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“This is awesome,” I gush, looking up at the exposed beams on the vaulted ceiling. There is a queen-size bed between two windows on the right-hand side of the room and a desk in the left corner with a Laptop computer on it. The walls are bare but covered in wood paneling, giving the room a cozy feel, and a large bookcase runs along the entire length of the wall at the far end of the room.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” I think to myself but realize I just said it out loud.
“What were you expecting?” Mason asks, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Star Warsposters? The ultimate gaming setup with several computer screens?…Halo?” I shrug.
He chuckles, giving me a bemused smile. “I guess you could say I’m a slightly more traditional nerd. I like to read.”
Looking at his bookcase, I wander over, feeling the heat of him following behind me. He must have hundreds of books there, all by various authors, including Wilbur Smith.
In some of the gaps are photo frames, and I stop to look at one with six children of all different ages posing by a lake. I spot Mason in the photo—slightly younger than he is now—standing next to Ali with a smile on his face. “Are these all your brothers and sisters?” I ask.
“Yes, I have five siblings. This is Phoenix, but we call him Nix. He just turned eight.” He points to the little boy who greeted me at the door and then continues on, “This is Max, he is ten, and Alex is twelve. Ali, you’ve probably seen at school, she is seventeen, and Eliza is fourteen.”
I smile fondly, looking at the picture. They all have brown hair except for Alex and Eliza, who seem to have inherited their mother’s rich red locks. They all look so happy. It’s how a family should look and feeling a sense of emptiness all of a sudden, I look away.
“How about you? Any brothers or sisters?” Mason asks.
“I have an older brother and sister,” I reply, shaking off the melancholy. “They are both away at college.”
“You’re lucky.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
Looking at the rest of the photos, I spot one of Mason when he was younger with a man who looks like an older version of him. “Is this your father?” I point to it.
When he doesn’t answer, I look up to see his brows creased as he stares at it.
“Yes,” he answers in a low voice.
“He looks just like you,” I say, turning back to the photo. “How old were you?”
“I was ten,” he replies. “We went to the movies that day. Just him and me. Because we are such a big family, my father was worried we weren’t getting enough individual attention, so he decided to dedicate a day to each of us every month. A day where we could spend the day with just him.”
“He sounds like an amazing father.”
The emptiness creeps up on me again as I think about my own father. He would never think of spending time with his children like that.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when Mason whispers softly, “He was.”
“Was?” I glance up, and my chest constricts at the sight of his pained expression.
It’s a look I’m very familiar with.
“He died when I was twelve.”
I never knew this about him. During our time at middle school, not a single soul mentioned anything about Mason losing his father. Maybe they didn’t know. He was always a recluse, even back then. But had I known, perhaps we could have talked about it. Even though I had an entourage of friends around me, not a single one of them really understood the pain I carried around with me every day. It’s a pain I’m sure he would have been carrying himself, except he did it alone. The memories of those days—when the grief was still fresh—hit the forefront of my mind, and I look back at the photo, feeling my chest tighten further. “Can I ask how?”
“Car accident,” he replies with a subtle shake in his voice.
“I’m so sorry, Mason,” I whisper and sense his eyes shifting in my direction. I catch his movements in my peripheral vision, moving closer toward me but unable to meet his gaze; I inhale a shaky breath and decide on the spur of the moment to tell him my story. “My brother Blake died when I was twelve. He was diagnosed with leukemia when he was eight. He fought for two years…” I pause, my voice dipping as it becomes strained. “Until he couldn’t fight anymore.”
I never talk about Blake, especially with people I don’t know. Turning to face Mason, I peer up, expecting to see that look of pity that everyone gives me when I open up about him. Except that is not what I see. He is looking at me with understanding. The kind of understanding that only comes from someone who knows what it’s like to lose someone you love and how you never fully recover from it.
“I’m sorry, Ava,” he whispers, taking my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Our eyes remain locked, and I relax slightly as I look up into those deep blues staring down at me intently. Tingles radiate up my arm from the connection of our hands, and feeling light headed all of a sudden, I clear my throat and take a step back, breaking eye contact.
Directing my gaze over to his desk, I gesture toward it. “Should we get started?”
