The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (2 page)

We reach the photography section and stop to sit on the floor. And that’s when my senses are tossed into cataclysmic upheaval. Mounted on the wall in front of us is a print called “Lesbian Couple at the Monocle.” Instantaneously, I’m anxious. It’s like a sign from the universe telling me that I need to gather my guts, forget the past, and finally stop being afraid.

I’ve never said it out loud to anyone. I’m not sure I should start now. Will saying it give it some kind of molecular structure that permanently and visibly imprints itself on me? I doubt it. But saying it means that there is a very real chance I might lose friends and alienate people. Worst of all, I have no idea how Kendall is going to handle it. It’s not exactly a topic we’ve discussed much or, like, at all. Will she still see me the same way she did this morning, last week, last year? At least if I tell her here, in public, she won’t make a scene. She is notoriously too good an actor for that. Hell, that’s what she gets paid to do.

I’m about to drop the bomb when Kendall’s eyes wander up to the photo. “Lesbian Couple at The Monocle. What?” She stands up to get a closer look. “That’s weird. I thought it was a picture of a man and a woman. Look at it.” She bends down, offers her hand to help me to my feet. For an instant I think about refusing it for fear that my palms are sweaty. I decide I’m being ridiculous, but wipe my hands on my jeans just in case.

I clear my throat before speaking and immediately notice how annoyingly hollow and gruff that sounds. “I would think it was a man and a woman too, at first glance.”

“It’s interesting how old this picture is and how much society has changed since it was taken.”

“What?” I’m so close to full-blown panic, I’m willing to bet it’s written all over my face. “What do you mean?”

“Like, back in the day,” she starts lightly. “I mean, she is clearly a woman,” she points at the print, “but she
is dressed like a man. I suppose there had to be that, I don’t know that… dynamic back then. If it were a picture of two girls…” She’s getting flustered, blushing a bit, but she presses on. “Okay, say it were a picture of me and you. That caption, ‘Lesbian Couple at the Monocle,’ would have sent people’s heads spinning more than I’m sure it already did. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s like there had to be one feminine woman and one more masculine woman for it to have been understood that they were a couple.”

“Oh.” I want to say ‘what?’ again, but know I shouldn’t. “You’re talking about stereotypes?”

“Yes! That’s it! Like today, just because a woman has short hair or wears racer back tanks doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian.”

“And on the flipside, just because a woman has long hair or wears skirts doesn’t mean she’s straight,” I add.

“Right! Those notions don’t apply to the world anymore is what I was trying to say.”

“I get it. You can’t go by what a person looks like.”

“Exactly!”

Then it hits me. This is it. It’s now or never, put up or shut up. I’ve gotta go for it. “So, if I were to tell you that I’m gay, it wouldn’t be all that surprising—purely based on the fact that I have a feminine appearance.”

“No, not based on your appearance. Based on the fact that I know you, maybe…”

I’m staring at her now. Blatantly staring.
Was that too indirect? Should I be more forward?

“Wait,” she says, her eyes narrowing in on me. “Are you trying to tell me that you…”

I motion
yes
with my head. “I’m gay, Kendall.”

And then there is silence—a very deep, impenetrable stillness. I want to curl into the fetal position and die right here in the middle of this world class museum.

“Um, how about we do that lunch thing I’m letting you pay for? I need a beverage,” She says finally.

It’s not at all what I was expecting to hear. “Sure.”

We walk down to the Rock ‘n Roll Deli, neither of us uttering a word to the other. When we arrive, I order her favorite, tuna salad on a whole wheat wrap, and my tried-and-true staple, grilled cheese and tomato on rye, while she finds a booth in the back.

I haul ass over to her with our food atop a bright red, plastic tray. She snatches her wrap from the tray, but doesn’t eat it right away. Instead, she is hell-bent on gawping at me for I don’t know how long. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but it’s as if she is somewhere between eyeing up a piece of meat and staring down a rabid dog. “So, you’re like,
gay
gay?” she asks after taking a few bites of her wrap.

“Uh,” I pause to think over her question. “Is there some kind of
non-gay
gay?”

She laughs—the kind of good, hearty laugh that always gets me laughing, too. “What I mean is that you’re gay, as in, exclusively. Not like bisexual?”

“Yes, exclusively. I’m an exclusive lesbian. Though, syntactically, that would indicate that I’m difficult to get into or something, like one of your hot LA nightclubs.”

“It’s impressive that you’re able to maintain your hilariousness even when talking about serious, life-altering things.”

“Well, it’s not like some crazy Body Snatcher thing happened, but yeah, it is pretty life-altering.”

“How long have you known?”

“For a long time, but I didn’t start to think of it as a fact until I was sixteen.”

At that, I see her expression change. She’s offended, or hurt, or something. Maybe a little bit of both. “Seriously, Payton? You’ve known for ‘a fact’ for nearly
three years
,
and you’re only telling me now? Jesus, are you that scared of me?”

“No, not at all!” I shake my head fervently. Terrific, I have to tell her the story.
This is one memory I was hoping to never relive
. It might be old news, but it sucked enough to damage me irreparably. Every time I think about it, I start trembling like a dead leaf in the wind. “Do you remember Amanda Garrison? She was a year ahead of us in school.”

“Amanda Garrison.” She taps the table top as though trying to place a face to the name. “Yeah, I remember her. She was the captain of the soccer team the year before you were, right?”

“Right.”

“Uh huh. What about her?”

Here we go.
“I kind of had a thing with her. It wasn’t, like, love at first sight or anything. I just knew that I liked her and that she liked me, too. We started talking a lot after practice, went out on a couple of dates. Eventually her parents found out about it; I’m still not sure how. They went through her text messages or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, her mom totally flipped out. She dragged Amanda to my house and demanded to talk to my mom. Mom wasn’t home—thank God—but when I told Mrs. Garrison that, she started screaming at me. She kept telling me that her daughter wasn’t gay, and I had better stay away from her. She forbid Amanda from seeing me; she even went as far as making her quit the team. From that day on, Amanda wouldn’t even look at me. It was so brutal.

After that, the thought of coming out to anyone was paralyzing. I pretty much dined on an unhealthy diet of self-loathing and terror. It took me a long time to get comfortable in my own skin—I’m still working on it. But at this point, I’m just too exhausted from keeping it a secret to even bother trying anymore.”

Her revolted expression speaks volumes. It’s enough for me to know what she’s going to do next. She reaches across the booth and takes my hand in her own. “Wow, Payton. That’s monumentally messed up. I’m sorry that happened to you. Some people are just so closed-minded.”

“Some people are, and that’s also part of the reason I’ve been hesitant to tell you. You’re a celebrity now. Your face is already plastered all over the tabloids, and you’re just doing normal teenage crap. What if it got out that some girl you’re always flying cross-country to visit is a big old homo? I’m sure that would start some delightful rumors. Rumors create rifts between people. So you see, I wasn’t scared of you. I was scared I might lose you.”

“The tabloids are going to write what they’re going to write regardless of what the truth is, Payton. I can’t let it bother me. Plus, hello? I live in
Hollywood
. It would be insane to think that I don’t have any gay friends! And lose me? That will never happen. I’m like a bad case of herpes—just ‘cuz you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not there.”

“Herpes! Eww,” I roll my eyes. “That is a horrible analogy.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of funny and also very true.”

“So, we’re okay then? We’re cool?”

“Are we cool?” She drags out the “cool,” leans back in her seat, and crosses her arms. “Yeah, dude, everything’s cool. Everything’s smooth.” She’s making fun of me, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

“Sweet,
dude
. Finish your wrap.”

She brings the last bite to her lips and abruptly stops. “Hold the phone. If you’re into girls, what the hell was with you and Scott Strafford the end of junior year?”

“Let’s chalk it up to a last ditch effort at heterosexuality.”

She stuffs the bread into her mouth. “Yeah, you should’ve picked someone else. If I had to choose between that asshole and lesbianism, I’d go gay all the way. Seriously, I considered asking your mom to have you committed. Only a mental patient could’ve fallen for that jerk.”

“I’m going to write
The Inquirer
and let them know that one of Hollywood’s It Girls talks with her mouth full.”

“See food.” She sticks out her tuna-covered tongue. “It’s all the rage.”

“Charming,” I lark. “No wonder all the guys find you irresistible.”

“Harhar,” she says and grabs the tray from the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

❄ ❄ ❄

Kendall picks me up at noon on Sunday. We have plans to play pool at the billiard hall, Eights, with our friends, Jared and Sarah, but elect to waste time driving around aimlessly for a while. It’s nice to drive around in October; the trees are luscious shades of fiery orange and crimson. Kendall says she misses real foliage because practically all they have in LA are palm trees. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had the time to visit her out there, which is funny when you think about how flexible my schedule is compared to hers. It’s never a good time for me to visit her when she’s in Los Angeles for any extended period. She is always in between projects when I’m swamped with papers or studying for a ton of exams. “You work too hard,” she always says. I usually retort with witty comments about the pot calling the kettle black.

“Why do you stay at the Marriot every time you come home?” I ponder absentmindedly. “You could stay at your parents’ place.”

“I like having my own space.” She crinkles her nose at the song on her iPod, Original Gabber’s drum and bass tune “I Wanna Be (A Motherfucking Hustler),” and quickly skips to the next one. Her head begins to bob in time with the heavy beats and dissonant shrills cascading through the sound system. It’s a diversion, a subtle indication that she is not interested in having this conversation.
Tough shit
.

“No, you like not having to see your mom.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, my mom has been kind of a nightmare since I fired her as my manager. I mean, it’s been a year already. She is never going to let me live it down that I wasn’t going to let her micro-manage my life and tell me what roles I was or was not allowed to accept.”

“Kendall, did you ever stop to think that maybe it’s hard for her? You’ve found so much success so quickly, and you sort of pushed her away to get it.”

“I had to push her away to get where I am, Payton. She didn’t want to let me grow up. If it were up to her, I’d still be on the goddamn Disney channel! That wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to be a serious actor.”

“Put yourself in her shoes. Can you imagine your life being poked into by random people around town, nobody bothering to ask you how you’re doing and going straight to, ‘Oh my god, what is your insanely talented offspring up to now?’ Would she even know the answer to that question?”

“No, she wouldn’t. Truth be told, I can’t even remember the last time I called her.” She groans. “All right, I get it. I’m the worst daughter ever. Thanks for pointing that out.”

I can see the guilt on her face. She knows it doesn’t matter how many mansions or matching sets of red Mercedes she buys her parents. All the shiny toys in existence can’t make up for neglect. “You’re not the worst daughter ever, but when your friends run into your mom at Quick Check and she asks
us
how you’re doing, I’d say it’s time to pay your parents some attention.”

She frowns. “You’re right.”

“Do they know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Why don’t we stop by?”

She purses her lips together. “I can stand a short visit.”

“Great. I haven’t seen your dad in ages.” Mr. Bettencourt is the coolest old guy ever. He used to play soccer at UNC and taught me how to slide tackle without getting field burn. I think it made him happy to teach me stuff like that. Like me, Kendall doesn’t have any siblings. Unlike me, she was never very interested in sports. One time Mr. Bettencourt told me that I was the next best thing to having a son. It was sort of nice, seeing as he was the closest thing I’d ever had to a father—aside from my grandpa, of course.

“You see him more often than I do,” she says in a begrudging tone that makes me want to remind her whose fault that actually is.

“True,” I mumble.

We park in front of her parents’ driveway, effectively blocking in both of their cars. I feel like we should’ve brought flowers, or wine, or something. My mom always says it’s rude to show up at someone’s doorstep empty-handed. Then again, Kendall bought them their doorstep, so that’s got to be more than enough.

She rings the bell and steps to the side of the alcove, hiding herself from view.

“What are you doing?”

“Surprising them,” she whispers. “Act natural, doofus.”

“Okay,” I reply literally two seconds before her mother’s silhouette appears behind the frosted glass door.

“Hello, Payton! It’s lovely to see you.” Mrs. Bettencourt pulls me in for a hug.

I feel out of my depth, like, what the hell am I supposed to do now? “Hi, Mrs. B,” I grin. “How are you?”