Page 51 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

I almost miss the call.

The buzz of my phone rattles against my workbench, half-buried beneath invoices. I wipe my hands on a rag and check the screen.

A dull pulse starts at the base of my skull, the starting of a headache.

“Hey, Ma,” I answer, stepping outside the garage. The air bites a little, the sky a flat, exhausted gray.

“Mason, hi, honey,” she says brightly. “I just wanted to check in and see how my favorite grandson’s doing.”

I chuckle and lean my ass against the doorframe of the barn. “What about your favorite son?”

“Oh, Cal’s good, honey,” she says, but I can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay. I walked into that one, I guess.”

She laughs, and the sound is as familiar as it is comfortable. “I love all my boys equally, you know that.”

“Yeah, Ma, I know. How’s it going up there?” My gaze cuts to my house, idly wondering what Abby and Theo are up to.

“You know how it is. Cal had a game last night.” She draws out the sigh, making it clear she’s about to launch into a full recap. “He played well. Two assists. The scouts were there, Mason. At least three of them. Your brother was glowing.”

I picture Cal’s face, the grin he gets when he’s proud but trying not to show it. He’s always been like that. Like if he lets on how much something matters, it’ll get snatched away.

“That’s great, Ma. Tell him I said congrats, okay?”

A pause.

“I will. He’d love to hear from you, too. And if you ever feel up to, you know, coming to a game, just let me know. I told you he gets family tickets.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.”

She lets the silence stretch. My mother has this freaky, psychic way of sensing when I’m off, even from three states away. I’m already bracing for the question.

“You holding up okay?” she asks, softening her voice.

I glance down at my grease-stained hands, seeps of black in the lines of my palms. “Yeah, Ma. Just busy.”

“Busy is good. How are you balancing? Did you hire a nanny yet?”

I close my eyes for a second, picturing Abby on her tip-toes at the kitchen counter, Theo’s fist wrapped tight around her pointer finger while she stirs oatmeal one-handed.

“Yeah,” I say, but the word feels too small. “Yeah, I did.”

Nanny feels too small of a word for what Abby is to Theo—to us.

My mother’s tone perks up, laced with curiosity. “Is she working out?”

I hesitate—not because I don’t know what to say, but because I can feel the words clogging up my throat, thick and sticky as molasses.

Something about Abby feels too close to the bone, like if I talk about her for too long, I’ll start admitting things I shouldn’t, even to my own mother. Especially to my mother.

“She’s great,” I settle on, but it comes out gruff. “Theo loves her.”

“Mm-hmm.” There’s a shuffle in the background. “And do you?”

I nearly drop the phone. “Jesus, Ma?—”

“Oh, don’t start with me, Mason. You know what I mean.” Her voice winds itself around the question, gentle but ferocious. “I’m not asking if you love her. I’m asking if you’re happy with someone taking care of your son.”

I can practically hear the eye roll across the phone line.

“Yeah,” I say again, but now the word has barbs. “I trust her.”

She makes a little considering hum, the same one she used to make when she’d pull splinters from my palms and check whether I was about to cry. “That’s good, honey. You can’t do it all yourself, you know.”

I stare at the tree line, letting the wind sting my eyes. “I’m managing.”

“Mm-hmm.” That’s the last she’ll push, for now. “I’m glad she’s working out. You know, I need to tell you something, and I don’t know how to say it. So I’m just going to rip the Band-Aid off and say it.”

I brace, a hundred different scenarios flashing across my brain, each one more devastating than the last.

“I’m listening.”

“I saw your father.”

The words slide through me, cold and sharp as lake ice. For a second, I don’t hear anything else—just the static thump of my own heartbeat.

She waits, letting the bomb settle.

“He was at Cal’s game last night,” she says, voice careful, like she’s stepping around a sleeping animal. “Showed up after the first period.”

I picture him: a ghost with my jawline and none of my voice, hands jammed into the pockets of a coat he never took off even indoors.

I don’t know if he’s taller or shorter than I remember, but I see him in flashes—whiskey eyes, the gray at his temple, the way he could walk into a room and take all the oxygen with him before you even realized you were suffocating.

I say nothing. There’s no sentence long enough to outrun the memory of my father telling me he’d be right back to take me to my baseball game and never returning.

I hold the phone so tight my fingers throb.

“I thought he was dead.” It’s the first thing I can think to say.

There’s a small, almost apologetic laugh on the other end. “No, honey. I mean, I thought he was gone, too, for a long time. But I guess some people . . . stick around in their own way.” She trails off, letting the words float between us, thin and brittle.

“Did you talk to him?” I ask, the question sour on my tongue. I’m not sure what answer I want.

“I did, briefly. And before you ask, he asked about you.”

My jaw tightens. “What’d you tell him?”

Another pause. I can hear her thinking, hear the little click of her tongue against her teeth.

“I told him you were doing good. That you were a wonderful father and a better man than he ever was. I told him Cal is the best player on the team and that you’re still in Avalon Falls, running the garage and raising your son, making me proud every single day.

I told him you didn’t need anything from him. ”

The wind picks up, sharp and sudden, and I catch myself shivering even though it’s not that cold.

“Good,” I say, but my voice cracks right down the middle. The sound of it pisses me off, so I drag the heel of my palm over my mouth and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, hoping pain will chase back the shame and anger, the hot rush of old grief that never really left.

“You okay, honey?” she asks. Not like it’s a test, but like she already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” I say, and we both know I’m not. “Doesn’t matter.”

She sighs, the kind of tired that lives in your bones. “He’s not coming back, Mason. Not really. You don’t have to worry about that.”

I want to tell her I stopped worrying a long time ago.

That I’m nothing like him, that I never even think about him unless someone makes me, but that’s a lie.

The truth is, I see him in the mirror every morning.

I hear him in the way I say good night to Theo, the way I count seconds with my breath when I’m afraid I’m about to lose my shit.

I think about him when I make a promise, even a small one, because I know what it’s like to be the kid waiting for someone to come back and realizing they never will.

“He didn’t ask for anything,” my mother says, voice softer.

“He just, I don’t know, wanted to see Cal play, maybe.

Or maybe he wanted to see if you were there.

” She lets out a huff, almost a laugh, but it cracks and doesn’t recover.

“I’m telling you because it felt important. Like I owed it to you to be honest.”

I stand there, staring at the snake pit meadow, like the woods could swallow this conversation whole and give me back a version of myself that doesn’t know how to want a father. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. The cloud cover’s so thick you can’t tell what time it is.

“Yeah. Thanks, Ma.”

We’re quiet for a long time. She doesn’t fill the silence, and it’s the only kindness I can take right now.

When she speaks next, the tone is lighter, but there’s something behind it, a weight she can’t shake. “You know, you could bring Theo out to visit if you wanted. Cal would love to see him. And so would I.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that, honey.” She lets it linger, then shifts, suddenly brisk. “Alright. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Yeah, alright. See you later, Ma.”

“Bye, Mason. Give my grandson a kiss for me.”

“I will,” I mutter, my chest feeling tight.

She hangs up, and I stand there a long time, staring at the line where the gravel drive meets the grass.

He’s not coming back. Not really.

But the thing is, he never had to. He lives in the gaps.

The echo chambers of every promise I make, every time I look at Theo and swear I’ll never let him down.

He’s the ghost at my table, the shadow in every moment I almost believe I could be a good man and then remember I’m carrying a curse like a birthmark.

I scrub my hand over my jaw, the scrape of stubble grounding, then head back into the garage.

There’s work to do. A whole stack of it, actually: brake jobs, oil changes, an old F-150 with a transmission that won’t shift into park unless you sweet talk it and threaten violence.

I lose myself in the rhythm, the way I always have when things get too loud inside my head.

It’s a trick my mother taught me—occupy your hands, and your brain doesn’t have as much room to eat itself alive.

So I wipe down the bench, line up the sockets from largest to smallest, and sink both arms up to the elbow in the Chevelle’s engine bay. The smell of gear oil and old rubber is a comfort, the drone of classic rock in the background a static blanket. For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, I almost forget.

But ghosts are stubborn. You can drown them in axle grease and music and still, under all of it, they’ll find a way to surface.

By the time the clock over the workbench jumps an hour ahead, I’m officially sick of my shit. My head is pounding and my mood is fucking terrible.

I haven’t checked my phone. I haven’t looked at the house or the windows or anything but the blackened, oily guts of this engine bay.

Every time I pause, the memory of my father’s voice—barely remembered, but sharp as glass—cuts through the silence, and I want to punch something just to hear it break.

I toss the wrench onto the bench, the clang too loud in the close air. I’m done for the day. Not because I finished anything—just because I can’t stand the taste of my own thoughts anymore.

The sky outside is cloudy, despite the warm temperature.

My boots crunch over the gravel. The house windows are lit up, golden and warm against the gray.

The closer I get, the more I feel the tension in my shoulders, like I’m bracing for something.

Like maybe my father is waiting inside, ready to finish whatever he started when he left me on that curb.

But when I open the door, the first thing I see is my son. He’s a sticky, smiling mess in his high chair, applesauce slicked up to both eyebrows. Abby’s sitting next to him, hair falling loose around her face.

She’s got his spoon loaded with more applesauce than any sane person would attempt to land in that kid’s mouth.

I pause in the entryway, the sight of them hitting me like a punch in the chest. Not in a bad way. In the way that makes you feel so much at once you’re not sure if you want to laugh or fall to your knees. I lean against the frame for a second, letting the weird ache behind my eyes recede.

Theo wiggles, blinking up at her, and babbles, “Ma-ma. Ma-ma.”

Abby laughs and cheers. “Yay! Great job, buddy!”

And suddenly that ache inside of me detonates into something far darker.

Theo’s face is pure sunshine, cheeks smeared and grinning, and he does it again. “Ma-ma-ma.” Louder this time, like he’s fueled by Abby’s praise.

The strings inside me pull tight, bowing from the effort. Until they just snap.

“What are you doing with my son?”

Abby’s head snaps up, eyes wide, lips parted. “God, Mase, you scared me,” she says, pressing her free hand to her chest. Her grin spreads across her face. “Did you hear him?”

“You’re not his mother,” I snap, the room tilting a little.

She rears back, her mouth closing and her brows dipping low. “What?”

My chest heaves and my eyes feel a little wild as I look at her. I stalk across the kitchen, standing next to Theo and looking down at her.

“I said you’re not his mother. So don’t teach him to call you Mama. Why would you, of all people, teach him that?” It comes out sharper than I mean. Harsh and loud, but I can’t take it back now.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Even Theo freezes, his head turning toward me with wide, confused eyes. Abby doesn't flinch, not exactly, but her body stills like she’s bracing for impact.

She blinks once, twice, and then the color drains from her cheeks. It’s like watching a window slam shut from the inside. The spoon hangs in the air between us, trembling slightly.

“I know I’m not his mother.” Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady. Steady in that way that makes it feel like I’m the one unraveling. “You don’t have to keep reminding me, Mason.”

“Don’t I?” I arch a brow, dragging my gaze to my son and back to her.

She stands, slow and deliberate, applesauce dripping to the floor, and wipes her hand on a dish towel. She looks—fuck, she looks so small in my kitchen, all the light gone out of her eyes. And I put it there. I did that.

But I can’t bring myself to take it back. Not when she’s blurring the lines too quickly. I know what it’s like to have a parent leave, and I won’t put my son through the same thing.

“I’m going to go,” she murmurs. She sets the spoon down carefully, standing up and brushing a kiss on the top of Theo’s head. “I’ll see you later, buddy.”

She pauses in front of me, pressing a small board book into my chest. I look down automatically.

“This is a sign language book for babies,” she says, voice like cracked glass. “We’re working on the sign for ‘more.’ That’s what he was saying.”

Then she turns and walks away, leaving my house. Leaving me without looking back.

Just like I always knew she would.