Page 76 of Sapphire Spring

“Getting?” his dad asked.

“It’s been a week and some change.”

Pete nodded. Mason couldn’t tell if the figure impressed ordisappointed him. “Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You are seeing it. Right now.”

Pete studied him, angry mask softening into something thatseemed more introspective, maybe a little puzzled. “Oh, okay.Soyoudealing withyourshit meansI’mgoing to have to talk differently? What?’Causeyou might get triggered and pour yourself a drink. Is that it?”

“Theopposite, actually. I’mnotgoing to pour myself a drink. And you’re going to have to deal with what I sayback when I don’t.”

Pete’s mouth popped open. He sat back in his chair. Hislaugh seemed late to the party, and when it came, it sounded forced, a littlebreathless. “All right, then. Good. Sounds like fun. Anything’ll be better thanyourollingin here two hours late with one eye open,pretending like nobody notices when you close the door and sleep on the floorof your office.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Mason got to his feet, collecting hisfile folders. “I’m meeting someone for lunch, and then I’m going to spin byVistana. They were supposed to pour the slab for the guardhouse foundation thismorning. I’ll make sure everything went in okay.”

His dad grunted and started scrolling through his calendaron his iPad. Mason doubted he was worried about his next appointment. Thecalendar routine seemed like it was for show.

Mason rose and headed for the door.

“How about pillow biter?” Mason turned and found his dadlooking up from the iPad on his lap with a raised eyebrow. “You know,” hisfather added, “instead of faggot? Kind of old school. But I don’t know. Maybeit’s trendy now. Likequeer.”

When Mason started back toward the table, his father sat upstraight suddenly, as if his quick, short advance was a show of aggression forwhich he was utterly unprepared. As if they were about to finally have the fistfight that had been brewing between them for years.

“Why are you sodamnangry all thetime? I know what my deal is. I’m an alcoholic. I’ve screwed things up. I’mtrying to do better. I’ve accepted that. But you’ve gotten everything you’vewanted inlifeand you always act like somebody justcrapped on your shoes.Sowhat’s your excuse,sir?”

The mirth left his father’s expression. The seconds seemedto turn to minutes as they stared at each other. For a brief, teasing second,Mason thought the man might lay down some truth, maybe even a little insight.Instead, he set his iPad on the table and leaned back in his chair, nostrilsflaring.

“You know what,” his dad finally said, “do whateverhand-holding, hippy-dippy bullshit you gotta do in your meetingsor your therapy or however it is you’re going to deal with this. But leave meout of it, son. I’m a grown-up.”

Mason nodded and had one foot out the door.

“Mason?”

He turned, bracing for another blow.

“Good luck,” his father said.

Mason studied him, trying to see if it was an insult or agenuine sentiment. It seemed like a toxic mix of both, so he nodded at hisfather without thanking him and got out of the office as soon as he could.

As much as he’d tried to hide it, PeteWortherhad been knocked off balance by Mason’s response, and that put a skip inMason’s step as he headed back to his office. It had felt good—damngood—taking those steps back toward the conferencetable that had made his father’s eyes widen. Everything that had come out ofhis mouth after had been gravy.

Anger, it seemed, was as powerful a drug as any other.

Maybe that’s why his dad used it so often.

23

When Mason texted him the directionsto what looked like a desolate stretch of hills not too far from Naser’s condo,Naser had anticipated either a picnic or an attempted murder.Sowhen he saw the tall, blond, no longer drunk Vikingwalking through a dirt parking lot crowded with construction vehicles, carryinga wicker basket in both arms, he smiled as he slowed his Volvo to keep pacewith him.

“Any of that for me?” Naser asked, powering his window down.

“Half of it, in fact.” Mason transferred the basket to onearm and approached the car. Behind him, inland Orange County stretched east, abright, mostly bone-white checkerboard beneath a dome of hard blue. The parkingarea wasn’t for a lookout or a trailhead, he realized. It was for theconstruction site a little way uphill. There, the first shells ofcontemporary-looking homes were taking shape along asphalt streets that lookedpitch black and brand new.

“So did you bring me out here to disappear me?” Naser asked.

“Only if you eat all the turkey wraps. Turkey’s myfavorite.”

“They’re all yours. I’dactually liketo stay awake through the second half of the workday.”

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