Switching his stereo over to a cd, he skips to song number twelve. To my surprise, a heart-wrenching saxophone swoops in, filling the car with a sweet and sultry solo that wells a myriad of emotions deep inside me.
"John Coltrane?" I whisper, looking over at him, my heart all but melting.
Nodding slowly, he grins. "I'm surprised you know that. This song's called ‘Naima.' There's so much soul."
As we listen to the stirring, melancholy notes that leak from the speakers, I watch Mason out of the corner of my eye. This is more different from my own music taste than I would have thought, but that's the beauty of spending time with this man. He's so unexpected. He'd come into my life only a few short days ago, but already I'm feeling the alluring effects of him washing over me on a daily basis. Not in ground-shifting ways, but it's something tinier. Nearly insignificant. Like the silliness in the delivery of his nerdy jokes. Or the way he makes me feel like I'm a vital addition to his life. Or even the depth of one of his favorite songs as he opens my mind to it. As I study the browns of his eyes that are glued to the road, I feel myself growing a soft spot for him. At realizing this, I clench my teeth and cross my arms over my chest. "I pegged you as more of a Kenny G. type," I say, trying to remedy the accidental feelings I've started developing toward this man. "Where do you find this stuff?"
"Gotta get out of Southport occasionally." He pulls a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses from his center console, and I find myself wanting to reach over and pluck them from his face just so I can study his eyes a little longer.
As we get closer to Raleigh, my stomach begins to churn in anticipation. I start willing time to slow, to keep me here in this car with Mason for as long as possible. I don't want the warm, careful bubble we've created with one another to burst. I don't want to be put back into a world with things like ex-boyfriends, canceled bands, and expectations I can't live up to.
"Are you worried?" Mason asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Hmm?"
Putting his hand on my bare knee, he tilts his head toward me. "It's okay, I understand. If it makes you feel any better, I told my parents you're just a friend who's into music."
For some reason, I grow quiet. I don't know why, but I can't quite tell how I feel about this. What do I want Mason to tell his parents? That we're together? A couple?
"Besides, I'll be sleeping on the couch," he says.
My eyes snap up to his in contemplation. "As opposed to what?"
Shrugging, he scrubs a steady hand over his jaw. "As opposed to sleeping with you in my bedroom. If you think my love for the Spice Girls is embarrassing, you should see the posters I have hanging on my walls from high school."
I force out a laugh, but it ends up sounding awkward. Our situation, whatever it is, has suddenly become real. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. "I'm not," I hum, pulling my hair over one shoulder.
He squeezes my knee in a soft caress and puts his hand back on the wheel just in time to take the Raleigh exit.
"I'm not worried." And even as I say it, I'm not sure if I'm working to convince him or myself.
Mason steers us over a series of roads that he seems to know by heart until we arrive in a suburban neighborhood that I'm sure I've seen in either a real estate commercial or on a wholesome family sitcom from the sixties.
"This is where you grew up?"
He nods as he pulls us into the paved driveway of a gray-blue house that's surrounded by a full porch, all encompassed by a white picket fence. Though the sharp afternoon light is dwindling into a soft evening haze, I can see the perfectly manicured lawn, the mulched flower beds filled with an array of bright pansies and shrubs exploding with pink and white hydrangeas, and the old tire swing that hangs from the oak tree in the front yard. The mailbox has "Matthews" delicately painted on it in some modern calligraphy, and I instantly imagine what
Brooke would say if she could see this place. Suburbia sameness.
"It's a lot less vanilla than it looks," Mason says turning off the car. He hurries to my door, opening it for me. Though I feel a little awkward letting him do this, I take in a deep breath of the cool evening breeze.
"Vanilla? Right," I laugh. "It reads pretty Leave It to Beaver if you ask me."
He grabs both of our bags from the backseat and with his free hand, pauses, pulling me to him. I'm suddenly self-conscious that someone inside the house will see us, but instead of pulling away, all I can do is give him a sheepish grin. He ducks down, touching his forehead to mine. "Golly gee, Wally," he calmly whispers without even an ounce of humor. "It won't be so bad. I promise, Ellie. I'll be right here next to you."
I soak in the fleeting moment before he takes me by the hand and leads me up the stone path to a navy blue front door. My nerves gather at my collarbone, and I'm almost positive Mason can feel my heart pounding against my rib cage. As he opens the door, my ears start to ring with a panic-filled static.
We're greeted by a mild, friendly light from an ornate floor lamp and the scent of sweet pears mixed with hamburger grease and freshly baked cake wafting from further into the house. The first thing I spot is the vintage Parisian rug that ties in nicely with the beige-gray walls. A slim console table beside us in the foyer holds a sea of tender little Willowtree figurines that make my heart ache to a strange, delicate degree.
"Hello?" Mason calls out further into the house from beside me.
"Mason!" a lively voice shouts from the kitchen.
He squeezes my hand tighter, but as soon as his sister bolts around the corner, he lets go of me. "Hey, Bethy," he says with a genuine fondness. Bending to hug her, he reaches up and ruffles her hair with some kind of an annoying, brotherly noogie.
"Stop," she squeaks, pulling away from him with a disgruntled laugh. "You messed up my hair! I'm not ten years old anymore, Mason."
He gasps. "You're not? When did that happen?"
"I'm sixteen now," she says, trying to recover from his antics. She has the same dark mane and intense eyes as Mason, but her hair is cut into choppy layers that fall just below her shoulders. She wears no glasses but is dressed in a black pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray pair of ankle boots. And just from looking at her, her style is impeccable for a high schooler.
"Are you Ellie?" she asks, turning to me with a bashful smile.
"I sure am. It's awesome to meet you." Against every uncomfortable fiber in my being, I reach out and hug her. "Happy Birthday, Beth."
"Thanks. Whoa," she says, regarding my moon tattoo on my arm. "See, Mom?" Beth calls through the foyer in a petulant voice. "Ellie has a tattoo. Why can't I get one?"
Self-consciously, I cover my tattoo with my free hand. Why wouldn't Mason tell me to wear long sleeves if he knew this was going to be an issue? I'm probably already on his mom's shit-list for stirring this up without even meaning to.
Mason gives Beth a look and mouths the word 'behave' to her as we walk into the kitchen. There's so many people, I immediately grow embarrassed at everyone hunkered down in here, staring at us as we join the party. There must be a dozen different faces.
"And I'm sure that tattoo looks wonderful on her," a tall, silvery brunette says, standing at the kitchen island mixing a garden salad into a pristine white serving bowl with a pair of tongs. "How old were you when you got your tattoo, Ellie?"
Instantly, I read her mind. "I'm pretty sure I was twenty," I say with raised eyebrows.
Mrs. Matthews nods and looks up, flashing me a quick wink.
"So unfair," Beth whines as she sulks off and plops down at the only empty chair at the farmhouse table that's surrounded by strangers. "I can't even wait that long. Please, mom?"
Mason furrows his brow at her. "How do you think I felt when I got you for my sixteenth birthday, huh?" Mason asks to the uproarious laughter of his entire family.
"Very funny," Beth says. "You didn't get me at sixteen. Your birthday isn't until October!"
"Oh, right. I must have forgotten in my old age."
"No worries, son. Happens to th
e best of us," someone chuckles. A shorter man with a full head of dark hair streaked with grey at his temples walks inside from the french doors, and I immediately recognize him as Mason's father. Except for his height, the two appear to be identical twins. Holding out his hands, he takes both of our bags from Mason. "I'll take these upstairs. Very glad you could join us, Ellie." He gives me a quick peck on the cheek, something I wasn't expecting.
"Alright— come in, come in!" Mrs. Matthews calls, walking away from the counter. She dries her hands on a towel. "Mason, introduce your guest, honey. I'm Georgia," she says, offering me her hand. "That was the ever-present Frank Matthews. And this is Sam and Lora who own the boutique in Charlotte if Mason's told you." She points down the line of each relative. "Rachel, Taylor, Uncle Steve who's the football coach at the high school over here— all part of Mason's extended family— and the cousins, of course, are all outside somewhere runnin' around. Hooligans we call 'em. Anyway, Mason's told us plenty about you, dear."
Turning, I eye Mason who's now engrossed in conversation with the tall redhead who can only be Georgia's younger brother, Uncle Steve. I'm seeing Mason in such a different light right now, surrounded by his quirky, adorable family. Seeing him like this, on the precipice of sincerity in front of his family, I grow a tender spot for him. "Really?" I ask in surprise. "He can't have told you much about me."
"Mhmm." She pulls two packs of hamburger buns open, laying the bread out on a platter. "He was going on and on about this nice girl he met at one of those concerts he loves. Said you offered to help him pick out a present for his baby sister," she whispers, her accent growing thicker for a second, obviously trying to keep Beth from hearing the last part. As Georgia continues to talk, I hear more of a subtle twang in her voice that endears me to her instantly. "Sounds like he might just be sweet on you." She pats my arm with a grin.
"Wow. That's… that's nice of him," I say, not exactly sure how to feel about it. I guess he neglected to explain to his mom that he basically blackmailed me into helping him pick out a gift for Beth.
"Well, I'm guessing he didn't tell you much about us," Georgia continues, and before I can open up my mouth to protest, Beth interrupts.
"Mom, can we hurry up and eat? I want to open presents."
Georgia rolls her eyes and dramatically flips her silver-streaked hair to feign like she's on Beth's level, and for the first time this evening, I smile feeling entirely at ease.
When Mason hears Beth's plead, he must sneak away to grab her gift because when he returns, he sets it on the table in front of her. "You can open this one present before dinner. Only because it's a surprise."
Beth hops up from her chair. With all eyes on her, she swiftly unwraps the purse from the tissue paper, her jaw dropping in joy. "Oh my God, it's so cute! I love it so much, thank you!" she all but shouts. "Mom, look!"
"I see it," Georgia says. And by the look of her grin, something tells me she knows what's coming next.
"Check inside," Mason leads with a pointed finger.
"Inside the purse?"
Nodding, Mason chuckles, his expression full of anticipation. "Go ahead. It's from Ellie and me."
His claim catches me off-guard, but when I look over at him, he smiles at me sweetly.
When Beth opens the purse, she heaves a preliminary gasp while pulling the tickets out.
Studying them, she furrows her brow at first, her face scrunched with the mystery of what they are. But then, like a light bulb flickering on, it hits her. "Oh my god," she shrieks through all the chatter at the table. "Sweet Tennessee, are you serious?" Leaping over to us with her leather purse still tied around her, she envelops both Mason and me in an adorably smothering hug. "Thank you so much!" she sings, sounding on the edge of hysteria. "This is going to be the best night of my life!"
Chapter Eighteen
Ellie
"Pretty please, can I come?" Beth asks from the backseat of Mason's sedan. "I think mom will let me if you convince her good enough."
"Sorry, Beth. You can't show up to the music festival unsupervised, and I've got to work that day."
In shock at the thought of him missing the festival, I turn to him as he drives us the fifteen miles toward the Peachtree Venue for the show. I'd been looking forward to having him see me in my element. "You do?" I ask, trying to hold back the concern in my voice. "I didn't realize you had to work that day." The thought packs a sour, depressing punch, but I suppose I should be grateful that he contributed by getting me that press release.
"Of course I do," he says, hooking a hard left onto Barwell Road. "Who do you think's covering the festival for the paper?" He reaches over and caresses my bare knee, a caring gesture that goes unnoticed by Beth.
"You're seriously covering it?" I say, tucking my hair behind my ears out of nerves. I try to hold my tone in around Beth, but my voice edges toward an elation that I just can't shake. "You're the best," I whisper, locking eyes with him for a split-second. And I mean it.
This is huge. Even Charlie will be stoked on the fact that The Anchor will run another piece for us. It'll mean all kinds of sponsorships and incentives for local bands next year. No more question if there will even be a next year. Based on his earlier press release, I have no doubt that Mason's write up will put the sleepy old town of Southport on the music map of North Carolina permanently. "You have no idea how happy that makes me," I say, still trying to play it neutral.
"Yeah? You get the Boxley Brothers to come, I'll give it the front page treatment," he says with a wink.
Beth gasps. "The Boxley Brothers? Come on, Mason!"
"Sorry, sis." He shrugs with a genuine grimace. "Work is work. Maybe you can convince pops to bring you down."
"Yeah, right," she whines.
"Hey, Beth," I say, trying to take her mind off the festival. "Would you believe me if I told you Mason and I actually met at a Boxley Brothers show?"
She lets out a tortured sort of grunt, and as I flip the sun visor down, I peek at her in the seat behind me. She has the happiest, most hopeful expression I've ever seen on a teenager as she gazes out the window, her cell phone clutched to her heart. "You're so fucking cool," she sings.
My hand pops up over my mouth as I suppress a giggle. "You are, too, kiddo."
"Enough with the language, Beth." Mason runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. "You know that's not allowed."
"Sorry, Mom," Beth chides. I can tell she wants a reaction from her brother, but he's not giving her one.
The Peachtree is a much bigger venue than the Hatfield amphitheater in Wilmington where I met Mason. With all the people swarming, I latch onto Mason's shirt and grab Beth's hand which she doesn't seem. We weave through the sweaty crowd toward the box office and finally make it inside. Mason offers to buy us food and drink, but we're so full from hamburgers and birthday cake that we decide on a bottle of water for each of us.
We settle onto the grassy side of the hill at the back of the venue where we can get an unobstructed view of the stage without being packed elbow-to-elbow in the congested part of the field. Mason is to my right, and Beth is sitting in front of us cross-legged, taking photos of the surroundings with her cell phone.
"While she's not looking," Mason whispers, planting a hard kiss on the side of my face over my hair. "A kiss for my sexy girlfriend."
My cheeks grow red-hot. I'm not entirely sure when this shift happened, but being beside him right now, I'm giddy as hell and desperately trying to reel it in with his sister a few feet from us.
"I want a shirt," Beth says eyeing a wandering group of young adults, all wearing Sweet Tennessee shirts.
"Did you bring your money?"
She sighs at Mason's irritatingly parental question and digs through her new leather purse. "No, I left it at home."
"Well, we already got you a ticket to the show. Besides that, you have a ton of T-shirts. Mom would kill me."
"You're one to talk, Mr. Boxley merch," I tease, leaning over onto his shoulder, wan
ting to rile him up before the show even begins. "You lured me over to your car with a whole trunk full of it," I say, planting a casual kiss on his shoulder. "Come on, I'll get you one," I tell Beth while eyeing Mason. I'm hoping for him to tell me not to so I can be the cool older sister I always wanted to be, and like clockwork, he shakes his head with a shrug.
"You're not buying her that, Ellie. Shirts are a rip off at these big venues," Mason says with a grunt, trying to sound official. Annoyed at me for not sticking with his decision, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and for the first time, I get a tiny glimpse of what he might be like as a nagging father. To be clear, I don't hate it.
"Not to mention, design isn't what it used to be for bands like this."
"Please," I sing, sounding way fuller of attitude than I intend. "You bought the tickets. I'm just a guest here."
"Fine, can I at least go pee?" Beth says like she's miserable.
"I'll go with," I suddenly say, popping up off the grass.
Mason furrows his brow at me in question.
"What? I have to pee, too. Besides, what are you gonna do? Send her alone? We'll be right back."
Before I trounce away following Beth, Mason takes my forearm and pulls me down to his level. "Let's get one thing straight. You're more than a guest," he says, squeezing my arm affectionately. The corners of his mouth are turned down in sincerity, and his brow is furrowed. Butterflies immediately rise in my throat, and I sheepishly smile at him.
Beth and I make our way to the bathroom line, my arm linked through hers so we don't get split up in the crowd. She gawks at a couple who is nearly passed-out drunk by the side of the doughnut trailer.
"Hey, I'll get you a shirt," I say, trying to take her mind off of the grunge going on around us. "Everyone deserves a souvenir from their first big show."
Beth's face lights up in pure joy.
When we make it over to the Sweet Tennessee booth, Beth sees a black T-shirt with electric blue calligraphy with the name of the band that she has to have. The lead singer of
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