Forever Mason, page 1
Contents
The Beaumont Series
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Forever My Girl
About the Author
Also by Heidi McLaughlin
FOREVER MASON
THE BEAUMONT SERIES
HEIDI MCLAUGHLIN
© 2021
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The right of Heidi McLaughlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000. This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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COVER DESIGN: Sarah Hansen: OkayCreations.
EDITING: Edits by Amy / Briggs Consulting
Created with Vellum
For Trudy
Because without your tireless dedication—this story doesn’t get told.
The Beaumont Series
THE BEAUMONT SERIES READING ORDER
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Prequels:
Forever Mason
Finding My Way
Forever My Girl
My Everything
My Unexpected Forever
Finding My Forever
12 Days of Forever
My Kind of Forever
Forever Our Boys
Holding Onto Forever
My Unexpected Love
Chasing My Forever
Peyton & Noah
Fighting For Our Forever
A Beaumont Family Christmas
Fourth Down
Prologue
I lay in bed, staring at Mason’s pillow. The normal indent from his head is gone, and his side of the bed is cold. So very cold. I close my eyes and take myself back to last Friday when I’m standing in the parking lot before the bus leaves. I can’t remember if the rain had stopped, but it was cold out. The girls and I made the two-hour trip to watch Beaumont play, but we left early because it was cold.
Everything in my life is cold.
I’m cold.
The house is cold.
Mason’s cold.
Cold.
Cold.
Cold.
Today’s going to be cold despite the town turning out to pay their respects to my husband, but it’s not going to be enough, not for me.
Elle screams, and something crashes against the wall. I stay in bed and let my mother deal with it. She’s been so absent in my life and thinks showing up after my husband has died will erase the years of mental abuse she’s inflicted on me. The twins don’t like her. They’re particular about who they want around them. Peyton only wants her daddy, but since he’s not here, she’ll settle for Noah. Elle doesn’t want anyone. She wants to be left alone so she can grieve in her own way. My mother doesn’t understand this. She doesn’t grasp the fact she’s not wanted. And still, I lay in bed because moving hurts. This is the only time when my thoughts can be my own, when I don’t have people coming up to me and telling me how sorry they are Mason died. People come to my car during drop-off and make the stupid roll-down your window motion so they can express how sad they are. Does their sadness compare to mine? No. It never will. I lost my husband, my life as I have known it since I was fifteen years old. My twins lost their father, and because of their age, they’ll have very few memories of him as they grow older. I lost my fucking best friend, and people want to tell me that they’re hurting as if their pain should be on my shoulders.
When glass shatters, I throw the covers back and sit up. The girls are throwing a fit, and this isn’t fair to them. They’re five, and they don’t understand a loss like this. Sure, they lost their grandma, but the grief is different when it’s your parent, your sidekick, your constant.
With slow, methodical movements, I get out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. My mom stands at the stove, ignoring the fits happening behind her. Elle lays on the floor, kicking her feet and pulling her hair, while Peyton’s in the corner, balled up and sucking her thumb.
“You need to leave,” I say to my mom without getting her attention. Elle quiets and sits up.
She turns slowly. “You’re up.”
“You need to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Leave. I don’t want you here. The girls don’t want you here.”
“Katelyn—”
“Fucking leave!” I point to the door.
My mother nods and takes her apron off. She folds it into a small square and sets it on the counter. It pisses me off, and I stomp over to it and unfold it so I can hang it on the hook where it goes, where she took it from.
“If you need—”
“The only thing I need is my husband, and he’s gone. Please don’t act like you care.”
She says nothing as she disappears into the garage. I fall to the ground, and within seconds my girls—mine and Mason’s—are in my arms. I hold them while they clutch onto me, and we cry. We cry so damn much for what we have lost and can never ever get back.
This is where my father-in-law finds us an hour later. He doesn’t chastise me when he comes in and sees us sitting there, he doesn’t tell me I need to get up, and he doesn’t try to take the girls away from me. He sits down and wraps his arms around us, and cries with us. We are all he has left of his family. He’s lost his wife and now his son.
It’s Elle who reminds us that we have something important to do today. I hug my girls and father-in-law tighter, and then we start to disentangle ourselves. My dad, because that is what he is to me, restarts the breakfast my mother attempted to make. The girls head off to their room to get ready, and for once, they’re quiet. They’re not arguing.
In the bathroom, I stand there and wait for my curling iron to heat up. On Friday, Mason shaved and left his shaving cream on the counter. He used to do this all the time, and on Saturday morning, he would put it away. Except Saturday has come and gone, and it’s still there. A stark reminder he’s not coming back. Part of me wants to convince myself he’s on a road trip and will be home at the end of the week, but the other half of me wants to know what I’m going to do when he doesn’t walk through the door.
My movements are robotic. Pick a section of hair, wrap it around the barrel, wait and let it go. Spray and repeat. I don’t even know why I need to look good today. It’s not like I’m posing for pictures or will smile or give a shit about what people think of me. I lost my husband. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. I don’t get to see him again unless it’s a photograph or in my dreams. I don’t get to hold him or kiss him. I don’t get to wake up next to him or make love to him again. It’s all gone, and for no reason other than some guy’s brakes went out on this truck at the wrong time. And yet, I ask myself why Mason didn’t pull forward or turn? What was he doing that had his attention elsewhere? What could’ve been so important?
My hair is as good as it’s going to get. I put my simple black dress on—the same one I wore for my mother-in-law’s funeral—and put on a black hat with a small black veil. I stare in the mirror, looking like a widow . . . because that is what I am now.
When I come out of my bedroom, I find everyone sitting at the table, eating or pretending to. Elle wears the dress I picked out for her, while Peyton has on her football jersey. I’m not going to tell her to change because this is what she wants to wear, and it makes sense to me. It’s what Mason would have wanted.
“Are you hungry?” my father-in-law asks.
I shake my head.
“You need to eat, Katie.”
“I will later. We should go.”
They move away from the table, leave their food, and head to the garage. We get into the car and ride in silence to the church.
My girls sit in the front with their grandfather while I hide in the back, away from everyone, even my best friend. She means well, but today is not the day for me to see her tears when I can’t keep my own at bay.
Any moment now, the five pallbearers I chose to carry Mason’s coffin will ent er the vestibule, and the finality of my life will be set. Last night, I sat with my husband after everyone left the wake and stared at the wooden box he’s going to rest in. It’s beautiful, made of mahogany, with silk linen inside. He’s wearing his suit, the one he wore for his mother’s funeral, and again when the high school hall of fame opened. It’s hard to believe that was only last month and now he’s gone. I know they did a tribute for him, but I have no intentions of seeing it. Inside, there are drawings and letters from the girls. I don’t know what they wrote him because those are their private thoughts, and they’re just for their father. Not for me.
His hands are folded across his chest, and under his hand is a picture of the four of us, taken recently. It was meant to be our Christmas card, but I’m not sending it to anyone. It’s ours, and ours alone. Tucked in his left front pocket is a picture of him and Liam from their happier times. It was my idea to put it in there because I know deep down, Mason would’ve forgiven Liam if he had come home. And inside his right pocket is a letter from Noah, along with a picture of the two of them. Best buds, forever—it’s what they’ll always be.
Before the funeral director sealed Mason’s coffin, I said my last goodbye. I said the three words he has said to me throughout our relationship, “I’ve got you.”
The fight song from high school plays. It’s corny and probably not appropriate for a funeral, but it’s Mason, and today is about him. I step out of the room and spot a man, tall, dark haired and built like a quarterback, scribbling into the guestbook. He doesn’t need to stand or turn around for me to know who it is.
“I didn’t think you’d show up.”
He freezes, sets the pen down, and turns. He’s here, and even though it’s ten years too late, I don’t even care because he’s here, for Mason.
“I have no excuses, Katelyn. I just came to pay my respects.”
“I don’t care—” I cut him off. I don’t care what he has to say because he’s here.
“I’ll go,” he says as he looks at the door. He studies it for a second and then looks at me. “I’m not here to ruin your day. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He steps toward the door, but I don’t let him leave.
“I’m a pallbearer short,” I tell him. “I was hoping you’d show up, maybe a bit earlier than five minutes before the ceremony, but whatever. I’m not going to judge you, Liam. But I am going to ask you to walk Mason toward his final resting place and be by his side until he’s safe again.”
He sheds tears for his friend, for me, and maybe for the things he’s missed.
“I’d be honored,” he chokes out. I nod and motion for him to follow me. We walk through a door, and everyone gasps. I make eye contact with Nick and then look away. If he’s upset, he’ll get over it. Today is not about him or the man behind me. It’s about my husband.
I clear my throat and look at the five men I asked to escort Mason. Aside from Nick, there’s Paul Baker, Mason’s co-worker, and two boys Mason has coached. I only chose five because in my heart, I knew Liam would return, and he has.
“He’d want you on his left,” I say to Liam. The boys adjust, and Liam takes his place at Mason’s side, where it all began.
One
I’m sweating like a pig. It’s hot as hell outside, and we just finished our first day of contact for spring football practice. Liam Westbury walks next to me as we head back toward the school. His head is down. I know he’s stewing over the passes he throws to everyone but me. We may be freshmen . . . well, almost sophomores, but we’re the best, and everyone knows it. My dad says it’s because Liam and I have played together so much. I like to think it’s because we’re best friends and in tune with what the other is thinking. I get him, and he gets me. And I never want to let him down. He’s hard on himself, but his dad—who is a major dick—is harder. Anything I can do to make my buddy’s night at home easier, I’m going to do.
I bump him with my shoulder and motion for him to pick his head up. He gives some smirk and keeps his eyes focused on the ground.
“Tomorrow will be better. I promise.”
“How do you know?” he mumbles his question.
“Because,” I say with a shrug. Honestly, there isn’t much I can do except focus on myself. Liam throws the perfect spiral, and it’s up to the other guys to figure their shit out. It’s not like Liam can catch the ball for these guys too.
We walk into the hallway that leads to the locker rooms. I hear giggling and suspect it’s the cheerleaders hanging out. I elbow Liam and nod toward the noise, but he shakes his head. “Baseball,” he mumbles again. Liam is a two-sport varsity athlete, but football is his passion. He’s one of the starting pitchers, but this week has an exemption to come in late for practice because of spring football. Something his dad made sure would happen. According to Sterling Westbury, Liam will go pro someday. I don’t doubt it. For me, I just want to play in college—on scholarship if possible—and major in sports management and become Liam’s agent. If he’s going pro, I might as well be the one to manage his contracts. Besides, someone has to look out for him—someone who cares about him and not just his talent.
After I shower and change, I head out to the baseball field to wait for Liam. My mom doesn’t like that I wait for him, but it sucks walking home by yourself. Once I have my license, I’ll be able to drive anywhere.
When I get to the field, Liam is off to the side, going through his series of pitches. Last year, the team hired a pitching coach specifically to work with him. He threw so many no-hitters last year the baseball coach wanted to make sure his freshman ace would succeed. Liam has yet to lose a game this year.
I climb onto the bleachers until I reach the second from the top bench. I sit down, pull out my English book, and start reading the assigned chapters. This is the only way I can stay this late, by doing my homework. It’s my mom’s rule. I’m halfway through a boring scene in Romeo and Juliet when I hear giggling again. When I glance to my left, a group of cheerleaders are coming this way. As much as I want to focus on the words written by the very odd William Shakespeare, I can’t.
The girls—or should I say—women, because most of them are upper class students, all sit on the bottom bench. They’re cheering for the guys. I know a couple of the cheerleaders, but not all. A couple of them are in my and Liam’s grade: Candy Appleton, Katelyn Cohen, and Josie Preston. They’re the only freshmen to make the varsity team.
Katelyn looks over her shoulder and gives me a soft smile. I return the gesture and try to focus on my book, but it’s no use. The seniors in the group are calling out to Liam, telling him he looks good in his baseball pants. It’s no secret there’s a group of girls in school that have a thing for him. Most of them are juniors and seniors, with a few sophomores mixed in. The thing is, not even one of these girls will catch his eye. Sterling will never allow Liam to have a girlfriend—too much of a distraction. He must focus on football, staying in shape, and being the best in the state.
When practice is over, one of the senior cheerleaders stands and heads for Liam. I watch as she flirts with him, touching his arm and moving his hair out of his face.
“Lucky bastard,” I mumble aloud, but under my breath this time. As I approach them, his eyes are wide, and he tells her goodbye. “Hot date?” I ask.
“No, I don’t even know her name.”
