How We Deal With Gravity (12 page)

Mason

I never liked Adam Price. Oh who the hell am I
kidding—I never really gave two shits about him. But now…today…I fucking
hate the man. He’s smug—he looked smug the second he pulled up in that
giant black Chevy Tahoe with blinged-out rims. He had on these expensive
sunglasses, and when he pulled them off his face, he actually looked around to
make sure people were noticing him. Arrogant asshole!

The only thing I can take comfort in right now is those few
words I heard Ray whisper under his breath when he pulled up. “I’m gonna kill
that son of a bitch,” he said. I may have disappointed Ray a time or two, but
he’s never wanted to kill me.

I feel so goddamned helpless sitting here in the bar. Ray
walked in the second Avery walked outside to talk to Adam. I could tell he
wanted to stay with his daughter—have her back. But he also didn’t want
to pry. He’s pacing still, moving from the small window by the front door, to
the storeroom, and back again, all the while muttering a choice set of words.

Ray saw him first. He sent me in to fetch Avery, and told me
he needed to keep Adam outside, away from Max. Before I left, I heard him lay
into the man that was once his son-in-law. He didn’t touch him, but his fist was
raised. Ray may be an old man, but that fist is experienced—before he
used to hire bouncers, he used to take care of funny business at Dusty’s
himself.

“I’m surprised he didn’t just shoot him,” Claire says,
leaning over me to get her own good look in through the window. I planted
myself here the second Avery went outside, and I have no intention of leaving.

“People say I’m the asshole,” I laugh.

“No one says you’re the asshole, Mason,” Claire says,
reaching into her purse for her keys. She’s keeping Max inside, not letting him
leave until his dad—who he probably doesn’t remember and hasn’t seen in
years—leaves.

“Oh, they do. I know
that
one
does,” I say, tilting my head to the window. Claire looks out again and
stares at the conversation happening outside for a while before answering.

“I won’t lie. Yeah, you’ve been the
asshole
a few times for that one. But she’s got you in a
whole
different
place now. Don’t screw it up,” Claire’s bluntness takes me
by surprise. She taps her keys on the counter and pulls her bag over her
shoulder before heading over to sit with Max at the booth. He’s busy on his
iPad, oblivious to the domestic minefield threatening to explode all around
him. I should go sit with him, too, but I’m stuck on watching over Avery.

Seconds later, the door swings open, and Avery walks in. She
holds her hand up to both Claire and me to tell us she’s fine, but it’s so
clear she’s not. Her face is red, and her teeth couldn’t be clenched any tighter
with a vice grip. She walks straight through the bar into the back, and Claire
and I follow.

“Seriously guys, I’m fine,” she says, her face buried in her
locker. She’s rummaging through her work apron, and pulling out old Dusty’s
shirts, but eventually she just stops, and her entire body slumps forward.

“I can’t
believe
that guy! What did he have to say for himself?” I let Claire ask the questions,
and just lean against the wall, trying to be barely visible. I probably
shouldn’t even be in here. This is something best left to her family—and
Claire is like family. I’m nobody. But God, do I want to be somebody for her.

“He didn’t say much. Said he knows he owes me a lot of
explanations. Asked how Ray was doing. Asked about you,” she says, swinging her
arm toward her friend, her voice shaking and growing weaker with every word.
“He…he asked how Max was.”

That last sentence leaves her breathless. There are tears in
her eyes again when she turns around, and I have to force myself to breathe
slowly through my nose so I don’t smash a hole through the wall, or worse, race
out to the parking lot and hunt Adam down.

“What a prick! Did you tell him he’d know if he had any clue
what being a father was?” Claire fires back. Avery just shrugs, defeated, her
body shaking more now.

“I didn’t say much,” she says, biting her lip, trying to
conceal her disappointment in herself. I can feel Claire’s temper—and I
love that Avery has a friend who’s so ready to battle for her. But right now, I
think Avery needs to know she didn’t mess up…that it was okay to not have a
knockout brawl with her ex in a parking lot. And I think if Claire keeps going,
she’s just going to have Avery feeling worse. And I can’t have that.

“Well…” Claire starts, but I grab her shoulder, stopping her.
She looks at my hand first, then her wide eyes flip to mine, and we have a
silent conversation. She gets it, and takes a step back.

“He…uh. He wants to have dinner. I said that was fine. It’s
fine, right? I mean, I should have dinner with him? See what he has to say?”
she’s trembling the entire time, and her arms are wrapped around her stomach. I
take my turn now, knowing that even if I’m not family, I’m needed. Avery needs
me—she needs me
right now.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder,
and the second I touch her, her eyes dart to mine with a look so desperate it
breaks my heart. She’s terrified, and I would give anything to take that away.
But I know I can’t.
 

“Right. It’s fine,” she nods over and over again, and I
mimic her slowly.

“It will be fine,” I say, knowing that if it’s
not—that if that fucker does one thing, says
one thing,
to make Avery not fine, I will mess him up beyond
recognition.

Mason

I went home with Claire and Avery. There was no way I could
stay at the bar knowing what Avery was going through at home. I stayed in the
kitchen and watched Claire work with Max, walking him through his folder from
school, and explaining what homework is. She’s amazing with him—the way
he responds to her. It’s hard to believe she’s working in a bar and not doing
this—working with kids like Max—fulltime.

Avery keeps coming downstairs, asking us questions about
what she should wear. She finally settles on a pink and yellow dress that ties
behind her neck. It’s beautiful—she’s beautiful. And that dickhead Adam
doesn’t deserve it.

Avery’s nervous—first-date kind of nervous. She’s
sitting at the kitchen table with us, just chewing her nails, and watching the
clock. She’s meeting Adam somewhere in town, not wanting him to come near the
house—near Max—until she knows more.

When the time comes for her to leave, she stands and walks
with Claire to the door, away from Max’s view, and gives her friend a hug. I
stay in my place at the table, but I catch her eyes, and when I do, she keeps
them on mine. I nod slowly, letting her know she can do this—she can
handle whatever he throws at her. Her eyes are telling me she can’t, but I know
she can. And I’ll be right here, waiting for her to come home.

I help Claire get Max ready for bed, watching her go through
the list with him one item at a time—teeth brushing, pajamas, story time.
I ask Max if I can read tonight, and he’s surprisingly okay with it.

“You have to read all of chapter eleven. That’s where we
stopped; it was eleven. Make sure you read eleven,” he’s very insistent, and it
makes me smile. I’m tempted to tease and start with chapter twelve instead, but
I know Max isn’t someone you can do that with.

“Chapter eleven, The Rules of Gravity,” I pause for a second
to look over the back and front cover of the book. It seems kind of advanced,
and I look at Claire who just shakes her head and smiles, so I get comfortable
on the floor next to Max’s bed and read on. “Gravity is a natural force that
gives weight to an object. It is the force that attracts all heavenly objects
to one another.”

I read three pages of something that feels more like a sixth
grade text book, and I notice the few times I look up at Max, that his eyes are
closed tightly, but his lips are saying the words along with me. I can’t help
but smile at my inner thoughts; knowing how easy science is going to be for
this kid. He may have so much to overcome socially, but hell…I would have given
anything to understand half the crap I just read. And I’m twenty-five!

When I’m done, we shut off the light, and tiptoe the rest of
the way out of Max’s door. Max isn’t asleep yet; I can tell he’s not. But
Claire says he’ll lie there and pretend until he actually falls
asleep—because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“I’ll stick around, wait for her to get back,” Claire says,
picking up our plates from the table, and cleaning up the kitchen from our
small mess.

“You don’t have to. I mean…I’m not going anywhere,” I say,
unable to hide the guilty grin on my face.

“No band tonight?” she says, dusting away the last few
crumbs from one of the chairs before pushing it in all the way.

“Nah. I texted Ben, told him we’d hook up tomorrow night and
rehearse,” I say, pushing my hands in my pockets and holding my breath, almost
like I’m waiting for her to change her mind.

Claire studies me for a few extra seconds, her eyes focused
and intense, before giving in. “Okay. I’ll call it a night then,” she says with
a shrug. “If you think you’ll be okay.”

“I’ll be okay. If Max wakes up, I’ll just follow his lead,”
I say, and she pauses to look up the stairs before coming back to me.

“He likes you, Mason. She likes you, too,” she says with a
certain sense of warning to her tone. I don’t have a reply for her, and I don’t
think she wants one—she wants me to know how Avery feels. For some
reason, Claire is rooting for me, and I’ll take anyone in my corner that I can
get.

I walk Claire to the front door, and flip the porch light on
so she can see her way to her car, and so Avery can see her way home. “Remember
what I said, Mason,” Claire hollers over her shoulder while she opens up the
passenger door and dumps her stuff inside.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Don’t fuck this up,” she says, her smile big, and I hold up
two fingers, giving her my scout’s honor.
Yeah,
I’m a real Boy Scout.

I don’t know what I was expecting when Avery came home. For the
next two hours, my emotions pretty much run the gamut, and the longer it takes,
the more stressed out I get, until I’m full-on pacing from the kitchen to the
living room. I actually pick up a book that’s sitting on the coffee table, some
stupid romance of Avery’s, and I even read a few pages—like I’ve read a
book…
for fun…
ever! I feel like the
father of a teenage girl—the way I keep flipping up the blinds with every
set of spotlights that come down the road, and when it’s finally hers, I can’t
help but open the front door and stand out on the porch.

“You didn’t need to wait up,” she scoffs, brushing by me
quickly, and heading right up the stairs.

Oh no. This is not happening. I may screw things up a lot,
but this time, whatever’s up her ass, well…that ain’t my fault—it’s
his
. I follow her to her door, and catch
up to her just as she reaches for the handle, and I pull it first, keeping it
shut.

“Mason, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” she’s fuming.
Whatever that asshole did, his time will come. But she is not making this about
me
tonight. I step in closer, and
force her to look into my eyes, and it takes her several seconds to break away.

“Seriously, Mason. I don’t want to talk about it,” she says,
her voice softer, but not by much. Her nostrils are still flaring, and I can
tell she’s still angry. She’s not going to go to sleep. She doesn’t have to
talk to me, but she’s got to let out some of this stress from this…this…crap
deck she’s been dealt.

“Come with me,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine, and
pulling her reluctantly behind me. She tugs in resistance a few times, so I
wriggle my hand higher on her forearm to show her I’m not backing down, and
eventually she gives in and follows me back down the stairs to the front door,
but not without stomping her feet.

“Max is sleeping; I can’t go anywhere,” she sighs.

“I’m not an idiot; just come out front,” I say, leaving her
standing on the porch while I run out to my car.

“Wait a second, where’s Claire? Did she leave you here…
alone?”
She’s shouting at me, and I
already know where this is going, and I’m stopping it before it starts.

“She left after he went to bed. Like I said, I’m not an
idiot. I can handle watching the house while a child is sleeping,” I half yell
and whisper, waving my hands over my head while I sift through the crap in my
trunk. I’m yell-whispering—
what the
hell
? I’m so angry and frustrated right now; I want to kick something, but
all I can think about is how I owe this damn girl a kiss, and how
more than anything
I want to give it to
her—I want to give it to her right now. But to hell if I’m gonna make her
associate my lips with whatever pissed-off juju she’s got brewing in that head
of hers. And if last night wasn’t the right time, right now sure as hell isn’t.

I find what I’m looking for, and slam the trunk closed.

“Jesus, Mason! Quiet, you’ll wake Max up!” she says, and I
can’t help but stop in my tracks at her absolutely ludicrous statement.

“Really? You think I’m making a raucous? You don’t think
all this
is probably enough to wake up
half the damned street?” I say, pointing into the fully lit and wide-open house
behind her, then circling her and finally pointing all around us in one big-ass
motion.

She slips out a small giggle at first, then she covers her
mouth, trying to hold it in, but she can’t, and pretty soon she’s laughing,
full-on belly laughing.
Oh my god, she’s
laughing. It’s the greatest sound ever, and all I want to do is kiss her!

“You…” I point to her, “are going to
ruin
me woman.”

Her smile grows when I say that. I’m not even sure where it
came from. I’ve never given anyone an edge like that; never let them know they
have anything—any power—over me. But she laughs like that, one more
time, her arms wrapped around her body and her green eyes lit up under the
moon, and yeah…I’m ruined.

“Now get down here,” I say, and she steps cautiously down
the steps, still unsure about me.

“Golf clubs? What are we doing, breaking windows? You want
me to drive over to his hotel, take a club to his Tahoe, and go all
Carrie-Underwood-song on him?” she asks, but takes the club anyway, gripping it
tightly, like a baseball bat, to the point where I start to think she might
just beat the hell out of
my
car.

“No, nothing like that,” I say, pushing the club back down
because, hell, she’s making me nervous. I hold up one finger so I can run over
to the side of the house. I come back with about 15 Coke cans cradled in my
shirt, and I drop them on the ground.

“Shhhhhhh!” she says, all serious at first, but soon her
smile creeps in. She’s playing with me—this is good, this is the right
direction.

I stand a can up on a small steppingstone in the middle of
her yard and hold my finger up, like I’m calculating the wind. She laughs quietly,
and it’s raspy, and it’s sexy, and I want to make her do it again. I scrunch up
my shoulders, and then crack my neck to both sides to focus on my swing. I line
it up like I really know what the hell I’m doing, like
this—
hitting a can with a golf club—is a thing people
do.

I take a deep breath, and then I hit the shit out of the
can, sending it about 30 feet into the street. I set the next can up for her
and move the few pebbles I kicked up out of her way.

“I don’t know, I think I need a different club,” she jokes.

“I only have two. Got 'em at a garage sale,” I say, and she
squints at me. “What? You never know when you’re going to need a driver and
a…lemme see that for a sec? Yeah…a seven iron.”

“Well, then I want the driver,” she says, reaching for my
club. I move it back, playing with her. It’s probably not the night to
flirt—just a second ago she wanted to murder someone. But I can’t help
it, and I think it’s helping her forget.

“I don’t know…this isn’t just
any
driver,” I say, flipping the club handle over in my hand to
read the brand. “It’s a Big Bertha…
Big
Bertha
?
Shit, if I knew they made
clubs with names like roller-derby broads, I would have taken this game a whole
lot more seriously a long time ago.”

She’s laughing again, so I give her the club, and her eyes
linger on mine for a split second longer than they have all night. Everything
about what I’m feeling right now is probably wrong, and I won’t take advantage
of it—this friction we’re both feeling—but there’s something there.
And I know she feels it, too.

Avery lines up her shot, changing her grip, and bending her
knees before wiggling her ass for effect. She’s doing it for a laugh, so I
do—but all I’m thinking about is her unbelievably adorable ass in that
pink and yellow dress. She gets more serious when she moves her arms back to
swing, and when she drives the club head through the can, sending it almost as
far as mine, she’s no longer smiling.

“Give me another,” she says. It’s almost a command, so I
line one up for her and stand back to let her swing. She hits this one almost
as far, a breathy grunt escaping when she swings.

“Another,” she says, so I do it again, and she swings harder
this time.

She finishes every can in the stack, and I run to the side
of the house to get her a dozen more—every single one of them she sends
to the street. By the last one, she’s breathing hard, but she pulls the club
back behind her head for one last rip anyhow.

“He’s getting married,” she says, and I can feel every ounce
of hurt she’s feeling wash over me while she sends the last can to the curb.
She holds the club out and stares at the aluminum carnage for a while longer,
and I let her.

“She has two kids, and he’s adopting them,” she turns to
look at me with complete emptiness. She is walking devastation—and I know
why. “He wants to waive his parental rights…for Max.”

I’m speechless. All I can do is stand there in front of her
and mirror the same goddamned stunned face she’s making. I want to hug her,
pick her up in my arms and tell her she’s worth so much more, but my feet are
buried in a thick cement of fear and regret. I don’t know a single thing I can
say that will make this—
any of
this—
even remotely okay.

“Can he…do that?” I ask, swallowing hard. My question seems
so pitiful, so small, but it’s the only thing I can think to say.

“Guess so,” she says, shrugging, and looking down at her
feet where she drops the club. “He doesn’t want
her
to know about him.”

I’ve been in exactly five fights in my life, and I was drunk
for every single one of them, but what’s raging through my veins right now is
so much more powerful than the whiskey from the road. I know in that instant
that it’s not a matter of
if
I see
Adam Price again, but
when.
And
when
I do, I’m going to make sure he’s
got a permanent mark to carry around to let the world know what a grade-A
asshole he is.

If I could get in my car and hunt him down right now, I
would. But tonight, Avery needs me, and I don’t care if I have to be up all
night just to get her to sleep. I’ll figure out how to get Max to school in the
morning if I have to, I’ll make lists and call Claire. I’ll do whatever it
takes to make that pained look on her face go away, if only for a while.