The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (12 page)

“I renamed it,” I utter once I’ve played the last note. “It’s called ‘Melody for the Dying.’” I look up from the keyboard to see her wiping tears from her cheeks.
Now you know what it’s like. That was the sound of love, unrequited.

“That was incredible,” she whispers. “I could actually
feel
the sorrow.”

“Thank you.” But now it’s time to put the pain away, stuff it into a folder marked “forget,” and tuck it into the obscurest recesses of my mind.

“Hollywood is going to fawn over you someday. Seriously, you are the next Danny Elfman.”

“I want to be the next Hans Zimmer. Maybe with some of The Chemical Brothers mixed in.”

“Then that’s who you’ll be.” She smiles and throws her arms around my neck. I collapse sideways into her. I’m practically lying in her lap, and she’s nearly cuddling me. I should move and break the contact. Instead, I turn over slightly until I’m fully on my back. My head is resting on her stomach. Her legs are folded beneath my shoulders. This is no way to begin the “getting over her” process, but god, does it feel fantastic.

She’s playing with my hair again—lightly brushing her fingers through it. For the first time in the longest while, I’m actually relaxed around her. I close my eyes and listen to her breathe. In and out. In and out. The sound is soothing like whitecaps crashing against the shore.

“Kendall,” I say, disturbing the serenity of the moment. “I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep doing that.”

“So, fall asleep.”

I check my watch. It’s almost ten. “Don’t you have to leave soon?”

She leans over me and peeps at my watch. “Not until one.”

“You want me to waste the last few hours I have with you napping?”

She yawns. “It’s not a waste if we’re both napping.”

I sit up to study her. She seems like she could definitely use some shut-eye. If I was able to last an entire night sleeping next to her, what damage could a few hours do? “Lie down.” I nod and set the alarm on my watch for half past midnight.

She turns off the bedside lamp, finds a cozy position, and fluffs a pillow behind her head. I stretch out beside her. She inches closer and rests her temple against my shoulder. I’m resolved not to let my angst return and screw everything up, so I shut my eyes and enjoy the warmth of her skin against mine.

CHAPTER SIX

Kendall

A
ccording to the clock on my bedroom wall, it’s 12:20. I’ve been awake for close to fifteen minutes, but I haven’t moved except to breathe. It’s worse than the last time I woke up next to Payton. At that point, I hadn’t quite figured out what I was feeling. But now I am hyper aware of it. I squandered hours and hours trying to put a name to it. When I finally got a firm grasp on what to
call
the thing I was feeling, I wasted even more time trying to make it go away. I say I wasted time because it was the most futile attempt I ever made at anything. Watching her now—lying here so peacefully, looking as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside—it should not have come as a surprise that my feelings for her are anything but platonic.

I’m not talking about the physical aspect at all. Yes, she has the same biological makeup as I do, and I’m still struggling to get beyond that, but I honestly think that anatomy has fundamentally
nothing
to do with love. That isn’t to say she’s
not
attractive. I mean, duh! Look at her. The girl has amazing cheekbones, sumptuous lips, radiant olive skin, and abs toned to perfection. I don’t care if you’re gay or straight, male or female; you would literally have to be blind not to find her attractive. I don’t know if physical chemistry would be an issue for me, but right now I’m not concerned with that. It isn’t as simple as a fascination of the flesh. It’s everything about her that I love: her intelligence, her ambition, her talent, her sense of humor, her dependability, her kindness.

The
real
problem is that she’s my best friend. We have an undeniable connection that’s more intense than 10,000 Kelvin heat, more dynamic than seismic activity. It’s like there’s gravity between us—she’s the
only
thing anchoring me to the world, keeping me from floating off into the upper stratosphere and getting lost in space. I can’t risk losing her. I would be an empty shell of a person if she weren’t in my life.

Payton’s wristwatch alarm sounds off at 12:30. She slowly begins to stir. I shut my eyes in a hurry. She can’t catch me watching her sleep. That is
way
too creepy, and not to mention, obvious.

The mattress beneath her contracts as she pushes herself up on her elbows. She’s looking at me. I’ve still got my eyes closed, but I can feel her gaze like it’s a corporeal thing. “Kendall,” she whispers, lightly pushing my messy bangs behind my left ear.
Do that again. Touch me anywhere.
“Kendall,” she repeats, “it’s time to wake up.”

I open my eyes to find her leaning over me. She’s bathed in the dim, far-away glow of street lights. The greenish-white sheen illuminates her enough that I can just make out the curvature of her lips. She’s smiling.
God, Payton! Why do you have to be so dazzling, even in the dark?

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” she says.

“Hey, yourself,” I whisper. My brain is screaming, “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!” But there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

Without waiting for a response, my dad walks in and flips on the light. I am flush on my back and Payton is still slightly leant over me. The shock on my dad’s face is precious. I know what he thinks he walked in on. I want to say “Nice going, Dad. We could’ve been butt-naked, screwing like jackrabbits, and you would’ve ruined the whole thing!” But I don’t want him to have a stroke or anything, so I keep quiet.

He coughs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Um, no, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Payton stumbles over her words. “We were just waking up.”

“I see,” he replies. “Kendall, I wanted to see if you needed any help bringing your things downstairs. Your car will be here soon.”

Both Payton and I sit up. We dangle our legs over the side of the bed and kick our calves against it the way little children do. “Sounds good, Dad. Thanks.”

My dad grabs two suitcases. Payton shuffles over to the pile and grabs two more.

“Everywhere I go, there’s room service,” I joke.

“No there isn’t.” Payton hands me a duffle. “Here you go.”

“So surly.” I chortle, pick up my keyboard, and follow her out of the room.

I’m pleasantly surprised the three of us manage to get all my crap down to the foyer in a single trip. “Thanks for the help,” I say to both my dad and Payton once I’ve reached the bottom of the stairwell.

“You’re welcome,” they reply in tune.

Outside, a car door slams. I hustle to the front door and peer through the windows to find what I feared: my ride to the airport, the first step back to La La Land. Hollywood—the home of big dreams and big names. I’m very quickly figuring out that it’s only a fantasy coated in glitz and glamour. Out there it’s constant commotion, endless parties, and red carpet events. It’s hardly ever quiet, almost never calm. It’s all about style and money and being seen. No one cares about you unless your face is on billboards or your name is on VIP lists.
I kind of don’t want to go back.

“Mom’s asleep,” Dad says. “Do you want me to wake her so you can say goodbye?”

“A world of no.”
I don’t even like her when she’s fully awake, let alone when she’s crabby from being woken up.
He flashes a little grin then heaves a few bags out to the car. Payton follows his lead.

Dad takes the keyboard from me and places it in the trunk. He turns to me and pats my head. “Okay, Pumpkin, you’re all set.”

I hug him and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for everything, Daddy.”

He nods. “Call your mother in the morning. She always worries when you travel.” He turns toward Payton. “And you! Don’t be a stranger. Come visit us before your big move.”

“Yes, sir,” she salutes him and smiles. We watch him as he retreats into the house.

And then there were two.

Payton is quiet and much too far away from me. I want her
right here
—in my face and in my arms. Leaving her has always been the hardest part for me, long before I became aware of exactly how much she means to me. There’s sadness in her eyes whenever I have to go, like she’s convinced it’s the last time she’ll ever see me. This time around, the sadness is killing me.

I reach for her. “Come here.” She steps to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I cling to her shoulders, resting my head against her chest. I listen to the steady pitter-patter of her heart and think about how glad I am for the extra four inches she has on me. “I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow.” I take a small step backward so that I can look into her eyes.

She brushes her hand against my cheek. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again in thirty-two days.”

“Thirty-two days,” I repeat. Somehow, countdowns make everything better.

“Right.”

“Okay.” I slowly pull myself away. If I don’t leave now, I’m afraid I never will.

“Bye.”

I slip into the back seat, and the car starts down the road. I watch her through the rear window, shrinking as the distance between us grows.

❄ ❄ ❄

I wake up startled to find myself in my own bed. I’ve forgotten where I am and how I got here. The first reminder I have that I’m back in LA is the panoramic view from my bedroom windows—palm trees as far as the eye can see. It’s early morning, yet I can already tell it’s going to be a warm, sunny day. It’s a shame the weather in LA is rarely anything but beautiful. I love fall on the East Coast—the sharp chill in the air and Payton offering me her sweatshirts to keep me warm.
Payton.
Thirty-one days.

I recognize that I’m caught in a daydream and reprimand myself. I need to get my ass in gear if I hope to avoid running late. I hurriedly get dressed and am in my car in record time. I’m on my way to meet with James and the executives of this phenomenally big-budgeted action movie,
The Relishing
, when I figure I’d better stop at a bookstore and pick up a copy of the novel it’s based on. I haven’t read it yet, but apparently it has a massive cult following. If I don’t portray this character correctly, I risk being hated by millions of zealous teenagers. I don’t need that kind of stress on top of everything else that’s been driving me insane lately.

Speaking of nuts, I was crazy to think I’d be able to casually stroll into a bookstore in Culver City and pick up a best seller without drawing any interest. Every last soul in the store is in an uproar once they see I’ve grabbed this book. Apparently, everyone is already aware that it’s being made into a film. I am surrounded by people asking questions about it.

“Is the script true to the story?” a young girl asks.

“Are you playing Ciara or Emily?” another one chimes in.

“Who’s been cast as the Mongrel King?” a bookstore employee questions.

I have no answers for anyone, so I smile politely, pay for the damn book, and push my way back to the car.

As I drive away, I seriously begin to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself in to. I thought the attention I’ve been receiving because of my last film was bad, but clearly, that was just the beginning. I feel like I’m biding my time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I expect my star to extinguish at any moment, but it keeps getting brighter and brighter. Sometimes I wish I were still Kendall Bettencourt, the ordinary girl next door, instead of Kendall Bettencourt, the Hollywood darling. Then I could wear what I want and date who I want, and no one would care in the slightest.

All this thinking causes me to nearly speed clear past the studio. I manage to pull into the parking lot right at the last minute. I hand my keys to the valet and head inside.

James greets me in the hallway outside our designated meeting room. He insists on briefing me on the situation. “Okay, we’re meeting with the producers and the director.”

“Yeah, so?” I know the routine. I’ve gone through the motions more times than I can count. All I have to do is amp up my charm as high as it can go, lay the ass-kissing on real thick, and then let James handle the negotiations. When I’m satisfied with the terms, I sign on the dotted line. It’s simple: James presents me as the hottest commodity on the market, and informs them that I can be bought if the price is right. Integrity is little more than an afterthought.

“Don’t curse, and we’ll be fine.”

Seriously, that’s what he’s worried about? Occasionally, these Hollywood people bring out the ill-mannered troll in me, but that doesn’t mean I am
always
an ungracious wretch. “I know how to conduct myself during business meetings, you jackass.”

“Wonderful,” he sneers and guides me into the room.

The meeting goes smoothly. After a spate of reluctance on my part, and the producer’s ardent reassurance that I can be both a serious actress and an action star, I sign the contract. Landon Stone, the director, gushes over me the entire time. He calls me “the ultimate driving force behind the next sensational teen franchise.” He goes on to say that my face is going to be everywhere—on posters, button pins, and t-shirts. There will be an action figure
and
a life-sized cardboard cut-out in my likeness, as well.

James is thrilled. I am scared to death. I don’t
care
how astoundingly large my paycheck will be, I’m more concerned with my face being plastered all over the place. I’m going to be so sick of seeing myself on magazine covers, I doubt I’ll ever want to look in a mirror again.

“Why don’t you seem happy?” James disrupts my fit of angst as we’re heading for the parking lot.

“I
am
happy.”

“You should be elated. You’ve landed your most coveted female lead, to date. Forget about everything you’ve done in the past, this is going to make you
huge
.”

I groan. “I thought I was already huge.”

“You are, but you’ve reached the very top tier, now. It doesn’t get any bigger than a Stone-directed adaptation of one of the best-selling books of all time.”