Page 173 of Mason

There’s still a long way to go. I know that. This isn’t some magical turning point where I suddenly grow wings and become Father of the Year. This is just… a choice.

One I’ll have to keep making every hour of every damn day.

But it’s a start.

I look around the kitchen—bare, dull, cold—and realize I can’t stay in this house much longer. Too many shadows here. Too much dust and old blood. If I’m gonna change, I need to move.Act.

Something constructive.

Something that proves I’m not just wallowing anymore.

I go to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and let the scalding water peel away the sweat, the shame, the stench of the bar floor. I watch it all swirl down the drain, steam rising like smoke from the wreckage of the man I used to be.

I don’t know who the hell I’ll be when this is over.

But I swear on everything I’ve broken—I’ll be better than the bastard staring back at me now.

I’m halfwaythrough tying my boots when I hear the knock.

It’s not aggressive like Brando’s was. It’s softer. Deliberate. Feminine.

Hope burns in my chest, slow and defiant—like it doesn’t care there’s poison in my veins, only that it still has room to grow.

It’s Maxine. I open the door.

She stands there in a long coat, hair pulled back, no makeup. Still looks like a queen. There’s something in her expression that feels like both a question and an answer.

She doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just takes me in—my clean shirt, wet hair, no booze in sight.

Then she nods.

Good. You’re trying.

“Mind if I come in?” she asks, already brushing past me.

I shut the door.

She moves through my house like she owns the place. Not rudely. Just… confidently. She sets a small paper bag on the counter and opens it, revealing fresh croissants and two black coffees.

She’s not here to talk about feelings.

She’s here to fortify me.

“Did Brando send you?” I ask, half-joking.

She raises a brow. “Brando’s still trying to lower his blood pressure. I told him I’d make sure you were alive and not curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.”

“I thought about it.”

“Yeah,” she says, handing me a coffee. “But you didn’t.”

I take it. Sip. Burn my tongue a little. It’s worth it.

Maxine leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s halfway figured out. Not judging. Just blank.

“She loves you, you know. That’s not always a given.”

“I don’t know why she does,” I admit.

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