The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (3 page)

“I’m fine, thank you for asking. What brings you to our neck of the woods?” She’s smiling at me, and I’m fairly certain this is the first time I’ve noticed how much Kendall resembles her mom. I can picture Kendall when she’s fifty with slight, graceful creases around her mouth from years of good-natured laughter and inviting smiles.

“I brought you a present.” I reach around the brick nook for Kendall’s arm and tug her toward me.

“Hi, Mom,” she says, rather unenthusiastically.

Mrs. Bettencourt seems about ready to burst into tears. She paws at Kendall, pulls her into a tight embrace. “Goodness, you’re skin and bones!”

“I’m an actress, Mom,” Kendall grumbles. “It’s mandatory that I be skin and bones.”

“Good thing you’re here! You’re right on time for dinner,” Mrs. Bettencourt says, ignoring Kendall’s smart retort. She pushes us through the threshold and hollers up the snaking staircase, “David, come downstairs! Our daughter is here!”

Half an hour or so into a rather silent meal time, Mr. Bettencourt decides it’s time to make small-talk. “So, Pumpkin, you’re filming in Louisiana next?” I notice that, unlike his daughter, he refrains from speaking until his mouth is free of food.

Kendall nods. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’ll be there for a month. I had a substantial break between the press tour for
In Heaven’s Arms
and this new movie though.”

“Enough time to meet a nice young man?” Mrs. Bettencourt wonders.

“Wow, Mom,” Kendall places her fork down on her dish and deadpans her mother. “That was artfully understated.”

Mr. Bettencourt virtually gags on his salmon. He checks his watch and smiles at Kendall. “Well, at least you got nearly an hour into your visit before she started.”

Mrs. Bettencourt turns to her husband. “Honestly, David! I’m just curious. She really ought to make time for a social life. If I were still in charge of her schedule, you’d better believe she’d have ample time for that. She’s only nineteen, for goodness sake.”

“Exactly, I’m nineteen!” Kendall growls. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions. I’m dedicating my effort to work, not ‘meeting a nice young man.’” She sneers at me and says under her breath, “See, this is why I don’t come home.”

“Why can’t you do both?” Mrs. Bettencourt gestures toward me. “I’m sure Payton has a boyfriend despite being busy at college.”

Kendall lets out a single, reverberant chortle. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about! Payton is
gay
.”

The instant the words fall from her lips, I am utterly mortified. Time seems to freeze and every sound around us is muted. My throat locks up so tight, I’m convinced I’ll pass out. The horrified look on Kendall’s face is so priceless that if I weren’t so entirely embarrassed I’d burst into raucous laughter. This is the first time I have ever seen Kendall rendered speechless. Her mouth is slightly agape, her gaze clamped on me. I think she is almost as appalled as I am.

Mrs. Bettencourt’s eyes scroll from Kendall, to me, and back. “Oh,” she clears her esophagus with a cough. “Really, Kendall. I just want to make sure you’re taking the time to enjoy your adolescence.”

Kendall peels her gaze off of me and inhales deeply before acknowledging her mother. “I thought you’d be glad that I’m not a boy-crazy fifteen-year-old anymore.”

“
I’m
glad,” Mr. Bettencourt declares. “You had me worried there for a while, changing boyfriends more often than clothes.”

“Yeah, well. There will be no more of that. I’m going to relax and revel in my freedom for a bit.” She motions at her mother. “So give it a rest, Mom, all right? I have friends. I go to parties. I’m fine.”

“You’d better be going to parties, young lady,” Mr. Bettencourt says with a wink. “I’d expect nothing less from any child of mine.”

❄ ❄ ❄

The resounding silence on the drive to Eights is as unbearable as it is persistent. Kendall doesn’t even bother switching on her iPod. “I am so unbelievably sorry for outing you to my parents,” she says after an eternity. “It was like word vomit or something. I didn’t even comprehend what I was saying and then
bam
, the words are beating me over the head. Are you pissed at me? You should be pissed at me.
I’d
be pissed at me. I say the most retarded things sometimes!”

She’s droning on like she usually does when she feels bad about something. I should stop her, but it’s amusing and kind of cute when her feathers are ruffled. I let her continue for a few more seconds before cutting in. “Whoa. All right, chill out,” I say, throwing my hands up dramatically. “I’m not pissed, okay?” I feel my face break into a giant grin against my will. “Better you blabbed about it to your family than mine. If it had been
my
mom sitting at the table with us, I would’ve gone straight into cardiac arrest.”

“I know!” She sniggers. “I would’ve bitten my tongue off before I allowed that to happen, I swear.” She takes her focus off the road, turns it on me. Suddenly it’s a tangible thing, a lead bullet burying into my temple. I’ve never felt this uncomfortable around Kendall before, and I
do not
like it at all.

“What?” I’m not convinced I actually want to know what she’s thinking, but I have to escape the lingering strangeness.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?”

The question throws me off completely. It’s not the way we do things. She comes to visit, checks into the hotel, and then drives over to see me once she’s settled.

“I thought maybe you could drop me off at Newark in the morning. Your classes don’t start until the afternoon on Mondays, right?”

Blood rushes to my ears. I’m beginning to feel light-headed. I don’t know why, but it’s really distressing. “I thought you had to drop the BMW back at the airport rental place?”

“Nope. We can go get your car so you can follow me back to the hotel in this baby.” She pats the leather steering wheel. “I’ll leave the Beamer with the concierge, and he’ll take care of it for me. We’ll throw my luggage in your trunk and head to Eights from there.”

I am absolutely positive logic is my enemy because it’s completely evading me right now. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Wicked.” She presses play on her iPod sending Nero’s “Me and You” blasting through the speakers.

❄ ❄ ❄

Eights is packed even though it’s Sunday night. This is the place to be if you’re not of legal drinking age. We’re all sitting at a table, watching people shoot billiards. Kendall has her huge sunglasses on as a stab at flying under the radar. So far it’s working, but it seems like her disguises are generally a crapshoot—sometimes they’re successful, other times they’re not.

“Hey Kendall, you have an extra pair of sunglasses I can borrow? It’s so bright in here,” Jared quips.

“So
very
bright,” Sarah joins in.

“You two are hilarious.” Kendall slips her glasses up into her hair and throws a crumpled napkin at Jared.

“Dude, I haven’t gotten to bust you about your sorry disguises in months. I have a lot of catching up to do,” he says.

It’s like old times. Besides Kendall, my friends haven’t changed much since we were younger. Jared still acts like a child despite having a “grown-up job” at the Department of Parks and Recreation. Sarah is still the only one of us who can calculate the tip correctly without assistance. I, on the other hand, am feeling strangely out of sorts for reasons entirely unknown to me. Maybe Kendall outing me to her family is a bigger deal than I thought it was? I don’t know.

“Yo, Payton,” Sarah calls. “Where are you?”

On the corner of Edgy and Cranky, that’s where. Thanks for asking.
“What?”

“You’ve been on another planet all night,” Jared says.

Kendall doesn’t say anything, but seems interested in whatever explanation I may give.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have,” Kendall agrees.

“Holy crap, I know what it is!” Sarah screeches. “You met a guy at school, didn’t you? I bet he’s a drummer!” To Kendall, she asks, “Is he a drummer?”

Kendall shakes her head and elbows me.

“Don’t tell me he plays the violin,” Jared says. “That would be too gay.” Kendall’s hand smacks him square in the chest. “Ouch. What the hell?” He rubs the spot where Kendall hit him.

I really do not want to have the epic “coming out” conversation for the second time in as many days. “Can we drop it, please?”

“Is it someone we
know?” Jared persists. “And
is
he a violinist?” he asks Kendall.

“No, on all possible counts,” Kendall says and signals at me. “Christ, enough with the twenty questions!”

“I haven’t met anyone!” I burst out. “But if I had, the appropriate pronoun wouldn’t be ‘he.’ It would be ‘she.’”

“
She
,” Jared repeats after a beat. “You mean to tell me I’ve got a hot famous friend
and
a hot lesbian friend, both of whom are sitting at the same table as me right now? Dude, I am
the man
!”

Everyone erupts into a cacophony of laughter. I’m chuckling so hard that my ribs ache.

“Wait. Quiet down, you guys,” Jared says in a very serious tenor. “Payday, when’s the last time you got laid?”

Kendall rolls her eyes at him. Sarah whacks his arm and says, “Don’t be crude.”

He scoffs. “Pardon me. When was the last time you had a sexual encounter with a lady-friend?”

Kendall balls her fist at him. “That wasn’t any better.”

“Never,” I say, then instantly feel the heat of flush in my cheeks.
Did I really just admit to that?
“I’ve hooked up with a few girls, but never… to that extent.”

“Never?” Everyone questions in unison, their voices steeped in amazement.

“How do you know you’re gay if you’ve never had sex with a chick?” Jared asks.

Per usual, you can count on Jared to ask the asinine questions!
“Have you ever had sex with a guy?”

“No,” he says unaffectedly. I’m surprised there isn’t a look of total repulsion on his face.

“Then, how do you know you’re straight?”

He considers his answer much longer than he’s considered
anything
else he’s ever said. “I don’t know, man. Girls are sexy as hell.”

“So, breasts, thighs, butt, hips—girls just do it for you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same for me. I’m just waiting to meet the right girl—someone I’m sure I’m comfortable with because I’ve had the chance to get to know her—rather than hop into bed with the first cute girl I meet.”

“Word, I feel you. That’s cool.”

Sarah squints suspiciously at me. “Are you telling us you go to one of the biggest universities in the state and you haven’t met a girl you’re interested in?”

“Why is that so hard to believe? I’ve been flooded with work from the get-go. I barely have time to breathe much less date.” It’s not a lie, just the closest I can get to an explanation. I
am
usually trapped under a mountain of books and paperwork, but I have enough spare time to at least make an effort. So, why don’t I?

“What would your ideal girl be like?” Kendall probes. “What’s your type?”

Good question. I haven’t given as much thought to it as I probably should have by this point in my life. “I don’t think I have a ‘type.’”

“
Everyone
has a type, Payton.”

I allow myself to really speculate about it for the first time in a long while. My brain runs through a checklist of desirable character traits, mentally marking off the tiny boxes next to each. “She’d have to be smart, that’s absolutely a requirement. Kind, but still a little feisty. Funny in the sense that she’s okay with laughing at herself every once in a while. And she’d have to love music. Maybe not every bit as much as I do, but
a lot
.”

“What about physically?” Kendall adds curiously. “Say you could pick your ideal woman out of a line-up of famous chicks. Who would you go for?”

The very first person who comes to mind is Kendall Bettencourt.
What in the hell?
The thought torpedoes me into the most surreal panic. She is one of the most important people in my life, not some hotter-than-a-house-on-fire bombshell from a movie poster. I
know
her. She’s a sweet, sassy, intelligent, beautiful-on-the-inside,
real
person. And…
Oh my god
. She is my type! She is the standard by which I assess every other woman on the planet.
Oh, this is so effin’ bad. I need to get out of here. Bring the damn check, please!

I’d pick you, Kendall. You are, in every possible sense of the word, the most breathtaking woman I have ever met.
That would be the most truthful answer I could give, but I know when to keep the truth to my damn self. “You know that X-Men movie, the one where Xavier can still walk?”

Kendall furrows her eyebrows at me as if to say ‘yeah, and?’

“The actress who played Mystique in that. Hello, blue body paint.”

“Yes!” Jared shouts. “Nice, Payday. Fist pump!”

“Please,” Sarah waves him off. “Refrain from fist pumping. That gives Jersey such a bad name.”

“Whatever. You see more fists pumping in The Garden State than you do gardens,” Jared says in defense.

“All right, all right,” Kendall interjects. “It’s time for this party to end. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

❄ ❄ ❄

As we pull up to my house, I notice my mother’s Honda is missing from its usual spot in the driveway.
She must be working an overnight shift again.
Head ER nurse is the crappiest job. Mom sleeps in the on-call room more often than in her own room. I don’t normally mind, but tonight I’m dreading it. Suddenly, agreeing to let Kendall share my bed seems like the worst idea I’ve ever had. My stomach is doing backflips, and I’m sure I’m going to hurl.
This is going to be fun.

Kendall drops her Gucci duffle on the floor and combs over the DVD tower in my room. “Oh, I
so
called it!” She slides
X-Men: First Class
out of its spot and dangles it in front of my face. “You are a loser. A LOSER!”

The fact that I own this dreadful movie makes my fabricated ‘perfect woman’ story slightly more believable, but it will never be true. Kendall remains in the forefront of my brain, all beautiful and perfect and real as ever.