I pulled away—not because I was angry with him anymore, but because suddenly I couldn’t bear to be touched.
Mason spoke carefully.
“Stores were practice. Restaurants were practice. Saying hello was practice. Staying at birthday parties was practice. Talking to children was practice.”
His voice remained even.
Mine did not.
“I was trying to help you.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“I know.”
That stopped me again.
Mason wasn’t accusing me.
That made it worse.
“I know you wanted to help,” he said. “But sometimes when something went well, you made a new goal from it.”
I stared at him.
He picked at a crumb on his plate.
“When I ordered food by myself, you wanted me to do it every time. When I talked to someone at school, you wanted to know if they could be my friend. When I stayed at a party thirty minutes, you asked if next time I could stay forty-five.”
