watch them chase it, laughter and screaming filling the space outside, and for a second, I just take them both in, wondering who they’ll become when they’re older, wondering if they have enough love to become the best versions of themselves.
I wonder if being their big brother is enough, if loving them like this, fiercely and freely, is enough to make up for everything else I can’t fix.
They run back to me, jumping into my lap, sweaty and breathless. I fall onto the grass and laugh before counting, telling them to run before I can catch them.
I remember all the nights Asher would call me dad when I was in high school, watching them every night, feeding them, bathing them, reading to them, packing their lunches, and making sure their clothes were set out.
I tried to correct him as much as I could, but I hated it every time.
It always pulled at my heartstrings when he would do it.
I hate the bond my dad forced me to build with them. I hate that they feel like mine.