Page 102 of Escape Velocity
It’s stupid for him to think otherwise.
His parents are well respected and adored by the town. They aren’t a particularly powerful or coveted name, but they’re lauded for their pens. Their ability to shapeshift with their words. Just like they want Mason to do.
He hates that he’s let his resentment grow so much within him. That he’s spent hours practicing in the mirror and imagining scenarios where he tells them how he feels.
That he can’t be the writer they want him to be. That he wants to spend his days proving theorems and teaching physics or math to students like him, who want to know more. He knows he has to tell them at some point.
They’re going to find out about his major whetherhe likes it or not, but tonight he doesn’t want things to blow up just yet.
He wants Thanksgiving to pass like it usually does. He can’t escape them for the next few days, and if they find out, everything ends for him. The rest of the semester will be hell on earth, and never getting to see Callum again will only make it worse.
He wishes Callum was standing next to him on the frosty stoop with his strong, unyielding hand in his. He wishes Jenna was waiting for him inside with a warm, inviting smile to shield him from his parents’ scrutiny. But the Fanning household is not where dreams and wishes come true.
It’s where they festered and curdled before being tossed away for something more realistic.
He knocks on the door, hoping that they won’t hear him. That somehow his ride back from Montgomery with Jenna was delayed by traffic.
The door swings open. “Mason! You’re back!” his mom exclaims and runs in to hug him.
He smiles and hugs her back, her perfume almost choking him. It smells like home. But home is a paradox now.
“Yeah, I’m finally back,” Mason chokes out, surprised that his mom is hugging him so tight. She isn’t necessarily unaffectionate, but the tightness of her hug still startles him.
“Mason!”
His dad comes in from the kitchen and hugs him, slapping his back in the way that every man seems to do.
“Hi, Dad.”
His dad closes the door behind him.
“How was the drive?”
“Jenna was thankfully a more careful driver; she just dropped me off. She says hi,” Mason replies.
“It was nice of her to drive you, that way I could help your mom set everything up for dinner.”
Mason smiles thinly as he takes off his coat and hangs it up.
“And how’sThe Goldberg? You’re doing quite a good job on the games,” his mom asks, trying to mask her judgement, but Mason can see through it.
He removes his boots, and they move to the living room, where pine garlands and twinkling lights dangle above the fireplace mantle.
He glances at the mantle and his chest clenches as he sees pictures of his writing as a kid, his work on the Northwood High paper, and in the middle is his latest work onThe Goldberg.
He licks his lips, taken aback by seeing it. Even with the disdain and the judgement, they’re still proud of him. They still support what he does.
“Yeah, I—I uh, I’m having fun learning about football. People even give me fist bumps and high fives in the hallway…”
He looks back at the framed newspaper article. It stares at him like it’s telling him to feel guilty that his parents don’t support him.
They do support him. They love him. But they don’t love and support him in the way that he needs.
Mason sits, and his parents follow suit in their respective love seats, looking at him expectantly.
“It took a bit of time, but I’ve realized that sports was what I felt good at writing surprisingly. It was like the words… flew off the page for me. I couldn’t stop when Istarted. I decided to follow where that took me instead of forcing myself into a box.”
It’s all true. He blinks rapidly as he realizes everything he’s said is not a lie. When he writes about sports, the words do fly off the page. But in reality, writing about Callum is what makes it so easy. If anyone else was running around with a ball, Mason would surely have written something completely different and more dry or cynical.
