Page 90 of Summer Lessons
“If it gets as loud as you and Jefferson, I’ll kill myself.”
Mason almost swerved into a tree. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have any idea how thick your walls are, Mason? And still, I swear to God, I thought you were killing him Saturday night.”
“You were there?” As far as Mason could remember, they’d gone out on a day trip that Saturday. “Dane said you didn’t get back until one!”
“It was to spare your feelings. Good Lord, man—I’ve seen nature shows on bonobos that made less noise.”
Mason’s flush had pretty much suffused his entire body. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I had no idea—”
Carpenter let out a giant sigh. “No. I’m sorry. You’re not that loud.”
“Then why—”
“Because.” Sigh. “Because. I’m nervous. And he’s trying not to let me know how important this is. And we’re both… I mean, the whole reason this started is because we liked each other, right?”
“Change is hard,” Mason said, a little less mortified. And a whole lot more sympathetic. “Just… don’t do anything out of character, okay?”
Carpenter grunted sourly. “Like have a relationship that doesn’t end in tears, recrimination, and assertions that my fat ass is the end-all and be-all of the problem?”
“You’re not fat,” Mason muttered. Sixty pounds. He must have lost sixty pounds in the past seven months.
“Well, it’s good to hear you say that. I’m freaking out, Mason—could you take me to Starbucks for a dessert drink and a cookie? I promise not to tell Skip if you don’t.”
“Deal,” Mason said. He was sort of depressed as it was. “Do you want to get lunch today? You can borrow my car.”
Carpenter’s twelve-year-old-doing-wrong laugh was a balm to his soul. “So, perks to banging the boss’s brother include access to the boss’s car. I should have slept over months ago.”
APPARENTLY DIETER’Sremorse hit, because Carpenter came back with sushi for lunch. Tasty, yes, but by the end of the day, Mason was craving steak and potatoes. Ugh—the curse of the overfed male!
He textedWhat are you doing for dinner?to Terry.
Caught a burger. Am writing thank-you notes. Do you have addresses?
Not everyone’s. Skip might.
Good idea!
Mason stared at the phone. ThoughtMaybe tomorrow, Mace.Thought it hard. Consistently. Just that one phrase. It never appeared.
Well, a night alone in his own apartment—wasn’t too much to ask.
Or two nights. Or three. Or four. On Thursday night, Mason put a spare set of work clothes—casual, in deference to his and Mrs. Bradford’s new resolve to dress like the sun was out to kill them—in the back of his car before he went to practice. The action was based on hope and hope alone.
Terry didn’t show up until halfway through, and although he ran by Mason and patted him casually on the ass, they didn’t get a chance to talk until the usual beer and bullshit session in the windless hush of sunset.
“You were late,” Mason said neutrally.
“Yeah—me and Rudy were picking out posters for my bedroom and the living room. Lost track of time.” He grimaced. “Low-rent move—sorry ’bout that, Skip.”
“No worries,” Skip said easily. “Just try to remember the game Saturday, okay?”
“Yeah! It’s our last, right? Two-week break afterward.”
Oh—dammit! Of all the fuckin’ times!
But everyone else was nodding like this was expected, and whatever. “Do we play when it gets to be a hundred?” Mason asked, half-afraid of the answer.
