The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (28 page)

“That was before anyone had proof. But it’s out there now. I don’t like this one bit, but I’m going to have to roll with it.”

“Payton, that isn’t all,” Lawrence continues. “If we’re really going to sell this cover-up, you’ll need to steer clear of Kendall for a while—in every capacity. The two of you cannot be seen together at all.”

“Steer clear of me!” Kendall yells again, but much louder this time. “We live together! How the hell is she supposed to steer clear of me?”

He doesn’t have to clarify it for me, I comprehend precisely what he’s getting at. I detest the idea
and
him for even hinting at it, yet I have no choice but to concede that he’s right. I’m no good for her career. Or it could be that her mom is spot-on, and I’m just plain no good for her in general.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions
—isn’t that how the old adage goes?

“It’s simple, right, Lawrence? I have to leave. And stay away.”

The quiet on his end of the line is my answer. I hear him loud and clear.

“How long is ‘a while’? Ballpark estimate?” I query.

“Indefinitely.”

Kendall’s bottom lip quivers as she forfeits to her tears.

I force myself to ignore the agony saturating her face and charge past her into the bedroom. I grab one of my duffle bags from the closet and start shoveling handfuls of clothing into it before I lose my resolve. I’m not even conscious of what I’m doing; I’m just operating on autopilot. It’s like I’m caught in some kind of trance made up of equal parts righteousness and remorse.

I hear Kendall say, “Fuck you, Lawrence,” before thundering into the bedroom after me. “I am not going to let you do this!” She charges at the bag on the bed, grabs it by the shoulder strap, and violently chucks it onto the floor. Everything I’ve packed away goes spilling all over the carpet.

“Damn it, Kendall. Please don’t make this any harder on me!” I kneel down to gather up my belongings. Miraculously, I’m able to keep myself from crying. “You can’t come out to the world. You’re barely out to yourself… And that’s
okay
. But the press will never leave you in peace as long as I’m around; that will only raise more suspicion. You need me to do this, so please just let me
do
it.
”

She stands there, staring down at me. There is so much grief, so much
guilt
in her eyes. It pains me to see it.

I hoist myself to my feet so that we can be face to face. “This is not your fault.”

“Yes it is!” she sobs. “You deserve to be with someone who loves you and can say it out loud, regardless of who may be around to hear it.”

“Hey, remember when you promised you’d get there eventually? You haven’t broken that promise. You’re taking it slow, that’s all.”

“This isn’t the end of us, is it?” she whimpers.

Maybe it is. I hope not.
I flash a frail smile. “We’re taking a break. You of all people should know that breaks are temporary—fleeting at best.”

“Right,” she nods. “Where are you going to go? Please don’t say back to New Jersey.” Her voice is getting hoarse from sobbing.

“No, silly, I still have school. As much as I bitch about it, I’ll never quit. You know I relish a challenge.” I shoulder my bag and turn to look at her. “I’ll come back tomorrow for the rest of my stuff once you’ve left for the press tour. There won’t be any paparazzi squatting behind the bushes if they know you aren’t home.”

“Okay,” she murmurs as she sponges away her tears.

I move to exit the room, but before I can leave she latches onto my bicep and tries to pull me closer. I grind my sneakers into the ground. This is the first time I’ve ever
not
wanted
to kiss her. “I won’t have the strength to leave if I kiss you.”

“I won’t have the strength to
let
you leave if you
don’t
kiss me.” It’s the closest to begging she can possibly get without falling to her knees; I don’t doubt it would come to that if I were to refuse.

I slip my arm around her waist, press our bodies so tightly together that I can scarcely tell where mine ends and hers begins. She kisses me as though it were our first kiss and our last rolled into one.

I slide out of the embrace and scuttle toward the front door without looking back.

❄ ❄ ❄

I drive around for a while before ending up at La Cienega Park. I’m sitting on the hood of my car, seeking comfort in the warm twilight air, when I realize that I’m not simply drowning in anguish. I am profoundly lost.

There
is
someone who can help me find my way. I claw through the pockets of my cargo pants for my cell and dial the only number I know by heart. The familiar voice answers from 3,000 miles away. “Hi, Kiddo.”

“Hi, Mom.

I relay every last detail of the affair to her, including how I’m fairly certain it has ended and how devastated I am about that. She isn’t at all surprised to hear that Kendall and I had been dating for months. She tells me that she figured it out long before the
Daily Post
broke the story
,
long before Grace Bettencourt called her to complain about how I ruined her daughter’s life—which was the call she received a few minutes after Kendall hung up on Mrs. B. Somehow, my mom just knew, like she’s always
just known
about everything. She says she didn’t want to bug me about it. She figured I would talk about it eventually, because I talk to her about everything sooner or later. She lets me know that she was happy for me because I was happy, and she’s heartbroken for me now because I’m heartbroken.

“Kendall may just need time to put everything into perspective,” she says. “It was so difficult for you to realize that you were as entitled to happiness as everyone else. I can’t fathom how much more difficult it must be for someone as renowned as her.”

Or maybe Kendall and I were doomed from the very beginning. We live by different sets of laws in two separate realities. She is Hollywood, west-coast glam. I am New Jersey, east-coast drab. Those two universes are so vastly different from each other that they cannot possibly intersect for any significant amount of time. That’s why she moved out to LA—to allow her star to shine at its brightest, to cut through the dullness of normalcy. I’m just a remnant of her old life, a leftover who should’ve given up the ghost a long time ago. “I know how difficult it is for her, Mom. That’s why I left. I was only complicating her life. It wasn’t fair to either of us, wasn’t right that our relationship was going to become more burdensome than it was blissful.”

“Oh, Kiddo,” she utters. “No matter what happens from here, remember the main reason you moved out there in the first place. You’re getting an invaluable education, and you have to finish what you started.”

“I want to finish what I started more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but I can’t afford the Music Academy. I doubt I can find a job that pays enough to cover the tuition unless I become a drug-dealer or a prostitute.”

“That certainly isn’t going to fly,” she says with a laugh. “The rest of this year is paid for, isn’t it? We’ll figure something out before the fall semester. In the meantime, do you have any friends you can stay with? At least until you find a job that will get you on your feet.”

Gunner? No, I’ll take a
hard
pass on him. But there might be someone
…
“Um, I think so. I don’t know. I’d have to make a few calls.”

“All right, then. Make those calls and let me know how it goes. If worse comes to worse, get a hotel room for a few days and put it on your Visa.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I don’t bother putting my phone back in my pocket. Instead, I shoot off a text to Lauren. “Hey. Sorry to bother you. I kind of need some help. Are you busy?”

It only takes a moment for her to text me back. “No bother, hun. What’s up?”

“Things are so screwed up.” She stops me from cluing her in to the details of my foray into homelessness and says she’s at an industry-sponsored event where the “atmosphere is hardly conducive to conversation.” She insists that I meet her at her place. The next text she sends includes her address, which makes me think about how weird it is that I’ve never gotten around to seeing where she lives. Every time we hang out, we do it in public. It’s kind of funny. Lauren is always eager to hang out with me in open spaces, coffee shops, or the boutiques on Rodeo Drive—while Kendall is so afraid to run the risk of being seen with me. The thought is a switchblade to my heart. I floor the gas pedal, fly down Wilshire Boulevard toward Westwood going well over the speed limit.

My GPS leads me to a chateau-style house on Birchwood Drive. Its façade is made of large gray stones and timber. There’s a circular tower off to the right of the glass front door.
I notice Lauren’s electric blue BMW coupe parked in the driveway. I trek up the concrete staircase, ring the bell.
No answer
.

I take a seat on the top step and listen to my phone ring over and over as I wait. Jared calls three times; Sarah calls four.
They must have seen the article, after all.
I’m too downcast to talk to either of them, so I hit the end-call button seven times.
I wonder if they’ve called Kendall at all. She needs friends
so
much more than I do right now. She’s all alone in this now.
I shoot them each a brief text
asking
them to check up on her, and then turn the phone off and bury my face in my hands. It’s all I can do to keep from completely falling to pieces.

I’m not sure how long it is before the silhouette appears at my feet, blocking out the light from the streetlamp.

“Hi,” Lauren says, looking down at me.

“Hi. You look nice,” I say, because in her black leather vest, skinny jeans, and biker boots, she’s really does
.
I may be brokenhearted and miserable, but that’s no excuse for impoliteness.

“Thank you.” She sits down next to me. “I heard about the picture. I wanted to call you, but figured it wouldn’t be a good time. Did y’all sort it out?”

I didn’t say anything about it via text, but I’m probably radiating so much sadness that the International Space Station could hone in on it like a beacon. “If you can call me voluntarily moving out and agreeing not to see her for the next however-long sorting it out, then yeah. We’re all good.”

“Oh my god, that sucks.” She frowns as she gently cups my knee. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. But look on the bright side; you’re not homeless! You can stay here as long as you’d like, no strings attached. It’ll be good to have someone here while I’m away for the
Idol Worship
tour anyway.”

“Kendall’s leaving tomorrow. Are you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve got tomorrow off. Spencer and I are doing some interviews here on Saturday. We’re catching up with Kendall and Rebecca in New York on Monday.”

“Wanna help me move the rest of my stuff then? I didn’t have time to pack everything.”

“Sure.”

“You know, at present I’m thinking it was wrong to ever hope to get out of Kendall’s friend zone,” I exhale in frustration. “It’s all fucked now.”

“Oh, come on, that must be one of the stages of grief talking! It’s nauseating how crazy you are for her. You didn’t have a choice, your
heart
wanted her. You never stood a fighting chance against that. You know, believe it or not, I wanted you and Kendall to work, because I knew how much you wanted it to work and because I wanted you to be happy even if I wasn’t the person making you happy. Who knows? Maybe someday it will work out for the two of you. Don’t give up hope, okay?”

Perhaps it is her uncomplicated reasoning or her urging me to stay optimistic in spite of the tremendous feeling of defeat taking root in my chest—or maybe it’s some twisted amalgamation of both that finally brings me to tears. All I know is it happens, and I let it.

“I hate to see girls cry,” she says after a while. “Why don’t we grab your stuff from the car, go inside, down some liquor, and watch zombie movies until we realize how great our lives are because at least no one is trying to eat our faces off?”

I wipe at my sodden eyes and smirk. “Okay.”

❄ ❄ ❄

Two weeks into living by myself in Lauren’s house, and I’m still not used to being alone with my thoughts. Kendall and I exchanged phone calls every other day for the first week, but they were painfully brief and both of us always ended up bawling. It hurts too much, talking to her, wanting so badly to be with her and knowing that I can’t. The last time she phoned I didn’t have it in me to pick up. I let her go to voicemail. We’ve progressively fallen into communication blackout since then.

I basically don’t know what to do with myself, so I’ve configured an unfussy routine to help me function: wake up, go to school—where everyone treats me like I am at the epicenter of the biggest scandal since Watergate, thanks to a press conference brilliantly orchestrated by Lawrence—come home, plunk into bed.

I’m afraid I have literally stopped caring about everything. I don’t care about writing music, don’t care about the clef or the key signature or the time measure. There is no difference between the flags of eighth notes versus sixteenth notes, because guess who doesn’t care? This girl right here.

I don’t even care about talking to anyone—with the exception of Lauren because she is the only person who has proven herself capable of providing any relief from the wretched existence I’m living. She’s chronicling her press tour adventures on digital video and e-mailing clips to me every day.

I wake up Sunday morning to find her latest video already in my inbox. I click the play button. The camera pans around a pub with lots of Red Sox gear on the walls then cuts to Spencer St. Germaine, Rebecca Gordon, and Lauren sitting at the bar. Lauren turns the camera on herself and declares, “Okay. We’re at Fenway Faithful’s in Boston, which I thought you would find especially excellent, and Spencer is totally
bombed
.” She points the lens at Spencer and Rebecca and instructs them to “Say hi to Payton.” Rebecca smiles and says hello. Spencer waves tawdrily and yells, “Hi, Payton, you sexy thing!”