Page 12 of Summer Lessons

“Yes. But… I don’t know. I just keep expecting the world to be all… bright and promising like it was when we were kids. Like, I found out what sex was, and that it involved my penis, and I was expecting there to be days when my entire body felt like fireworks and I could see God.”

“Damn,” Dane said with a whistle.

“Have you ever had those days?”

“Only when I was on an upswing. Have you?”

Mason laughed unhappily. “Once. He took my cash and credit cards and left my car keys.”

Dane grimaced, the expression clear even in the semidarkness. “Oh Mace.”

“I just… I don’t want another relationship—not if it’s not going to be awesome, you know?”

He’d put so much of himself into saying that. He thought Dane would understand.

“You’ll never know if it’s going to be a prince until you kiss him,” Dane said practically.

Mason sighed. “I’m going to bed.”

“Me too. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. And give you your gift then.”

“Is my gift a sausage burrito?”

“No, smartass, it’s not. Now go to bed. I want you to drive tomorrow so I don’t get homicidal.”

Whatever.

DANE’S PRESENTturned out to be a gorgeous framed print of Vincent Van Gogh’sStarry Night. Done a lot? Well, yes, but Mason didn’t care. Having it in his living room made him really happy.

They left at noon, hoping to pull into Redwood City around three, and just about the time Dane nodded off—thank God because he was often a nervous passenger—Mason’s phone rang.

Mason put it on speaker and hoped Dane could continue to sleep through anything like he had when he’d been a baby.

“Hey, uh, Mason? This you?”

“Yes….”

“I hope it’s okay I’m calling. I got your number from Skip. This is, uh, Jefferson? Terry Jefferson?”

“Yeah,” Mason said, hating his brother for the absurd little adrenaline spike that hit him right in the chest. “Last night, Skipper’s house. I was there.”

“Of course you were. Anyway, after you left last night, I asked Skip if you could play soccer, and he said sure, he would have asked you sooner but he thought you only played golf. As. If.”

“I play golf,” Mason said, a little affronted.

“Do youlikegolf?” Jefferson asked suspiciously.

“If I’m playing with friends,” Mason said, Hazel Avenue turning to Highway 50 as he spoke. “Why am I defending golf?”

“Because usually only rich douche bags play golf,” Jefferson said, disgust lacing his voice.

“Well, I’m a rich douche bag. Sue me. Why are you calling again?” And here was the interchange. Mason hated this section of freeway because it was usually muddling—but lucky him, the road was almost empty today.

“To ask you to play soccer with us peasants.”

Mason snorted softly. “Can I wear my white cleats and expect you to clean them?”

He heard Jefferson’s reluctant snort on the other end. “You can expect all sorts of things. Mostly expect to have a beer after practice and pizza after the games and dirt rubbed into your face during play. We only win sometimes.”