When the water is gone, I grab his empty hand. “Why not. Show me how it’s done, Anderson.”
Chapter Four
Mascen
I’m beginning to regret my decision not to go out with my friends. A distraction would be nice right about now, but instead I’m sitting on the couch, legs stretched out on the leather ottoman, watching the History Channel. I have a weakness for Ancient Aliens that Cole never lets me live down since he first caught me watching it. Joke’s on him now since I got him addicted to it.
I lift the beer bottle to my lips, finding it empty.
Groaning out a sigh I put it on the side table. As much as I’d like another, I have to be careful. It’s not technically baseball season, but with Coach Meyers there is no true off-season. He runs a tight ship. It’s why I wanted to attend here in the first place, to be coached by him, but I worked my ass off to get accepted based on my grades and own merit. Not what I could bring to the baseball team, or what my parents’ bank account looks like.
Too many people are content to sit back and let money do the talking, but my family is different.
Both of my parents grew up poor, my dad and his brother were foster kids, and they wanted to make sure that my sisters and I understood that while we were privileged others were not. We learned not only to give back, but to work for the things we wanted. We were spoiled in ways, sure, I mean look at my car and this fancy townhouse, but we had a better grasp on things than some people.
I’d been around enough rich pricks for it to put a sour taste in my mouth.
I think that’s why I clicked with Cole. We met during freshman orientation, hung in similar circles, and became good friends. He’s here on scholarship, the guy is an incredible basketball player, and lucky for me he doesn’t give a shit who my dad is.
He’s met my parents and didn’t bat an eye. It was ridiculously refreshing. I made a comment about it once and he said, “I’m trying to make something of myself out there on the court, your last name isn’t going to help me throw a three-pointer.”
Rubbing the back of my head, I try to pay attention to what they’re saying on TV but I can’t focus.
Standing, I swipe the empty bottle from the table and toss it in the recycle bin. I check over things, making sure no dirty dishes are left out—learned that shit the hard way my first year living on my own and ruined four dishes when I had friends over and dinner ended up permanently crusted on them—and turn the security on. Another lesson I learned my freshman year—people are fucking crazy. Or more specifically, girls are fucking crazy. Once they got wind of where I lived they were literally trying to break in and steal things, like as if I would have memorabilia lying around from my dad’s band. You’d think it would be women my parents’ age going gaga over my dad, but women of all ages are obsessed with Willow Creek. It’s fucking crazy.
Taking a bottle of water from the fridge, I also swipe some Cool Ranch Dorito’s—my weakness, before turning the lights off and heading up to bed.
Stifling a yawn, I push the door to my room open just as my phone starts ringing in my shorts pocket.
Putting the water and chips on my nightstand I dig my phone out.
Smiling, I answer the Facetime call.
“Hey, Momma.”
My mom’s smiling, glowing face lights up the phone. Her curly hair takes up most of the screen and her kind brown eyes make my heart ache. I’m a momma’s boy through and through.
“How’s my baby boy?”
“About to get in bed,” I reply, flicking on the light so she can see me better.
“Ah, there you are.” She smiles, leaning against the kitchen counter. “What’s Cole up to?”
“Out with the guys.”
“And you didn’t go?” She arches a brow as I yank my bed sheets back.
“Nah. Wasn’t in the mood.”
She frowns, her brow wrinkling. “What is it this time?”
“The usual.” I roll my eyes.
“Mascen,” she sighs my name, eyes suddenly sad.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”
Her frown only grows more with my use of the word mom. “Your dad means well, honey, he just…”
“Loves Willow and Lylah more,” I finish for her, trying not to sound bitter.
She scoffs. “Mascen Zane Wade, absolutely not. Your father loves you all equally.”
I give her a narrow-eyed look. “He wasn’t even home to say goodbye. He was off with Willow.”
“He was stuck in traffic getting back and you know it. You wouldn’t wait for him to get home.”
“He didn’t need to take off to Willow’s in the first place. So what if the dog got out, isn’t that what her fiancé is for?”
Fuck, I sound whiny as hell to my own ears. I can’t imagine how I sound to my mom.
The truth is, my dad’s absence when I left yesterday to head back to Tennessee has weighed heavily on me, more so than the article I spotted in a small-town gas station when I stopped.
“Mascen.” She plops her head in her hand. “Now you’re just nit-picking. You and your dad have always had trouble communicating. It’s because you’re too much alike.” I open my mouth to argue that we’re nothing alike, and I’m certain that’s the real reason we butt heads so often, but she cuts me off. “You are, Mascen. He’s my husband and you’re my son, believe me, I can see it even if you can’t. You could’ve waited for him to get home.”
I look away from the screen. She’s right that I could have, I know, but I won’t say it. There’s so much more shit between my dad and me than just him not being there to say goodbye to me yesterday.
I hear a door open and then his voice.
“I’m talking to Mase,” she tells him in response to whatever he said.
Suddenly his face appears beside hers, eyes crinkled at the corners, and the tiniest hint of gray at his temples.
A girl on campus yelled across the quad at me last year that my dad’s a DILF. It grossed me the fuck out, especially when I recognized her. She’d sucked me off in the bathroom at Harvey’s only a few weeks prior.
Clearing my throat, I wave at the screen. “Hi, Dad.”
“Did you get there safe?”
“Obviously,” I blurt.
He presses his lips together, but doesn’t say anything. A little black nose pokes out of the pocket of his shirt and then the whole head of a spiky hedgehog.
“Aw,” my dad begins, pulling the critter from the pocket. “Quilly Wonka wants to say hello.”
“Why’s he in your pocket?”
I mean, my dad carrying a hedgehog in his pocket is unfortunately not that uncommon. They’re his pet of choice, plus he rescues them, and even breeds them. In his words, “There’s no such thing as too many hedgehogs.”
I would’ve been happy with a Golden retriever or something.
But no, we got hedgehogs growing up.
“He got in a fight with Quilliam Shakespeare. I told him he couldn’t hog the mealworms.”
Running my fingers through my hair, I sigh. “I’m really tired so I’m going to go to bed. Night, guys.”