How We Deal With Gravity (3 page)

“No, seriously, please…hear me out,” he says from behind me.
I give him one more chance, and when I turn around, he’s walking over, his
hands dripping from dishwater so much he has to pat them on his jeans. I can’t
help but watch them when he walks. I used to stare at those hands in high
school, when he’d sit up there on that stage and strum his guitar for hours at
a time. I had goddamned fantasies about those hands, but I learned to hate them
pretty quickly.

“Go on,” I say, keeping up my tough stance, and finally
looking away from his hands to his face.

“I’m sorry about what I said…you know…about Max? I didn’t
know he was your son. I never would have—” I butt in before he can get
the last offensive word out.

“You never would have what, Mason? You never would have made
fun of him if you knew he was mine? But if he’s someone else’s child, someone
else’s son, then he’s fair game to call names?” I can tell I’ve backed him into
a corner, because the shameful look on his face is the same one I’ve imagined
putting there millions of times.

“He’s five, Mason. He’s just a kid. But there you go,
swooping right on in and exploiting whatever makes him different,” I’m on a
roll now, and Mason is getting a lifetime of my pent-up resentment. “Gahhhh,
you are
exactly
the same person you
were when you left. No wonder you ended up back here. Some fucking music
career, Mason—why don’t you go back and tend to your dish soap?”

I spin around so fast, and leave him standing there alone, I
don’t have time to take in what I know is a crippling look of shock. For once
in my life, I said the exact thing I would have pretended to say when I relived
the day in my shower. And it feels wonderful.

Mason

Getting slapped by Avery Abbot was enough to make me change my
entire opinion of her being weak. But getting put in my place, and being called
a failure?
Ooooph
—that one
stuck with me all night and well into this morning.

I left the bar after she ripped me apart, just glad that we
were alone when she did so no one could give me shit for it. I gave myself
enough shit. Feeling guilty was strange for me. I’m starting to wonder why I
thought staying with Ray Abbot was such a good idea in the first
place—he’s done nothing but tell me what a disappointment I am, and his daughter
thinks I’m a complete jerk.

I am a jerk—who am I kidding?

I travel light. When I left home the first time, five years
ago, it was with my giant football bag stuffed with every piece of clothing I
owned. I still have the same damned bag, and the clothes inside haven’t changed
much either. I dragged that and my guitar into the house last night, and into
the small spare room with the blow-up mattress. I slept here a few times in
high school—when I wasn’t getting along with one of my mom’s boyfriends.

Ray’s always been my escape plan. It’s funny; when I look
back on it now, I think Avery kind of liked it when I stayed at her house. She
used to sit in the hall when I sat on the spare bed and played a song. She’d
never come all the way into the room—too nervous. But she would sit
there, with her skinny legs folded up into her chest, hugging them to her body.

We’re the same age, maybe a few months apart, but she’s
always seemed younger, like a child that I had to be careful around. She was
good at school—student council, honor society…shit like that. I scraped
by. Football, basketball, and girls—that’s how I spent my time. And damn,
when Ray started putting me on stage, the
girls
part got really easy.

By the time I was a senior, Avery wasn’t interested in
listening to me play any more. I didn’t really care because she was never my
type. Somehow, though, she’s the only thing on my goddamned mind this morning.

This house is so quiet. I think Ray’s awake; I swear I can
hear something happening in the kitchen downstairs. Everything in this house is
old, but the kitchen is from the fifties. The cabinets have been painted yellow
a few times, so much so they stick when you open them. The stove has coils, and
they smell when you turn it on—burning off whatever was cooked last. The
fridge vibrates when you open it because the suction is so strong you actually
need to brace part of it with your foot when you tug on the door.

It’s almost eight in the morning, and I’ve been up for the
last two hours. I pull my guitar onto my lap and strum it once, just to see if
anyone notices.

Nothing.

I’ll play lightly. Avery and Max’s bedroom is on the other
end of the hall, so I don’t think I’ll wake them. I loop the strap over my
head, and position myself with my knee bent on the corner of the mattress. It’s
not ideal, but I haven’t touched my guitar in days. I start to get scared I’ll
forget what it feels like, where to put my fingers, if I don’t at least play
for a few minutes.

This guitar has always been home. As soon as I touch the
strings, I’m gone—there’s this melody I’ve been trying to work out for
weeks. I haven’t written in months, but this one phrase seems to keep repeating
every time I play. There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t seem to
work it out. It’s kind of like my life.

My eyes are closed when I hear the sound of someone’s
breathing. It’s not Ray, because his is heavy—labored. I’m hoping—
damn it, I’m actually hoping—
that
I’ll see Avery at my door, when I peel one eye open and look right at Max.

He’s not surprised to see me. Avery must have explained to
him that I’d be in their house. He doesn’t even seem to be nervous around a
stranger. He’s just staring intently at my hands, watching my fingers move up
and down the length of the guitar. It’s like he’s memorizing every movement,
the way his eyes twitch a little with every motion.

I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, I’m shit with kids.
I’ve never really been around them, except for my friends when we were growing
up, but I don’t think that counts. I just keep playing instead of talking, and
Max seems to be fine with that.

I start to change up the melody a little, and Max clearly
notices, his eyes flashing wider for a fraction of a second—like a
computer memorizing more data. He hasn’t moved a single step from his position
in the very center of my doorway. His hands are limp at his sides, and he’s
swaying a little. I’ve played for a good five or six minutes under his watch,
and at this point I’m not even being quiet anymore.

“Do you want to try?” I say, my hands still making music.

Max doesn’t answer, but just continues to stare. I’m not
sure what’s wrong with him. I know he doesn’t like to look people in the
eyes—I got that much from last night. And I know he doesn’t like to talk
much. Hell, I don’t either—I
get
him more than he knows.

The sounds downstairs start to pick up, so I stop strumming
and pull the guitar strap from around my neck. Max is still looking at it, but
not moving from his spot. I lean it against the edge of the mattress, there and
available, while I leave the room. Maybe it’s just a weird fantasy, but part of
me feels like maybe if I’m not looking, Max will pick it up and start to play.

I’m halfway down the stairs when I lean back to peek to see
if Max has gone into my room, but he hasn’t. I can still see his feet, his body
swaying in the doorway. He probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with his
mom—I can see Avery being strict with him, telling him not to touch stuff
that isn’t his.

As soon as the smell hits my senses, I’m suddenly fifteen
again. Ray’s skillet is bubbling with bacon and sausage—and I swear it’s
swimming in the very same grease it was when he used to make me breakfast years
ago.

“Now that’s how a man likes to wake up,” I say, pulling my
arms over my head into a wide stretch and patting Ray on the back.

“Breakfast ain’t free, ya know. Take the trash out, would
ya? There’s old eggs in there,” Ray says, nodding toward the trash bin by the
door.

I salute him and run up the stairs quickly to grab my shoes
so I can haul the trash outside. Max isn’t in my doorway anymore, but his own
door is now closed. I wonder if he just went back to bed, or if his mom is
awake? Who am I kidding—I just want to know if Avery’s home, and if I’m
going to get to see her this morning.

I skip back down the stairs and grab the bag of trash by the
door and walk it around to the side of the house. It’s funny how very little
has changed. Ray’s GMC pickup is still pulled up on part of the lawn, and it
looks like Avery’s taken over the Buick; I can see a booster seat in the back.

Avery’s mom used to pick her up from school in that car, but
after she died from breast cancer, Ray just let it sit in the
driveway—untouched. We were seniors when Ruthie passed away—I
remember Avery changed after that, too. Not that we talked much then, but she
always had this light in her, this fire. She was a go-getter, the one who was
going to leave this place to change the world, make it better. But after her
mom died, she sort of slipped into the background. I guess Adam was there to
pick her up.

I kick the tire on the Buick out of fondness—I’m glad
to see the tires full again. I take in the rest of the outside of the house on
my way back inside, too. The paint is chipping, and the siding is slipping in a
few spots. If I stay here long enough, I’m going to have to put in some work on
the place. That’s the least I could do for Ray.

By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Avery’s made it
downstairs. She’s wearing a gigantic long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of black
leggings, her hair all twisted on top of her head. She looks like sunshine in
the morning. She’s pouring a glass of juice, and mouthing something in a
whisper to her dad. She hushes as soon as she sees me, and I feel like even
more of a fucking loser than I did just an hour ago.

“Hey, Ray. You know, I’ve been thinking—I didn’t
realize you had such a full house and all. I can just stay at the apartment.
Mom’s still up on the rent…” I start, and I notice the fraction of a smile curl
on Avery’s lips. She’s relieved, and it makes me feel like shit—but it’s
short-lived, because Ray squashes my idea the second I suggest it.

“Shut it. You’re staying here. Now eat your breakfast,” Ray
says, sliding a plate to me. I sit down and prop my elbows up on either side
before grabbing a fork and digging in. I sneak a glimpse at Avery again, and
the smile that started seconds ago has been replaced with a look of pain.

This entire trip back home is torture. My mind is spinning,
trying to come up with an idea—a way out. But I’m broke. I mean I have a
small amount in savings, but the label barely paid me a dime, and the guys are
all sorting out their own shit, just as broke as I am. I’m stuck here. And as
long as I’m not kidding myself, I’m probably stuck here for a while—at
least until I can book myself some gigs and earn enough to try and make a go at
this on my own.

Avery won’t even look at me. I try to open my mouth, start a
conversation with her, at least a dozen times—but every time I’m left
with my mouth agape, nothing to say. I could apologize, but I’ve done that. She
doesn’t want to hear it. I could ask her what’s wrong with Max, but I’m not
going near that conversation. That’s what earned me the
asshole of the year
honor in the first place.

“Max coming down?” Ray asks as he slides into his seat with
a full plate of sausage and eggs. I’m so grateful he’s picked up the
conversation.

“He should be. He was writing something upstairs. I couldn’t
get him to stop,” Avery says, looking back to the stairs.

“I can go get him? Tell him breakfast is ready?” my words
come out anxious and desperate, leaving my mouth so fast that I didn’t have
time to think. Avery’s just staring at me with disgust, her brow pinched, as
she slides out of her seat and heads upstairs.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.

Ray chuckles to himself at my expense.

“Shut up, old man,” I say, shoveling a forkful of eggs in my
mouth.

Avery is back seconds later, and Max is trailing behind her.
He’s clutching a stack of notebook paper in his hand, and he won’t let go, even
when Avery tries to take it from him so he can eat his breakfast. It’s kind of
funny to watch the stand-off as she holds onto one end of the papers and Max
the other, his opposite hand already working the fork to cut into a toasted
pastry Ray put on a plate for him. I can’t help the small laugh that escapes
me, which only fuels Avery even more as she shoots me a death glare.

I just shrug at her. I can’t win with this one, and I’m
already in a hole so deep that I might as well just keep digging.

“Sorry, but my money’s on Max,” I laugh, causing her to huff
and sit back in her chair, defeated.

Avery finally stands from the table to fix her own plate,
and as soon as she does, Max puts the papers down flat next to him. I shake my
head in amusement, kind of proud of him for winning this battle, when he slides
the pages toward me across the table. I can feel
everyone
stop
everything
the second he does.

“Me?” I mouth to Ray.

Ray shrugs and raises his brow, no help at all. I turn to
Avery next, and her hands are gripping the edge of the table, her eyes fixated
on the papers, squinting at them like she’s trying to sort through a puzzle.

Max hasn’t moved the papers any closer, but they are now in
the very center of the table. I don’t know what to do, and I’m so afraid of
doing the wrong thing, that I’m almost stuck. I look at Ray again, wincing,
just hoping that he’ll see how lost I am with this kid and help me out.
Thankfully, he does, as he wipes his hands on his napkin and leans forward,
moving his hand toward the papers.

“Max, mind if I see what you’ve got here?” he waits, and Max
doesn’t respond. “I’ll give them right back.”

Ray slides the stack closer to him, and Max seems to be okay
with that. He pulls a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on,
crinkling the papers and stacking them neatly together in front of him so he
can read. He’s half smiling as he flips through them, nodding. Finally, he
starts to hum, and when I begin to hum along, we both freeze and look at one
another.

“That’s a pretty song, Max. Did you just write that this
morning?” Ray asks, his eyes locked on mine and a faint smirk on his face.

Max remains silent, his gaze fixed on his plate, but he nods
yes.
Avery comes back to the table,
and she reaches slowly for the papers, not wanting to start another round with
Max over them. Her dad slides them in front of her and tilts them so she can
see, and I lean forward to look along with her. I would say it was unbelievable
if I weren’t looking right at it. Max charted every note that I played for him
this morning—every mistake and every improvisation that I strummed less
than 30 minutes ago. Everything—
exactly
.

“Max, did you learn this from Grandpa?” Avery asks, her eyes
finally coming to meet mine. She’s looking at me with surprise, but I’m
looking
at her. I’m looking at her
because it’s the first time since we’ve come back together that she’s letting
me, and I’m embarrassed that I never really saw
her
before. Her eyes—they’re fucking unbelievable.

Max finally puts his fork down and looks up from his plate,
though not at any of us directly. “I heard Mason play it this morning. I wanted
to see what it looked like, so I copied Grandpa’s music books,” he says,
standing abruptly and heading for the stairs.