Page 38 of Summer Lessons
It was a thing he didn’t know how to fix.
“But…,” he said, sounding plaintive like a spoiled child. “I… I care about him. Do I not get to care about him because I’m a rich douche bag?”
Skipper laughed a little and finally set his fork down, like he couldn’t eat anymore even though he was about halfway done. “No. I don’t think that’s how it works. But it means you need to help him see bigger than what he’s got. It’s like….” Skipper sighed and looked at Mason unhappily. “I really hate talking about myself. I hope you know that.”
Mason grimaced. “I couldn’t miss it if I was blindfolded,” he said honestly.
“Well, good. Because this is me being a friend, and now you know. But Richie and I, when we were first getting together, he didn’t want to leave his dad. Not because he couldn’t afford to live away or because he was afraid of being on his own, but because his dad, he was the only family Richie had. And he’s a bigoted asshole, so if Richie left him for me….” Skipper stood up and started wrapping up the food on the table.
“It was permanent,” Mason said, understanding.
Skip looked at him square on, a wealth of understanding loading down his broad shoulders. “Itispermanent. And it’s scary. So Jefferson—Terry—if his situation with his mom is awful, well, he thinks that’s just his life. You may want to keep going like you are until he can see there’s more to life than just what he’s got now.”
“Patience,” Mason said, feeling stupid because it was obvious. “You’re talking patience.”
Skip nodded. “And… like, use your words. He won’t. You need to give him words to use.”
Mason nodded, thinking about chocolate chip cookies and promises to be monogamous because condoms were a pain in the ass. “Better words,” he said softly.
“Yeah. Macho male bullshit is only romantic if one of you translates,” Skipper said pragmatically. Then he shrugged and smiled shyly. “That sounds really fucking wise of me, I know, but truth is, I’ve got a whole three months of relationship under my belt. Let’s see if Richie and I haven’t screwed things up in a year, and I’ll tell you how much of this works.”
Mason laughed. “Sit down, Skipper—you’ve wrapped up lunch, but we’ve still got half an hour to go. I brought some cookies from home. Do you want some?”
Skip bit his lip. “I’ll have to run an extra block, but sure!”
They dug into the cookies Mason had brought in a baggie. Mason watched his friend looking just as blissed out as Terry did and had a useless wish that everyone he knew had had a Janette Hayes to make them cookies when they were kids.
Or a someone. Anyone at all.
THURSDAY NIGHTwas stormy and blustery—no practice. Mason texted Terry just to be sure, but he was expecting theCan’t get away. Sorry, no dinner!that he got back.
Miss you, he texted truthfully.I missed you all week.Mason had tried—he’d sent cute little pictures from the Internet, pictures of his brother asleep with shaving cream in his hand (because Mason and Dane reallyweretwelve), and pictures of him awake with shaving cream in his hair.
He’d gotten back the occasional LOL, but nothing beyond that, and Mason was wondering if he wasn’t getting brushed off, which, after all of that research, sort of hurt.
A lot.
I want to come have dinner, he got back.Mom doesn’t like the rain. It freaks her out.
Wow. That was more truth and emotional availability than Mason had assumed he’d get in a month! He’d take it!
Dane hates the rain too, he confessed, looking at his brother on the other side of the couch. Dane was flipping through the channels dispiritedly, and Mason reminded himself to ask Dane about his medication.It triggers his depressive episodes sometimes.
Your brother gets depressed?
And oh crap. Mason had forgotten that Terry didn’t know everything—or anything, really—about his life. Well, Skipper said it was up to him to provide a road map.He has bipolar disorder. If he doesn’t take his meds he goes up up up and then comes crashing down. It’s scary.
Beat, beat beat, and Mason felt the absolute terror of wondering if he’d jumped without a safety net and landed on a cliff.
He always seems so together. I had no idea.
He IS together, Mason texted, girding himself for a brief educational text interlude on mental health.His brain chemistry just betrays him.
“Who are you texting?” Dane asked, and Mason jerked, sending the phone up in the air before catching it.
“Ta-da!” he said, and Dane clapped. Mason inclined his head modestly and answered the question. “Terry. We were going to do something tonight, but no soccer.”
“Oh!” Dane replied, sounding very innocent of any knowledge that he was being gossiped about. “Getting-to-know-you texting. It probably should have happened three weeks ago.” He nodded sagely. “Oh well, better late than never. I’m settling on shotgunningVinyland eating popcorn. Are you game?”