The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (13 page)

Excellent! I’ll never have a moment of peace again.

“Kendall!” I hear my name called from somewhere close behind me. I stop to say goodbye to James, then turn around, hoping that I won’t find a fan looking for an autograph. Happily, the voice belongs to Lauren Atwell. She saunters toward me, a brisk pace to her step.

“Lauren! Hi!” I throw my arms around her neck. “How’ve you been since we wrapped?”

“Great! How are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m pretty good. I just signed on to play Ciara in
The Relishing
. What are you doing here?”

“That’s so cool! I just read for Emily!”

“Nice! I hope you get it. We would make the coolest, most ass-kicking movie ever!”

“We would,” she agrees. “What are you up to now? You want to get a drink or something?”

I nod. “Love to.” I planned to call her soon, anyway.

The valet pulls our cars around. I hop into mine and follow her off the lot.

❄ ❄ ❄

We end up at a tiny Irish pub called the Cloverleaf Tavern. It’s in a quiet part of West Hollywood, and it’s remarkably dead for a Friday.

“This place is cute,” I say as we seat ourselves at the bar. “How’d you find it?”

She orders us both a cocktail. I’m impressed that we aren’t asked for IDs, since everyone who knows us also knows that we’re not quite old enough to legally drink alcohol. “My ex lives around the corner,” she answers.

I laugh. “I guess you’re not worried about running into him?”

“Her,” she says. “And no, I’m not. We’re cool. Anyway, this isn’t her scene.”

I regard her carefully, as though she might be able to sense whatever gayness I’ve got lurking inside me if I get too close. Isn’t there a word for being able to sniff out homosexuality like a trained police dog?
Why the hell are all the cool girls lesbians, anyway?
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were gay,” I blurt out before recognizing how unbelievably asinine that sounds.
Brilliant.
I may as well have said “Gee, you sure are purdy for a lesbo,” while clacking my ill-fitting dentures together and relentlessly drooling on myself.

She shakes her head. “I’m not gay. I just like who I like.”

Wow. That’s so bohemian!
She can just jump from one orientation to the next without concern? I didn’t even know people like that existed, that bisexuality is an actual thing… I always thought you had to check one box—gay or straight. “That’s cool.”

“Does it bother you?”

“What, that you’re bisexual?” Does it seem like I’m bothered? I hope not. We’re in West Hollywood! If anyone thought I was a homophobe, I’d be bashed and rightfully so. Besides, that would make me an utter cretin, wouldn’t it?

She nods.

“No, it doesn’t bother me at all. My best friend from back home is a lesbian. I was just curious about how you deal with the media. I mean, are you open about it?”

She nods. “I’ve always been open about it. I figure in our line of work, it’s better to be straightforward about who you are and what you want. If you try to keep it a secret, it becomes a weapon. You know better than anyone how brutal the press can be.”

That makes so much sense. But it takes a much braver person than me to be
that
honest with the entire world. “I prefer to keep my business to myself. I don’t think my dirty laundry is all that interesting to begin with, so I don’t know why anyone else would want to get a whiff of it.”

She takes a sip of her drink. “You’re beautiful, talented, and wealthy. I think people like to know that you’re less than perfect so they can feel better about themselves.”

I snigger. “Less than perfect? I am
so
far from perfect. I’m a neurotic mess most of the time.”
And I have skeletons in my closet like everybody else does.

“The average person doesn’t see any of that. When they look at people like you and me, they only see what we have, not who we are.”

I nudge her with my elbow. “You’re a bit of a philosopher, aren’t you?”

“That’s nothing but a big Greek word for someone who thinks too much.”

“Hey, that makes me a philosopher, too!” I laugh. “You’re right, though. People don’t get to see who we are. Maybe I should make a documentary about how boring I am when I’m not on screen.”

“You totally should! Video yourself hanging out at home in your underwear,” she says. “Interview your family and friends about what you do in your spare time. I’ll sign on for that project! I’ll tell everyone how dull you are and that you read an entire trilogy of books and talked on your phone the whole time we were in New Orleans.”

“Nice! But don’t you think that would be too much of a stab to the heart of the American dream to find out that famous people aren’t much cooler than everyone else?”

“Probably, but you can throw in some kind of speech about how if you can make it in America, anybody can. I think that’s the truth, anyway.”

I come to the decision right then that I really like her. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we were to become very good friends.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Payton

T
he list of things I need to do before I move grows longer and longer in spite of my best attempts to check stuff off of it.

I got the whole MALA ordeal out of the way three weeks ago, submitted my application and transcripts. I received a call a few days later from the Dean of Students, saying how talented she thought I was and that I’d make a great fit for the school. She offered me a place in the advanced freshman Film Scoring program. My GPA is high enough that I was also offered the maximum scholarship the school awards. Of course, I accepted right away. I’m scheduled to meet with an academic advisor in early January so I can pick my classes according to the sight reading assessment I was asked to complete. My score was “roughly a prima vista”—able to play any piece of music nearly perfectly at first glance. Nearly perfect. In my vocabulary, that just means I have
a lot
of work to do. I’m most nervous about Performance 200: Composing for Orchestra. I’ve never written a piece for an entire orchestra before, but I guess I’ll have to deal with it when the time comes.

With classes at MSU finally finished, I’m trying to concentrate my energy on packing up my room. It’s proving to be quite a daunting task. Why is it that you never realize how much crap you have until you attempt to stuff it all into cardboard boxes? The mountains of clothes I own are not included in the aforementioned crap! My bookshelves are crammed with paperbacks and DVDS. I’m not sure where I had the room to fit all the CDs I’ve thrown out since the invention of the iPod. Most of my trinkets and knickknacks are going to have to stay here. I don’t see the point in taking any of the soccer trophies or medals from various music competitions I’ve won. All those things are mementos from the past, and I want this move to be a new beginning for me—a renaissance of sorts. I’m hoping that once I’ve had the chance to marinate in West Coast sunshine, I’ll be miraculously transformed into a new and improved edition of myself. Payton 2.0 will be confident, alluring even. She’s going to take her mother’s advice and meet new people and impress the hell out of them.

I didn’t initially intend for my relocation to be any kind of major catharsis, or the catalyst that pushed me from one state of mind to another, but it makes sense that it would be. No one in LA knows me. I’ll have the opportunity to be
anyone
I want to be. I’ll start out as the mysterious girl who is always being photographed alongside Kendall Bettencourt, but I could act like I’m some kind of rock star and probably become one if I wanted. The issue is, I really don’t. I want to be me, only happier. So, that’s what I’ll aim for—happiness. It’s an achievable goal, right?

“Hey, Kiddo.” My mom sticks her head through the door, interrupting the packing process. “I don’t think your room has
ever
been this clean.”

I look around in astonishment. I’ve managed to fit nearly everything I’m taking with me into two large boxes. My acoustic and electric guitars are nestled safely in their travel cases. Most of my clothes are already in suitcases. I’ve opted to leave the bulk of my winter clothes here, since I likely won’t need them in sunny southern California. Snow boots and heavy sweaters probably won’t be very useful out there, but every last one of my hoodies is coming with me. I don’t care if it never drops below 80 degrees; I love hoodies too much to give them up.

“Packing is a glorified game of Tetris.”

She nods. “We both know how good you are at Tetris.” The expression on her face clues me in to the fact that she didn’t wander upstairs merely to check on my progress or talk about Tetris.

“What’s up?”

“I want to make sure that you’re doing this for the right reasons. You’re chasing your dream career, not your dream girl, correct? I doubt you need to move clear across the country to find her.”

“Yes, Mom. I need to steer my life in the right direction, and MALA is
for sure
the right direction.”

“That’s good. Dedicate yourself to what truly matters, and you can achieve anything.”

“Thanks.”

She wanders over to me and envelopes me in a hug. “I sure am going to miss you. It’s going to be so quiet without you around making a ruckus.”

“Call me whenever it gets too quiet. I’ll put you on speaker and play some power chords for you.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She laughs and lets me go. “I’m off to work. Glad we had this talk.”

“Me too. See you later.”

By the end of the day, my room is transformed into an almost barren wasteland. Little remains of the clutter I used to live in. I’ve left enough clothing in my closet to get me through the next few days.

I’m tired and sweaty and about to collapse on my bed when the doorbell rings. I hobble down the stairs, open the door to find a man in blue coveralls standing on my porch. “Hello. I’m looking for a Ms. Payton Taylor. Is she at home?”

“I’m Payton. Can I help you?”

“I’m going to need to see your auto insurance card to confirm the VIN on your car. I also need the keys so I can pull it onto the rig.”

“Excuse me?”

He consults a sheet of paper on his aluminum clipboard. “It says here that I’m supposed to pick up a white Volkswagen GTI coupe for delivery to an address on Hamilton Drive in Beverley Hills, California.”

I look beyond him to the street. There’s a massive black truck with the words “Express Transport Depot” scrawled across its side. It seems legit, but this guy must be a loon if he thinks I’m going to hand my car keys over to some dude I’ve never seen before. “Um, can you hold on a second?”

“All right,” he huffs.

I grab my cell and dial.

“I guess the shipping company showed up on time,” Kendall answers.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re flying to LA, not driving.”

“Right, so what’s up with this?”

“You need a car in LA. The public transportation here sucks more than the traffic.”

I groan into the receiver.
I wish you’d stop buying me things.
“Do I even want to know how much this is costing you?”

“It’s your Christmas present.” Her voice has a twinge of impatience to it. “Sorry it’s early. I wanted you to be able to get around without depending on a bus schedule.”

“I would have gotten around to having my car sent out eventually.”
After finding a minimum wage job and saving up for three months
.

“Hush up and give your keys to the nice man, Payton.”

I dig my keys from my pocket and hold them out to the delivery guy. “The insurance card is in the glove box.”

“Thanks,” he says and heads toward the driveway.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“No, I didn’t, but you’ll be glad I did. Trust me.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m getting really excited!”

“I know. I’m excited, too.” I am, but I’m also sort of scared. I’ve always played it safe. So many things have changed for me recently that I’m finding it difficult to cope. That’s the trouble with life. It’s merely a series of moments, each one completely different from the last. I can’t stop any of it from happening. “Listen, I’m really tired. Cleaning and packing totally kicked my ass. I need a nap.”

She giggles. “Yeah, I bet. I’ve got a bunch of charity stuff to do this week, so if I don’t talk to you, have a Merry Christmas. Wish your mom one for me, too.”

“Okay, I will. Merry Christmas!”

❄ ❄ ❄

Christmas Day is ridiculous. Mom spends the whole day hugging me at random points and going on about “the very real intricacies” of empty nest syndrome. Her present to me is the title to my car, which she paid off six months early. She reminds me at least ten times that I need to insure it before I drive on the streets of Los Angeles. God forbid I get into an accident. I give her a gift set of her favorite perfume, which, of course, seems like the most pathetic thing ever. I promise her my presents to her will be much cooler someday, when I can afford it. That sets her off on a tangent about how she doesn’t care about what I buy her, as long as I make it home every Christmas from next year until the end of time. We wrap up the holiday in our usual manner: snuggling on the couch, fireplace ablaze, watching
It’s a Wonderful Life
on cable. As usual, she cries her eyes out. Seriously, if an angel got its wings every time my mother cried over this movie, heaven would be teeming with cherubs.

The next day, I head over to the Bettencourt’s to wish them a belated happy holiday and to say my goodbyes. I told Mr. Bettencourt I’d stop by before my move, and Kendall warned me that I’d better follow through. This is the first time I’ve had to walk across town since I got my license. I already miss driving, so it’s probably for the best that I won’t have to go without a car in LA.

I catch Mr. Bettencourt wheeling garbage bins out for tomorrow morning. I dash down the driveway to help him. “Hi, Mr. B. Let me give you a hand.” I move to grab the handle of one of the bins and find myself absentmindedly wondering whether or not Kendall takes out her own garbage. She probably has a boatload of eager
man-servants
neighbors willing to do it for her.