Page 27 of Summer Lessons
“Why were they exchanging recipes?”
Jesus Christ, were you raised by wolves?
Mason took a deep breath and tried not to alienate the guy who’d just sat through the world’s worst golf lesson in order to suck Mason’s cock.
“Because it’s a social thing,” Mason said. “You know—like sharing sports tips, but, uhm, food.”
“Oh.” Jefferson gazed off into space. “Oh wow.” And then he turned what was probably a blinding smile on Mason. “Ohwow. Do you think Skipper collects recipes?”
“If he doesn’t, he might like to. Some of the other guys might collect them. I mean, everybody eats, right?”
“Yes!” Jefferson punctuated this sentiment with a pound against the dashboard and then sank back into his seat. “But not everybody cooks. I shop and cook, and I’m really bored, and my mom doesn’t know anything but hot dogs and spaghetti. I keep trying to bring stuff home, but like, Chipotle is way too advanced and cutting-edge for Mom, you know?”
“Uhm, yeah. So, uh, what’s your mom’s… uh, what does she do for a living?” Okay, that sounded neutral, right? And not at all like “How did your mother completely destroy all functionality in her baby boy?”
“Nothing,” Jefferson said, unperturbed. “She was really young when she had me, and my dad split, no alimony, and so she did the welfare thing. And then I got a job and I could support her.”
Mason was in his neighborhood going 10 miles an hour, which was a good thing or he might have wrecked the car. He tried really hard to imagine Janette Payton Hayes sitting static, doing nothing until her sons supportedher. The image didn’t compute.
“She… I mean, it’s not ideal, but she didn’t get a job?” His mom had degrees in marketing and finance. She’d made enough money to semiretire in her thirties so she could have children.
And it was just occurring to Mason that sometimes you had to know such a thing was possible before you did it yourself.
“Why would she get a job?” Jefferson asked, sounding blank. “She was raising me.”
For a moment Mason’s future was poised on a knife-edge: absolutely lose his shit about how wolves would have done a better job at raising Jefferson than his mother apparently had and lose any chance of having sex for maybe the next year, or….
Or be quiet and see where this went. Be quiet and bring him sweatshirts when he forgot. Be quiet and stock his car with granola bars for game days and start looking up recipes and cooking websites and maybe giving him some advice about always having rice and noodles on hand, and a can of mushroom soup for when things went wrong.
Be quiet and accept Jefferson for who he was and the limitations in his life, and maybe, week by week, show him how to reach for more.
Oh, Mason had never been good at being quiet. For better or worse, he’d ventured into life with an open mouth, full speed ahead.
“My mother had a job,” Mason said, shrugging like a capable, independent mother wasn’t the thing that had kept his life—and Dane’s—from hurtling into chaos. “I just can’t imagine her asking me to support her. You must be very strong.”
“Really?” Jefferson sounded entranced. “You think I’m strong?”
Mason swallowed. “You have no idea.”
And they were home. He pulled into his driveway feeling an absurd affection for the new home, for the great oak trees that hovered over the fenced poolyard and could be seen from the street, and for the unfenced property behind the pool that featured a creek that fed into the river.
It was beautiful here. He’d been happy about the archways and the shapes of the doors and the swimming pool, but now, with Jefferson right next to him, looking for things to wonder at, he was so very glad he had something with which to inspire wonder.
“This is pretty awesome,” Jefferson said, voice breathy.
“You like?” Mason felt his chest swell. “Uh, I mean, rich douche bags live here.”
Jefferson’s laugh rippled along Mason’s spine; it was a child’s laugh, unabashedly delighted. “That’s okay—I know one of those guys. He’s not bad.”
The compliment did more than ripple Mason’s spine—it penetrated through to his chest and his stomach.
“Well, let’s see if he’s got any tricks up his sleeve,” Mason said smugly, and he led the way.
Dane had been downstairs to make coffee and toast a bagel—as evidenced by the mess on the counter—but he was blessedly absent as Mason pulled Jefferson through the house and up the stairs.
“Nice!” Jefferson said, his voice subdued. He tugged on Mason’s hand so he could look around at the hardwood floors and the stenciling up near the ceiling in the hallway. “Did you do the painting?”
“Well, yeah. We redecorated Dane’s room, and we added the stencils because, you know—sort of boring off-white without it.”
