58. Mason #2
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling overwhelmed.
My chest tightens, my jaw clenches, and my brain starts racing through every possible version of how this could go.
I feel the urge creeping up my spine. I feel the restlessness of my hands shaking in my lap, begging for a way to calm them. I feel it all, and it’s relentless in its need to be sated.
I stare at the condensation sliding down my Gatorade bottle and imagine it’s beer instead.
Bash leans forward suddenly. “Hey.”
I blink, being pulled back into the moment.
“You disappeared just now,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I swallow, but don’t say anything.
Bash checks his watch and stands. “I’ve gotta go. Lydia’s waiting on me.” He looks down at me. “But if you make that call? Don’t hesitate to call my phone after, okay?”
I nod.
Erik stretches in his seat. “I can stay if you want.”
I just wave him off. “No, it’s okay. I’ve got a lot to do.”
He stands, pushing his chair in. “Good luck, man. On everything. And if I don’t see you before break—” He slaps me on the shoulder, “take care of yourself, okay? Text me if you need anything.”
Then they’re gone, and I’m alone again.
The silence creeps back in, and I sit there for all of maybe thirty seconds before standing up and going inside. Straight to the fridge to grab a beer before I can talk myself out of it. I just need to loosen the edges. I don’t need to go far, just a little before the ledge.
By the time I’m in my room, I’ve opened a second one. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone, knowing if I do this, I can’t do it sober.
The first bottle I pull from beside my bed is empty, so I set it on top of my side table before looking for another one. After finding four empty glass bottles, I finally find a half-full bottle of Maker’s Mark.
Of course, my least favorite liquor.
Hell, I don’t care at this point. Anything to do the job.
I open it and take at least two shots worth. Not too much, just…enough. Then I finally hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
I almost hope for a voicemail to greet me.
Then he answers.
“How’s packing for rehab going?”
I instantly want to hang up the phone and throw it across the room.
Instead, I try to breathe and not let him get to me.
“It’s not,” I say nervously.
There’s a pause.
“Why not?” he asks sharply.
“Because I’m not going.”
He laughs on the other end. “Funny. Well, you’d better start that packing. You have a flight booked for Friday since I’m using the plane.”
“I’m serious, Dad. I’m not going to whatever rehab you have picked out. If I’m doing any kind of program, it’ll be on my terms. And…”
I pause, trying to get the courage to get it all out in one blow.
“I’m not doing the internship anymore either. I’m not going to pursue business classes anymore.”
The pause on his end is so long, I have to check my phone to make sure it didn’t disconnect.
“What the hell are you talking about, Mason?” he snaps.
My heart starts to pound so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“I switched my major,” I continue, forcing the words out.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m…I’m not taking over the company anymore.”
“You think this is funny?” he says.
“No.”
“You’re just going to throw away your future—the one I’m handing you—because what? Because you would rather nurse a damn bottle instead and can’t handle growing the hell up?”
“It’s my future.”
“It’s my money,” he fires back. “My name. My firm.”
“I don’t want it.”
His laugh is cold. “This is all a joke, right?”
“No…it’s not.”
“I’ve invested in you for all these years, and this is how you repay me?
This is a spit in the face, Mason.” He lets out a long breath that sounds irritated.
“No. You’re not pulling this crap. You’re getting on that plane, you’re doing what I’ve asked of you, and I’ll handle the shit storm you’ve created with your classes. We’ll fix this.”
“No. I’m not changing my mind. No matter what you say or threaten.”
“Okay,” he says calmly. “So you’re okay with getting completely cut off then?”
“I guess so,” I tell him, rubbing the back of my neck, staring at all the bottles on my nightstand.
“No access to my money, no tuition, no Sigma Chi fees, no paying your bills, nothing…you understand that?”
“Yeah…I understand,” I say quietly, finally accepting it myself.
“Don’t bother coming home this summer. You aren’t welcome here. Nor will you be seeing Easton or Asher.”
The reality of that hits—hard.
I still don’t back down, though. I can’t, no matter what he tries to use.
“You can cut me off,” I say. “You can take everything away. I don’t care. Just leave the boys out of it.”
“No.”
My chest tightens. The thought of losing them feels worse than anything else he could take.
“That’s the choice you’re making,” he continues. “You don’t get to see them.”
My pulse spikes, anger taking over my nerves.
“Don’t do that,” I say, voice low.
“You think I won’t?”
“I know you will. You’re spiteful and evil. But…” I pause, searching for any kind of leverage here, “don’t think I won’t shout all your little dirty secrets from the rooftop if you try to.”
He scoffs. “You don’t have shit on me, Mason.”
“How about the bruises I have pictures of on my phone from the boys? How about everyone finding out the kind of man you really are?” The silence stretches, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’ll burn your perfect image to the ground if you try to keep them from me.
You think I’m bluffing? Try to keep me from them.
I’ll hit you every place it hurts, especially your image.
And I’ve made it perfectly clear to every single one of your nannies and housekeepers and even fucking Henry that if you lay a finger on one of those boys again, they let me know. ”
“Whatever,” he mutters finally. “You can see them…but only when we’re out of town. I don’t want to see your face ever again.”
“Back at you,” I say. “And at least that means I’ll get to see them a lot. Seeing as you’re never home anyway.”
The line goes dead. He doesn’t even say goodbye. He never does.
I sit there for a second.
Then I realize how bad my hands are shaking. Not from the alcohol, but from adrenaline, from grief, from the fact that I just blew up my entire safety net in life.
After sitting there for what feels like forever, trying to force myself not to grab another bottle, I grab my phone from the bed instead.
After telling Bash everything about the conversation with my dad, he lets out a sigh, like he’s proud of me, but also…sad.
“What are you gonna do for the summer?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
“I have no idea. Honestly, I didn’t think anything through. I’m so stupid.”
There’s silence on his side for a while, like he’s thinking. He’s always thinking, always trying to figure out how to help, even when it’s not his job to.
“Come stay with me,” he says, catching me off guard.
“What?”
“We’ve got an empty room. It’s only a couple of hours from campus. Easy to come back for football. Easy to figure stuff out.”
“No. No, I can’t. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says firmly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you to take me up on it. Now, seriously—just say you will.”
I let out a weak laugh. “You just wanna play sleepover with me.”
“Shut up.”
I swallow, then soften up, “Thank you.”
“Of course, man.”
It all hits me—what a mess my life is.
“Bash…” I say quietly. “I…I need help.”
“I know,” he says gently. “That’s another reason I want you to stay with me. I want to help you figure this out. I want you to get the help you need.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll come.”
“Good,” he says. “We’ll figure it out, okay? I’ve got your back.”