Page 9 of Take Me
Mason’s persistent.“You’ve gotta at least try the peach lavender one.”He plucks another glass from the tray but doesn’t wave this one in my face.Probably a sign it smells like old gym shorts.
“We’ve got more pressing things to deal with than your weird taste in beverages.”I wrap my hands around my water glass.“We’re dating now, huh?”
“Sorry.”His expression turns sheepish.“It seemed like a good way to save us both.”
“Thanks.”In an instant I’m right back in grade school, Mason grabbing my arm and steering me off toward a flag football game.
“Come on,” he grunted.“We need one more player.”
And I needed friends who wouldn’t keep looking at me like some sad little teddy bear left in the rain.
Did you hear about the accident?
Her dad’s in a wheelchair and her mom?—
“We don’t have to fake like we’re dating,” Mason says now, dragging me back from the unhappy memory.“I can tell them I’m full of shit if you want.I doubt they’d be surprised.”
“That you’re full of shit, or that you wouldn’t really date me?”
“Everyone knows I’m full of shit.”He says it like he’s proud, then tilts his head.“Why wouldn’t I date you?”
I snort into my water glass.“Please.We’ve been buddies forever.You don’t shit where you eat.”
“That’s sweet.I think I saw that on a greeting card.”
I give him a look, then wave to a waitress who’s dropping off fries and more taster trays at a table across the room.I spot Mason’s mom, Sarah Lou, sitting with Zoe and Cassidy’s mother, Ruby.They’re chatting like old friends, probably planning out wedding stuff.Between the two of them, they’ve got an eight-month span with four of their offspring getting hitched.
“Hey.”My gaze snags on Sarah Lou’s nubby wool sweater.“Isn’t that the cardigan your mom wore for parent-teacher conferences the year we had Miss Anderson?”
Mason blinks like I’ve just licked his eyeball.“We had Miss Anderson in third grade.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you remember what my mom wore for conferences?”
When he puts it that way, I can see how it might sound weird to some people.
Mason’s notsome people.
“Conferences are always in April.”He’s not looking at me when he says it.“The accident?—”
“Yeah.”I don’t need him to spell out the rest.How closely I watched all my classmates’ mothers back then.How aware I became that I’d grow up without one.
“I always thought that sweater was so pretty.”My voice sounds a little bit raspy.“The yellow sunflowers stitched around the top?”
“My grandma made it.”
“No kidding?”
“She was one helluva knitter.”
I laugh.“I loved how she’d let us play in her yarn basket.”
“Remember she gave us the brown yarn to make ourselves tails?”
Now we’re both cracking up, recalling the day we climbed up the tree in his grandma’s backyard.We cackled and whooped, scratching our armpits as we slung our monkey tails over gnarled branches.
“They kinda looked like giant turds,” I admit.
