Page 114 of Summer Lessons
“We’re us?”
“Yeah, Mason. We’re us. We’re… dating. Exclusive. Boyfriends. And I swear to Christ if I see one more old guy hitting on you, I’m gonna get the tool kit out of Richie’s car and slash some fucking tires. It was all fine when you were just looking at me all heartbroken, but I’m not throwing you out there like chum to catch big rich men.”
“Deal,” Mason said with relief. “And if you ever bring that Rudy kid to practice again, I’m cleating him myself.”
Silence. “Crap. Mason, he’s… he’s not trying to get in my pants anymore. But I’m sort of the only friend he’s got.”
“You ever think that’s because he’s aprick!” Mason snapped.
“Well, yeah. But… but you helped me not be such a fucking squirrel. And I don’t want to be the same thing for him, but… but someone needs to help him.”
Mason pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is so not fair,” he said, feeling twelve.
“No, it’s not,” Terry admitted. “But I’m hoping you don’t need fair if you’ve got me.”
Oooh. “Nice one.”
“Thank you. I’ve been planning a lot of this in my head sincelastSaturday. Practice. Helps.”
“Truth,” Mason conceded. “I’ll still cleat him if he’s mean to people.” Okay, be truthful. “I’lltry. I mean, I’ve seen Richie do it, but I’m not that graceful—you know that.”
“Yeah, but it’s real sweet of you offering to protect my virtue. You don’t need to do that. That’s not your job.”
And suddenly Mason could care less about Rudy. “Whatismy job?” he asked seriously. Because it sounded like Terry had the whole grown-up thing down.
“Take care of my heart, Mason. You’re the only one who can.”
Oh. “It’s what I was born for,” Mason said. “I just didn’t know it until I met you. Now I do.”
“Me too. That’s my job. My real job. First four months were training. Last two months were making sure I wanted the position. I want it. I want it with everything in me. I’m going to make sure you never doubt that. I promise.”
THAT WASMonday night. Mason got texts on Tuesday during Terry’s lunch hour and a card in the mail Wednesday. Thursday night was another scorcher, so practice was called. Terry was still working anyway, so Mason—with Dane’s help—left a small ice chest in front of his apartment, two half gallons of ice cream sealed inside. When Terry got home two hours later, he said that it wasn’t even soupy—he was very impressed.
“It was the foil and the foam we packed around the outside,” Mason said, pleased. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Well, I’ve got one more day of being a grown-up—I’m getting a promotion and a raise out of this, so you know, it’s not just me working a bullshit job.”
Mason blinked. “I never thought it was.” Of all the things that were once wrong in Terry’s life, his job had never been on Mason’s complaint list. “You do what makes you happy, Terry. I never wanted you any other way.”
Terry’s reply was muffled in a bite of ice cream, but it sounded like he was happy with that too.
FRIDAY NIGHTthere was a break in the heat, and Mason stayed out on the porch, feeling the breeze off the river and ravine revive the air and the growing things around him. Dane and Carpenter were out, but Mason found himself missing companionship. Terry had just gotten home and texted him that he was falling into bed, and that was good.
Maybe someday he’d be like Richie and Skip and would get a dog.
Maybe someday he and Terry would live here together, and they’d get a dog together.
The future beckoned joyfully, and Mason wasn’t going to put money down on anything, but… he could hope.
Tomorrow would be a big day.
HE WASrusty on the soccer field. Dane dragged him and Carpenter there early to kick the ball around. As the rest of the team got to the field, the warm-up drill sort of built around the three of them.
The rules of the game were to kick the ball to someone not trying to steal it from you. That could change with every pass—so don’t get too complacent, and don’t take your eyes off the ball.
Mason was so invested in the warm-up, in remembering how to hit the ball with the sweet spot on the inside of his foot, in remembering how to fight someone for the ball without using his hands, and just generally orienting himself with all those bodies swarming around, that he forgot to look for Terry.
Until he heard Terry’s voice snapping, “Get out of my way, assholes, he’s mine for a minute.”
