The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (11 page)

“Actually, I have to help my mom with something. I’m sorry, I just remembered. ”

“It’s cool.” She says it as if she means it, but her eyes say otherwise.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say, though I already know I won’t.

“Sounds good.”

I don’t hug her goodbye. I simply get into my father’s car and drive.

❄ ❄ ❄

Looking at myself in the rearview mirror, all I can think of is how downright ridiculous this whole situation has become. It isn’t just about Payton anymore, is it? Beyond her, it’s about an absolute reclassification of my sexuality. And I am
not
gay. I’m just… not. How can I be? I’ve dated more guys than I can count on two hands and ten toes. Lesbians don’t date men, and I do. End of story. So what
if the physical attraction I’ve felt for the dudes I’ve dated thus far has been lackluster, lukewarm at best? Maybe they’ve all been too pretty to incite any kind of serious desire in me. Maybe I need a cowboy—some ruggedly handsome, Stetson-wearing, scruffy-faced macho man.
Or maybe you’ve only dated pretty boys with soft, feminine features because you’re genuinely attracted to um,
females. No! No, goddamn it, I am not! Shut up, brain, or I’ll lobotomize you!

I fiddle with my hair, watching my reflection and forcing myself to not think about this anymore.

CHAPTER FIVE

Payton

K
endall doesn’t call me for three days. It’s Thursday afternoon, Thanksgiving, and she’s hopping on a Red Eye back to LA before the sun is up tomorrow. I guess it’s good that I’ve been busy helping my mom prepare dinner all day. I’d probably be going out of my mind if I had a tick of idle time.

Mom’s got this idea in her head that she has to teach me absolutely every last recipe she’s ever made before I move out, or else I’ll starve to death in LA. At the moment, I’m not sure I’m moving out there at all.

“Mom, this stuff is gross.” My hands are covered in turkey filling. The wet, sticky consistency is making me cringe. “I’m not gonna go hungry because I don’t know how to stuff poultry.”

She looks at me as though my words have wounded her. “You let your grandfather teach you everything he knew about music, but you can’t let me do the same with food?”

“I love music. And I’m good at it. I’ve never been any good at cooking. That’s why I’ve always left the mastery of meal-making up to you.”

“It’s a useful thing to know. Wouldn’t you like to impress a future girlfriend with your culinary skills?”

“Why would I want to do that if I could just serenade her? She’d be putty in my hands!” I fake a maniacally sinister laugh.

“You are so cocky sometimes,” she says with a smirk. “So much like Grandpa.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. If anyone stood a chance of making it in music, it was him. You’ve got his tenacity.”

I smile at that. Being compared to my grandfather is probably the biggest compliment I could ever be paid. I’m about to launch into a big speech about his awesomeness and how much I miss him when the doorbell rings. My aunt, uncle, and cousins are joining us for dinner. “I’ll get it,” I say and clean the bready goo off of my hands with a dish towel.

I’m taken aback the second I open the door. Kendall is leaning against the railing. She’s in a pair of yoga pants and one of my cozy oversized hoodies looking like she hasn’t slept a wink in days. It’s such a stark contrast from the last time she was here that I’m immediately worried about her health.

“Hey,” she says, her voice hushed.

“Hi.” I don’t know what to say to her. I’m slightly angry that she’s been blowing me off. Never mind not calling me for days, she hasn’t even bothered responding to my texts. Here I am, planning the single most significant move of my life, and we’re totally incommunicado? Wasn’t this her brilliant idea in the first place? “Are you sick?”

“No.” She kicks off the railing and steps closer to me.

“Are you sure? Even movie stars are allowed to have colds once in a while.”

“I know. I don’t have a cold.”

I cross my arms. “Then where the hell have you been?”
Gross! What are you, her mom?
What the hell right do I have to be mad at her? She’s a busy person. She has a life that’s so much bigger than mine, so much bigger than
me
. It would be stupid to think otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” she says delicately. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

And she hasn’t said a thing about it until now?
I don’t like being left in the dark.
Payton, you should talk. You haven’t exactly been an open book lately.
“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not really. It’s stuff I need to figure out for myself. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry I haven’t been able to involve you in any of it. It’s been hard for me, feeling like I couldn’t pick up the phone and discuss everything with you.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. “Some problems can’t be solved by talking about them.”

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” I ask jokingly.

She chuckles. “God, no! There’s zero
possibility of that.”

“Phew.” I wipe my hand across my forehead in mock relief. “Glad to hear that.”

She smiles. “I’ve got to get home. The ‘rents are hosting their illustrious Turkey Day Banquet, and they invited every person they’ve ever met. It’s going to be huge this year, first holiday I’ve actually managed to make it home for in a while.”

“Yeah, my family is coming over soon, too.”

“Do you think you can get away later? I’d like to hang out for a while before I have to head to the airport.”

Yes, I can get away. If I have to crawl out my bedroom window and climb down the garden trellis, I will get away.
“Sure. I’ll swing by around eight?”

“Perfect. You’ll be saving me from the part of the evening where my mother hassles us into a circle and forces us all to share one thing we’re thankful for.”

“Wicked.”

Without reluctance, she hugs me. The anxiety I’ve been feeling due to our unusual lack of communication is calmed for a moment. All too quickly, she releases me. “Later,” she calls from the sidewalk.

“Later.” I watch her speed down the road in her dad’s bright red convertible.

❄ ❄ ❄

Luckily, I don’t have to sneak out of the house via my bedroom window. I’m pretty sure I would’ve fallen to my death, or at the very least broken every vertebrae in my spinal column. Mom lets me leave after dinner without much of a fuss. It’s surprising. She is usually adamant that I subject myself to the full extent of family time on holidays. She says I’m allowed a brief respite because “I was so lively and interactive during dinner.” In actuality, I know it’s because she doesn’t want me sitting around the house sulking while my aunt is over. I say goodbye to everyone and quickly book it out the door before Mom has enough time to change her mind.

I’m running late. It’s twenty after eight when I ring Kendall’s doorbell. Her mom answers with a contented smile.

“Hi, Mrs. B! Happy Thanksgiving,” I say while peering over her shoulder into the living room.
Okay, wow. Kendall wasn’t joking about the whole sharing circle thing.
There must be about twenty people seated around facing each other. Kendall spots me through the archway. Her eyes launch daggers at me as if to say “The
one
time you’re late, and it had to be tonight!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Bettencourt replies. I know before she says another word that she’s going to invite me inside. “Kendall is in the family room. Go on in.”

Oh, damn it! I
so
do not feel like sharing right now.
“Thank you.” I skulk by her.

Kendall meets me at the archway and whispers, “Really?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Have a seat, ladies,” Mrs. Bettencourt directs as she reenters the room.

Kendall seizes my elbow and yanks me toward the loveseat. “We’re not getting out of this unscathed. Keep a straight face and say
anything
when the time comes.”

“Okay.” It’s kind of funny that she’s acting like this is some kind of live-or-die situation. How hard is it to talk about something you’re glad to have or have done? It’s not like she has stage fright or anything.

Mr. Bettencourt starts off the circle by talking about how he’s thankful for his wonderful family. Then it’s Kendall’s cousins, aunts, and uncles. Before long, it’s Kendall’s turn. She must have been spacing out or something while everyone else was speaking; her mother calls her name twice before she responds.

Kendall looks like she’s thinking hard about what she’s going to say, as though the fate of world peace depends on her words. “I’m thankful for love,” she mutters, looking square at me. “I’m thankful for all the people in this room who love me and whom I love more than anything.”

My mouth suddenly goes drier than the Mojave during a drought. Out of the blue, I feel as if I’ve been gnawing on a mixture of sandpaper and kitty litter for at least a good year. And then I’m coughing an incessant, obtrusive cough. It sounds more like choking than coughing, really.

Mr. Bettencourt rushes across the room with a glass of water in his hand and thrusts it toward me. “Here, drink this.”

I take the offered glass, put it to my lips, and sip it deeply. After a few swallows, the hacking stops. I take a long breath. “Thank you,” I say to him, then clear my throat. “In case anyone was wondering, I’m thankful for water.”

A chorus of delighted laughter rings throughout the room. I’ve never been happier to have excellent comedic timing. If anyone were to ask, there would be no feasible way I could explain what just happened. Anyway, was Kendall even talking about me? Am I included in that small collection of people she loves more than anything? Sure, I am. She loves me like a friend, or worse, like a sister.

Kendall places her hand on my back and rubs gently. “Better?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good.” She hops off the sofa and takes my hand. “Let’s go upstairs. It’s too loud down here.”

Just shut up and go.
“Yes,” I say as I get up to follow her.

The first thing I notice when we enter her room is the colossal stack of packed bags at the foot of her bed. I know she was away on a shoot for a month, but really? I don’t remember her having her entire freaking wardrobe with her when I dropped her off at the airport the last time. “Is it me, or have you acquired a whole lot of new baggage to bring back to Cali with you?”

She falls onto the mattress, giggling like mad. I wonder if she’s having some sort of mental breakdown, because nothing about my question could’ve possibly caused that kind hysteria. “You have no idea how much baggage I’ve picked up since I’ve been home,” she complains.

I don’t know. From the looks of it, I’d say I have a pretty fair idea.
“Is your dad driving you to the airport? There is no way he can fit all this stuff into that tiny hot wheels thing you bought him.”

“Hell no,” she shakes her head. “I called a car service.”

“You probably should’ve called U-Haul.”

She harrumphs as she sits upright and pats the mattress twice. I seat myself beside her. “Speaking of U-Haul…” she says as she stretches to the foot of the bed to riffle through a duffle on the top of her luggage pile. I seize the opportunity to admire her perfect posterior, which is accentuated by the stretchy material of her yoga pants. She pops back up and almost catches me ogling her. I was never before aware of the danger of near-misses. I’ll be more careful to avoid them in future. “This is for you.” She hands me a blue box about the size of a deck of cards. A thin, red ribbon is tied around it.

Another present? Damn it, I don’t want your presents! I want your presence. Don’t you get that?
I flash a contemptuous look at the box and slide it back toward her. “Whatever that is, take it back. I appreciate the thought, but I’m not going to accept one more gift from you.”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a necessity.”

“A necessity? I wasn’t aware oxygen could be boxed.”

“Believe me, it’s something you’ll need and use often. Open it.”

I’m skeptical, but she’s managed to peak my curiosity. I undo the ribbon and flip the lid off. Inside, there is a lone key attached to a metal ‘P’ keychain.

“It’s for my—for
our
apartment. I was going to wait until I picked you up from LAX, but I was way too excited about it.”

I don’t know what to say. After that vanishing act she pulled, I was beginning to think she was having second thoughts about the whole thing. “So, you still want this to happen then?” I’m not prepared for her to answer my question with a no, but it’s a
major thing, and I need to know one way or the other.

She palms her knees and remains noiseless for a few moments. “I can’t apologize enough for disappearing on you,” she murmurs. “Yes, I still want this to happen.”

I’m relieved even though I know it’s going to be difficult at first, living with her while endlessly battling this menacing ache I have to touch her.
That’s the last straw!
I am going to get over these feelings for her if it takes blunt force trauma!
Getting over her—it’s the only solution to an impossible problem, a fantastical love that won’t ever be reciprocated. I need to bury my grief before my grief buries me. But there is something else I have to get out of the way first. “I finished that song like you asked. Where is your keyboard?” I need to play it for her. It was written about her all along, right from the opening measure.

“Over there,” she points toward her closet.

I stumble over, retrieve the keyboard from its box and carry it back to the bed. I plug it into the wall then settle myself down in front of it. I don’t have the sheet music with me, but it isn’t necessary. I know every note and rest by heart.

The keys are plastic. The feel of them beneath my fingers is different from the ivory keys of my grandfather’s piano. It doesn’t matter, though. The song sounds every bit as forlorn and haunting as I intended. Each bar I play is like another excruciating stab to the chest. Music. This is how I bleed.