Page 3 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The gravel crunches under my boots, the sound swallowed by the early morning fog curling low over the field. It’s quiet out here—thick, still, not yet disturbed by the day. Just the wind grazing the trees, the sharp bite of coffee in my hand, and the soft weight of Theo against my chest.

He’s still half-asleep, cheek pressed to my shoulder, curls damp with sweat.

He always sleeps hot, no matter the season or the kind of pajamas I put him in.

Mom says I was the same way, which feels impossible.

Sometimes I look at him and still can’t believe he’s mine.

Like I was trusted with something too perfect. Too important.

His fingers curl loosely around the collar of my shirt, same as they did when he was tiny. He’s still tiny, I guess, but already pushing out into the world in little ways. Reaching, babbling, climbing. Mom keeps saying he’ll be walking soon.

God help me.

The thought of him toddling through this place on his own is a special kind of fear. But more than that, I know I’m going to miss this. These quiet, heavy mornings where he fits against me like he was made for it.

I still carry him like this every morning. Because I can. Because I promised myself I would.

The porch steps creak under my boots. I nudge the screen door open with my foot, catch it before it slams, and step into the house that’s mine now. Ours. It still smells faintly of new paint and sawdust, though the edges are starting to wear off.

I cross to the kitchen and shift Theo into the high chair, strapping him in with one hand while balancing my coffee in the other. He grumbles a little at the buckle, then starts gnawing on his lion’s paw like he hasn’t been fed in days.

“I’m working on it,” I mutter, grabbing a fruit and veggie pouch from the basket near the sink.

I shake a handful of Cheerios onto the tray in front of him.

"Start with these, bud. Then we'll move onto bananas, blueberries, and spinach." It’s a weak breakfast, but it’ll do until I make it to the store.

My fault. I make a mental note to stop by after nap time, even though I know I’ll forget unless I write it down.

There’s a sticky note on the fridge from Mom.

Pediatrician appointment on Thursday. Don’t forget to pack snacks. Love you.

Her handwriting is neat. Practical. Familiar in a way I didn’t realize I’d miss until I knew it was leaving.

One week. Then she will be gone to Crestwood for my younger brother, Callum’s, hockey season. And it’ll be just me and Theo.

It’s not like I haven’t been doing this. I have. Every day. Every night. But knowing she was across town—it was a safety net. A last line of defense, if I needed it. And I have. Less lately, maybe. But still.

Now it’s all on me.

I move to the sink, rinse out a couple of sippy cups, and set them upside down on the drying rack.

Outside the window, the fog is burning off in streaks, revealing the land beneath—green and raw, quiet.

It stretches out behind the house for almost ten acres, give or take.

That number sounded good on paper. A fresh start. Room to grow.

But now? Now it just feels like one more thing I have to figure out how to manage.

The house itself is nothing fancy. Single story, low-slung, old ranch bones with sun-faded siding and windows that still need new trim. The inside is functional, barely. I fixed what needed fixing first: plumbing, heat, the kitchen floor that used to slope like a funhouse.

The pole barn sits about seventy feet out, down a gravel path past the side porch.

That was the first project I threw real money at.

I had to. I needed a place to work again—somewhere to take on contract jobs without hauling back and forth across town.

The barn’s big, steel-framed and insulated, with space for three lifts and a workbench that runs nearly the length of the wall.

And in the corner, tucked away behind a series of makeshift gates and foam mats, I built a spot for Theo. A safe zone. Padded, clean, stocked with toys and a pack-and-play. If I’m going to work, he needs to be with me. Not somewhere I’m constantly worrying if he’s okay.

Because being his dad doesn’t shut off when I’m clocked in. There’s no clock. There’s just this.

A vibration buzzes against the counter and my phone screen lights up.

I swipe to answer and tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear as I dry my hands on a dish towel. “Hey, Ma."

“Morning,” she chirps—too bright for this early. “Just checking in. How’s my grandson?”

I lean my ass against the counter and look at Theo. “He’s good. I think he might be cutting another tooth. He’s going to town on his stuffy.” I'm going to have to steal his stuffed lion during nap time and toss him in the wash.

She hums like she already suspected it. “Try some of the frozen teethers in the freezer."

"Yeah, I will."

“I know you’re figuring things out,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words one at a time. “But have you thought any more about part-time childcare? Just to give you a little breathing room?”

My jaw ticks. I turn toward the window, watching the way sunlight cuts across the overgrown yard like a slow-moving spotlight.

“I’m fine, Ma. Besides, I like him close.”

“Maybe a nanny then?” she hedges, her voice careful, soft.

I swallow down the scoff building in my throat. “Yeah, I’m not letting some random woman roam around my house all day.”

She sighs, and I feel it through the phone. That familiar, long-suffering exhale that used to mean Mason, you’re being stubborn again.

I drag a hand over the back of my neck and glance at Theo. He’s laser-focused on the Cheerios, shoving them into his mouth with chubby fists. When he looks up, he flashes me a gummy grin, two tiny teeth catching the light.

My chest tightens. That same sharp swell of love. It's overwhelming and terrifying. But it also makes me feel complete in a way I’ve never known.

“I know you want to do everything yourself,” she says, gentler now. “But we all need help sometimes, honey. Even you.”

I don’t say anything. Not because I disagree—I don’t. She’s right. But hearing it out loud feels like admitting I might not be enough. That I can’t hold it all together on my own. And I have to hold it together. For Theo. For me.

The silence stretches, feeling heavy.

“Well you’ve got me for another week,” she adds before I can answer. “Why don’t I make a few calls? Just see what’s out there. A backup, in case of emergencies.”

I shift my weight, the dish towel still clenched in one hand. Theo slaps both palms on his highchair tray like he’s giving final judgment on the matter.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally. It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

“That’s all I’m asking.” Her voice softens further. “I know you’re doing your best, Mason. And it’s enough. You’re doing enough.”

I swallow hard. She means it. I know she does. But it doesn’t land the way she wants it to. Enough has never felt like something I could count on. Not when it came with conditions from the people who were supposed to give it freely.

Theo makes a content noise around the last of his puréed fruit. I glance over. His cheeks are smeared, his clothes are a mess, but he looks proud as hell about it. A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth despite everything.

“I gotta go,” I tell her, voice rougher than before. “We’ve got a full morning.”

She doesn’t push. “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll stop by later with some freezer meals.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Gratitude warms the hollow cavern beneath my ribs.

“Give my grandson some love from me. Love you, Mason."

I chuckle at the sentiment. It's the same thing she says every time she's about to hang up. “I will. Love you too, Ma.” I hang up and glance at the screen still glowing in my hand.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I swipe into the thread with Abby. Her message from two days ago still sits there, like it’s been waiting for me.

A photo of a cherry-red ’69 Camaro, restored within an inch of its life, taunts me.

I stare at it for a beat too long, thumb hovering over the screen. Talking to her has become . . . easy. Familiar and nice. A kind of lifeline these past few months, even if I’d never say it out loud.

It started with a thank you text after Beau called her when Theo was sick and Ma was out of town.

One message turned into two, then five. Updates about Theo.

A pediatrician recommendation. A picture of Theo passed out with a graham cracker in his fist. It stayed in safe territory— Theo territory—which made it easier to pretend I wasn’t looking forward to her replies.

I type out the start of a reply.

Me: That thing looks better than it did when it rolled off the line.

Theo lets out a sharp, frustrated cry from the high chair. I glance over to find him frowning at his tray and the one lone Cheerio left, betrayal written all over his face. He smacks both hands down with a frustrated grunt.

“I got you, bud,” I mutter, slipping the phone into my back pocket and grabbing one of the fruit-and-veggie packets off the counter. “Your favorite packet incoming.”

He reaches for it with both hands, eager but clumsy, his grip too tight. The packet squelches between his fists and I lunge in time to stop it from bursting across his pjs.

“Whoa, easy,” I say, prying his fingers back gently and twisting off the cap. "We’re not turning breakfast into a finger-painting session today.”

He babbles something in response and kicks his feet happily, satisfied now that food is in motion.

I lean my hip against the counter, watching him. Just watching. His hair’s starting to curl at the ends. His cheeks are red from sleep and teething. And he’s mine.

God help me, he’s mine.

My phone is still warm in my pocket. Her message still open. My reply still unsent.

Across the room, the fridge hums softly. The baby monitor lights flicker. Outside, the yard waits—grass too long, fence half-fixed, a rusted workbench in the barn that needs sanding before the rain moves in.

But for now, I hold the packet while my son eats. And I let it be enough.

The weight of him in this moment? It’s the only thing that makes me feel steady.