46. Mason
Mason
“Um, where’s my dad and Rose?” I ask our butler, Henry, when I walk into the empty house, filled only by the sounds of my brothers’ screams and laughter somewhere in the distance.
“They won’t be back until a couple of days after Christmas, Mr. Sinclair.”
Are you kidding me?
“And who’s been with the boys?”
He nods his head towards the living room. “The nannies have been switching off.”
Annoyance rises in my chest. I just shake my head and turn to head up the stairs.
“Here,” Henry says. “Let me get your bags.”
Normally, I would fight him on this and take my own bags up, never liking to be a bother or liking having them around the house to begin with. But I’m tired, and I do just want to go see the boys, so I let him take them.
“Thank you.”
He nods, taking the suitcases. “Of course.”
Winter break is supposed to be just that, a break, but for me, it’s the opposite.
Anytime I’m back home, I feel more like a prisoner in my own head than any other time.
I’d much rather work my ass off every day on the field and in the classroom than be back in the place that has taken everything from me.
I also hate that I feel that way, because the two people I love most in this world are here. But the one person I hate the most is also normally here. At least he isn’t right now, though. That feels like the best Christmas gift I could have gotten this year.
I walk over to where the boys are playing, and they stop mid-fight when they see me.
“MASON!” they both scream in unison as they leap over the back of the couch and rush me, almost knocking me over.
I can’t tell you how good it feels to be around them. They make me feel like the most loved person in the world when I’m with them.
I’d put up with dad’s shit tenfold just to keep them in my life.
“What do you say we get out of here and have some fun outside this house today?” I ask them, knowing they spend almost every day here alone, just like I did.
At least they have each other.
They’re growing up so fast, and it feels like these last two years of being away have made me realize that more than ever. They’re stuck here with no one giving them what they need, and I hate it. I also hate that I’m missing out on being here for them, giving them what they actually need.
What good is all this money if you can’t even give any good childhood experiences for your own kids? You just leave them at home with a nanny all day and no activities planned or outings for them to do. If they didn’t have school and camp, they wouldn’t see the light of day outside of this prison.
Both boys jump in excitement.
“Heck yeah!” Asher shouts.
I ruffle both the top of their heads and tell them to let me go change, and I’ll take them anywhere they want to go.
When I walk into my room, the nausea hits. Honestly, it’s been building all morning.
Mostly because I haven’t had a drink all day.
Something about coming home, about knowing I was going to be stuck in a house filled with memories of my mother for weeks, about knowing the boys are watching me closer than ever at this age, and about missing a girl I know I fucked up so badly with, has made me want to get my shit together.
I hate the way I feel every day, and I know alcohol is just masking it. I’ve started to hate myself more and more every time I take a drink. Yet I hadn’t been able to stop.
This break is my chance to fix that. Even if I’m regretting it in this moment. I know I need to do this.
I can do this.
I will do this.
My hand trembles as I open up my luggage, pulling out a clean hoodie to throw on.
I’m sitting on the floor, barely being able to lace up my own damn shoe.
My hand is shaking so badly that I can’t hold on to the lace long enough to loop it around the other one.
I almost throw the shoe across the room, frustrated, when Easton walks in and sees me struggling.
He doesn’t say anything, just walks over to me and sits on the floor, pulling my shoe over to him and tying it for me.
Don’t fucking cry, Mason.
Don’t let them see the cracks.
“There,” he says, finishing tying the laces.
I smile down at him. “Thanks, bud. I—I just had too much caffeine this morning. Makes me a little jittery.”
“That’s why you never let me have your cool energy drinks?” he asks all innocently.
I nod. “Exactly. You can’t play ball with shaky hands, can you?”
“No, I would drop the ball.”
“Come on!” Asher shouts from the doorway.
He comes barreling in and jumps on his brother’s back.
Easton shoves him off, laughing.
“Alright, you wild animals,” I tell them, standing up. “Let’s go have some fun.”
* * *
I wake up every morning before them, mainly because I don’t sleep much.
My body feels wrong, like there’s buzzing under my skin, like my muscles don’t know how to relax. My hands shake when I pour the boys’ cereal. My jaw aches from clenching it all night. There’s this constant pressure behind my eyes, like I’m on the verge of a headache that never fully forms.
I keep pushing through, though, even when I feel like I’m going to break—mentally and physically.
I’m doing this for the boys.
I’m doing this for Simone.
I’m doing this for the version of me I keep promising myself I’ll become.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t want to call Simone, tell her she was right—she’s always right.
Tell her that I’m such a fuck up and don’t even deserve her as a friend.
Tell her I love her when I know it’s selfish of me to.
Tell her I want her, really want her, and I’m going to do everything I can to be worthy of having her one day.
But I haven’t, and I won’t. Not yet. I want to be worth her time. I want to bring more to her life than the mess I always carry around with me.
The kitchen smells like the toast I burnt this morning because I forgot it was in there. I just scrape it off and pretend it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.
“Are we doing pancakes today?” Asher asks, sliding into a chair at the island, hair sticking up in every direction.
“Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Today’s cereal day.”
He groans dramatically. “You said that yesterday.”
I shrug. “Life’s full of disappointment.”
They laugh, and I can’t help but smile.
It feels forced, though, like stretching a muscle that hasn’t been used in a while.
I hate how much they look at me like I’m the adult in the room. I hate how much they need me. Not because I don’t want to be here. But because I don’t know how to be what they deserve when I’ve barely been able to keep myself going.
By midday, the house feels too quiet, too still. My skin crawls with it, not liking when it’s like this. It gives my head all the time in the world to overthink and self-destruct.
I take the boys outside even though it’s pretty chilly, and we toss a football around in the yard until my shoulder burns and my breath starts coming out ragged. I feel out of shape for the first time in my entire life.
I keep pushing through the day, even when it feels like someone gave me a fat sleep aid and told me to stay awake through it. Still, I end up letting them talk me into taking them on a walk so they can ride their bikes down the big hill in our neighborhood.
When we get back inside, we all end up wrestling on the living room floor, me pretending to lose so they can win, letting them dog-pile me until I’m pinned and laughing through clenched teeth.
That’s when I see it—a huge, dark, yellow bruise along Asher’s ribs when his shirt rides up. I freeze, holding his shirt there, trying to figure out what I’m looking at. That isn’t a roughhousing bruise—that’s intentional. It looks like someone took a baseball bat to his side.
He notices what I’m looking at and quickly pulls away, tugging his shirt down.
“Where’d that come from?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm, not wanting to scare him.
He shrugs quickly. “I don’t know…playing.”
I look over to Easton, who has an oh shit look written all over his face. I don’t fucking like it. I don’t like not knowing what they’re trying to hide from me.
“I’m gonna ask you again, Bud. I need you to tell me what happened that caused a bruise that size.”
He drops his head. “I’m sorry, Mase.”
My confusion grows, laced with this protective anger that’s clouding all logical thought right now. “Sorry for what, Ash?”
“For getting in trouble.”
“In trouble with who?”
“With…Dad.”
I swear I can feel pinpricks on my skin, and heat running down my spine. “Dad did that to you?”
He nods—barely.
“When?” I whisper.
“Before he left with Mom.”
My eyes close, and I keep them like that for a moment, trying to calm my rage.
I look up and over to Easton, who looks scared.
“He pushed him into the side table in the living room.”
Asher turns and tells Easton to shut up quietly.
“You don’t need to be scared to tell me. Ash.”
“I—I don’t want you fighting with him. I don’t like when y’all fight.”
I shake my head in disbelief and look back at Easton. “Has he put his hands on you before?”
He looks away, and I quickly reach out, placing my hand on his chin to gently force him to look at me. “Has Dad put his hands on you when he gets angry?”
He nods, staring at me with glossy eyes. “I try to be good when he’s home.”
I pull him into me and then grab Asher.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say firmly. “You hear me? There’s no trouble you can get into that makes it okay for someone to hurt you like that.”
I pull them into my chest tightly, needing some false sense of knowing that I can protect them. I can’t handle them being hurt, especially knowing it’s because I’m not around.
I don’t want them to grow up scared and constantly walking on eggshells around authority, especially the ones who are supposed to be there to love and protect them. I don’t want them to grow up always angry themselves because that’s all they saw.