How We Deal With Gravity (4 page)

“Uhm, Max? You forgetting something?” Ray calls after him.
Max stops at the bottom step, and looks up and to the side.

“Thank you for breakfast. I am excused,” he says before
climbing the rest of the way up the stairs and back into his room.

The room is silent for the next few minutes while we all
sort of put together our own versions of what just happened. Ray interrupts us
first, standing, and sliding out his chair to begin clearing the table. I stand
up to help.

I’m sliding scraps of food off a plate into the trash when I
turn back and see Avery standing next to her father, whispering again. Her eyes
are wider this time, and she’s smiling. Add her smile to my ever-growing list
of shit I find drop-dead gorgeous about grown-up Avery Abbot. She catches my
stare, and flushes—and the fact that she does makes me nuts.

“You heading to therapy this morning?” Ray asks over his
shoulder, stopping Avery just before she starts up the stairs. She just nods
yes
and gives her dad a wink.

I wait until she’s out of earshot before I ask Ray. “What’s
Avery in therapy for?” I’m so damned curious, and suddenly all I want to do is
spend my day gathering facts and putting together Avery’s puzzle.

“It’s not for her. It’s for Max,” he says, running a
washcloth under the water and turning to wipe down the table. I grab a dry
towel and follow after him.

“Oh. I get it,” I swallow. I’m dying to know what’s wrong
with Max, but I feel like nobody wants to come right out and tell me. Unable to
stand it any longer, I finally break.

“What’s wrong with him? Max? I mean…what does he go to
therapy for?” My words are jumbled, and on instinct I brace myself for Ray to
knock my teeth out. Last time I talked about Max I got slapped—hard!

Ray pauses at my question, refolding the washcloth a few
times on the table before knocking his fist on the wood lightly. When he looks
up at me, his lips are tight—serious. “Max is an amazing kid,” Ray
starts, his smile full of conflict—pride and sorrow. “Avery…she lives her
life for that boy. He’s her center, her sun and moon all rolled into one.”

“Yeah, I get that. It’s plain to see,” I say, trying to show
my respect. I’ve only witnessed a little, but Avery has my vote for mother of
the year the way she defends Max. My jaw hurts just from memory.

Ray finishes wiping down the table, chewing at his top lip
and nodding, like he’s working out what to say in his head before he fills me
in. He pulls out a chair finally and leans back, folding his arms across his
body, not really looking at me, but more looking beyond me, before finally coming
back to meet my eyes.

“Mason, Max has autism,” he says. I nod like I understand,
and I try my best to match the face he’s making, but I have no idea what the
fuck
autism
really means. I know the
word, sure. And I’ve heard about it. But I don’t know if it’s something in your
brain or if it’s something that happens over time. Isn’t it, like, mental
retardation?

“Oh, okay. I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry. How…how do you fix
that?” I ask, raising a brow, wishing like hell I understood more than I do.

“You don’t, Mason. You don’t,” Ray says, and I can tell by
the crack in his voice that
this
—Avery’s
life with Max, Max himself—is what real-life problems look like. Ray
stands to turn away, and I let him. He walks back to the sink to rinse out his
cloth and to regain his strength. I sit down now myself, and try to understand
what Ray is saying.

“So…how?” I start to ask, but I realize immediately that I
don’t even know what to ask. I bury my face in my hands and rub my eyes, just
trying not to sound like an insensitive ass more than I already do. “Was
Max…born with it? What…I mean…I’m sorry Ray, I don’t think I really know what
autism is.”

Ray’s slow to respond. He finishes cleaning up the kitchen,
and then paces over to the stairway to make sure Avery and Max are still in
their room. He leans against the banister before beginning, just to keep an eye
out for them—probably to stop our conversation before Avery overhears.

“Max was one when we found out. Autism…well, it’s sort of
like a really big linebacker in Max’s brain. It works against him, not letting
certain things in and not letting certain things out. He didn’t talk for the
longest time, and even now, his speech is…strange. It’s like he knows the words
and when to use them, but the meaning isn’t quite right. He sort of doesn’t
understand emotion,” Ray sighs, looking down and kicking at the bottom step.

“But what about the music? Those notes he just charted? How
can he do that?” I ask, knowing that it would have taken me hours to figure out
how to put all of that on paper.

Ray smirks, curling one side of his mouth up a little and
tilting his head to me with a squint in his eyes. “Pretty cool, huh?” he
starts. “He does stuff like that sometimes. Max memorizes things. You should
see him put together a Rubik’s Cube.”

I don’t understand. I don’t get how Max can’t make eye
contact or have a conversation, but can hear me play something for five minutes
and then memorize every single nuance. “How?” is all I can ask Ray, and he
chuckles at my response, probably because he’s thought the same thing himself.

“Damned if I know,” he says. “Avery says his autism makes it
hard to do some things but easy to do others. She’s that kid’s champion, you
know? She’s all he’s got. Me? I’m just the old man who lives here with him, who
he lets talk to him…sometimes. Ha! But Avery—she’s the one that goes to
battle. And Lord help anyone or anything that gets in her way.”

 
I let Ray’s
words soak in. I have so many more questions, but I can hear Max and Avery
making their way down the stairs, and I get the feeling by the way Ray was
acting that having this conversation with me wasn’t something Avery wants to
happen.

“Okay, Dad. We’re heading out. I’m off
tonight—Claire’s got my shift. Too much homework,” Avery says, leaning
over to kiss her dad on the cheek. I don’t move from my seat, careful not to
startle her or draw her attention. I feel like I shouldn’t know the things I
know, and I feel like knowing about Max has made me look at things differently.
And for some reason, it’s all making me want to be around Avery even more.

Avery Abbot.
Shit, I’m
in trouble.

Avery

Some days start on a high note. Today was one of them. I was
so sure I was going to get a full-on meltdown from Max over those papers.
Normally, I would have bribed him to give them to me with a candy. But with
Mason watching the whole thing, I just felt foolish. I don’t want him to think
I bribe my son to do everything…though, some days, it feels like I do.

When I saw the music, what he wrote—uh! I was blown
away; that kid has this power to move me, I swear he does. He’s always flipping
through my dad’s old music books, but I know no one’s ever explained it to
him—how notes work, what the lines and dots mean. He just figures some things
out.

I bet Mason thought
that
was weird, too. I bet he can’t wait to get together with his band, sit
around and talk about the weird girl he went to high school with and how she
has this
weird
kid. Whatever. Fuck
Mason Street! His
weird
is my
amazing
!

Max has been asleep for hours. It was a long day for him. We
met with two doctors, and it was a double-therapy day. Jenny, our head
therapist, has been working with me for weeks, maybe months, to get Max ready
for kindergarten. He’ll be joining the class a little late—he’s been
learning one-on-one, and he’s actually doing really well with the academic side
of things. That’s never been Max’s problem. In fact, he learns some things
really fast. Memorization—that’s his gift. It’s the social part that
scares the hell out of me. I don’t make friends easily, how can I expect him
to? Add on top of that his lack of patience for anyone slower to
catch on
than he is, and a schoolyard
disaster won’t be far behind.

This is what we’ve been working on the most. Patience—keeping
his frustration in check. Eye contact and socializing will be skills Max works
on every day at school, but he’ll never get there if he makes enemies out of
his classmates first.

Today has wiped me, completely. Just imagining my afternoons
when Max starts school in a few days is daunting. In many ways, it will ease
some of the burden. But I carry Max with me, even when we’re physically apart.
It’s the worry—constant, painful, without remedy. But I’ve survived
today, and I’ve earned tonight.

I take my basket of bath products and set myself up for a
little relaxing reward after the long day. It’s my first evening
off—truly off—in…
I don’t know
how long
. The bath water hugs me, and the bubbles crackle softly, almost
lulling me into a light sleep. I can feel the pull within my chest, my eyes
falling shut, but my mind reminds me that my fingers are pruning and that I
have a warm bed and—
gasp
!—a
book waiting for me down the hall.
 

My toes are toying with the drain, trying to convince the
rest of me to leave the water, when I hear Mason’s guitar softly filtering
through the wall. It’s faint, and…beautiful. His playing was always perfection.
I used to listen to him with my dad, just in awe. I have no musical
talent—zero. I wish I did; I’ve learned music can be a great calming
therapy for kids like Max. It’s not calming when I sing, however. Things just
feel out of order, so I stick to reading him stories instead. Good thing I’m
majoring in English.

I wait through four or five iterations of the same melody.
It’s the one Max wrote down this morning—I recognize it. Mason was never
happy with his music, always trying to find the
better
way to play something. That’s what he’s doing now—he’s
obsessing, and catching him makes me smile.

Stepping from the water, I leave the drain in place, careful
not to make any noise as I dress so I don’t interrupt his playing. I pull on my
soft cotton shorts and one of my dad’s old T-shirts for bed and flip off the
light before I step quietly down the hall to Mason’s door.

His back is to me, so he doesn’t notice when I slide down to
sit in the doorway. I can still see his fingers from here, as they work their
way up and down, pausing right when they should and gently grazing the strings
when it’s called for. I think that’s what made me fall in love with Mason
Street in the first place—long before I really
knew
him, before I fell right back out of love with him. Watching
him play, the way he
loves
that
instrument, the way his brown eyes shut and his lips whisper small phrases,
ideas for lyrics. That’s the reason women love musicians—it’s all right
there in Mason’s hands, his eyes, his lips. Mason is the perfect package…on the
outside. I could almost forget everything watching him now.

He stops playing for a few seconds, and I catch my breath.
The small noise causes him to turn around, and I can feel my cheeks heat up
with embarrassment. Maybe it’s dread. This moment—the one that was so
nice before he began talking—is about to be ruined. I just know it.

“Oh, hey Birdie. Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he says.
Birdie.
Still with the fucking
Birdie.

“Avery, Mason. My name’s Avery,” I say with a heavy sigh.
I’m about to get up and leave when he swallows and nods, not putting up a
fight. Thank God, I don’t have it in me tonight.

“Sorry. Old habit, like I said,” he turns away again,
focusing back on the guitar propped up on his leg. “Sorry, am I too loud? Max
is probably sleeping, huh? Shit…I didn’t think.”

“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t wake easily. It was nice,” I can
feel my eyes flair open when I realize I’m complimenting him, and my pulse
speeds up. I decide to let it go, smiling and playing friendly.

Everything feels suddenly awkward, so I look down at my
fidgeting fingers and bare feet. I’m smirking to myself when Mason notices.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, tucking a pencil behind
his ear and flipping a page on a small notebook on his mattress.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I’m embarrassed he caught me, but I can
feel him urging me on, so I continue. “It’s just…I was just thinking…here I am,
twenty-five years old, and I’m in the same exact place, you know? Like,
literally! I’m probably even wearing the same thing I did when I was fourteen
or fifteen and I used to listen to you play.”

I look down again immediately, because I feel foolish, like
some groupie. I used to get so jealous over the girls that would come see Mason
play at Dusty’s, like they didn’t have a right to him. They would go on and on
about how talented he was, how much they loved his music. But they didn’t
really. They liked the
idea
of
Mason—the sexy guy playing a guitar.

It was always more than that for me, though. For me, it
really
was
the music. And then
slowly, the older we got, the more it became about the boy
playing
the song. That boy disappeared though, and I don’t think
he’s ever coming back. But sometimes…sometimes when I see Mason play—for
himself, not for a crowd, like he is tonight—I start to think that maybe
that boy is still in there. And maybe he’s growing up.

I look back up when I realize how long we’ve both been
quiet. Mason is hugging his guitar now, his legs turned to face me, and he’s
looking at me differently.
He’s going to
ruin this.

“You never come in,” he says, his brow pinching and his lips
shut tightly, considering. I don’t know how to answer him, so I just shrug.

“I don’t like interrupting. You’re being…creative,” I say,
averting my gaze again because I can’t take the attention. Mason is so damned
confident. It’s off-putting.

“Ha, you’re funny,” he starts with a chuckle. I raise an
eyebrow, not really following where he’s going with everything. “I’m being
creative.
Haven’t you been listening? I
can’t figure out a simple bar. I’m just wavering all over the place, and
nothing feels right. I don’t even know why I thought I could do this in the first
place. Bir…I mean, Avery—there is
nothing
creative going on for you to interrupt. I’m not sure there ever was.”

Now it’s his turn to look away. He kicks his guitar case
open with his foot and leans forward to place his guitar inside and close it
again. He lets his hands linger on the case for a few seconds before he flips
the locks in place and then slides the case over to the wall. His eyes are
locked on it, and for the first time ever I swear I see a look of
disappointment on Mason Street’s face. Maybe it’s my motherly instincts, or
maybe it’s how much Max has changed me as a person, but suddenly I’m on my feet
and stepping inside Mason’s room, sitting down beside him.

“You wanna know something?” I say, my heartbeat racing in my
throat. My voice is shaky, and I can feel actual nerves starting to build in my
belly.

Mason leans forward and buries his face in his hands,
rubbing at his eyes and smoothing back his hair before turning to look at
me—and when he does, my heart stops suddenly. I’ve only been this close
to Mason Street once in my life, and his eyes are the same gold they were then.
I’m pretty sure my body is covered in sweat now, but I ignore it. I remind
myself I’m an adult, and Mason Street doesn’t have any power over me.

“Sure, I wanna know something,” he says, his lips twitching
into that faint cocky smile permanently etched into my mind.
Even his smile is the same
. Why am I
sharing this with him? Why do I care? Why can’t I just let Mason Street suffer
a little?

“Oh, it’s stupid. Never mind, I’m sorry…” I start to get up,
forcing myself to remember that I put Mason Street and all of my girlhood
fantasies about him in a box—a box I locked up with an imaginary key and
threw into the depths, never to be dug up again. I’ve almost convinced myself
to leave when his hand grazes mine, urging me to stay.

“Please. I want to hear,” he says, his smile gone, and his
eyes locked on the place where his fingers are barely touching my skin. My
brain is totally confused by his touch. I’ve hated him for so long. But I loved
him before that. And now, with him here, in our house—I’m not so sure I
can keep hating
him. But I’m also
kind of mad at myself that I don’t want to. I feel…weak.
 

“Okay, this is a secret,” I sit back down and let out a deep
sigh. I can feel his eyes on me, and I give myself a short glance to decide if
he deserves this. Maybe I’m imagining it, and maybe I just want to make it be
there, but there’s a desperation I see in his face that tells me he does. So I
give in and share a little piece of me, let him see himself through my eyes.
“One time, when you were staying with us for a weekend—I think you were
sixteen? You were messing around with some old songs that you could cover. Do
you remember?”

Mason takes a deep breath, almost like he’s giving up. “I
guess. I don’t know, Avery. I used to do that shit all the time,” he says,
almost deflated.

“Okay, yeah. But this day was different. You were putting
together a list of cover songs, stuff you wanted to play at Dusty’s—just
you.
No band,” I wait, and he nods,
remembering. “You were toying with ‘Wild Horses’ by the Stones. You kept
slowing it down, even more, changing it up and playing around with the melody.
You worked on it for almost an hour. I swear…you sang that song maybe a hundred
times.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he says, the corner of his lips pulling
up into a fond smile. “I never did play it. Couldn’t get it right.”

“That’s just it, though,” I say, looking away, afraid that
if I have to look at him I’ll chicken out. Instead I focus on the small string
hanging off my shirt, twisting it around my finger.

“You had it right, Mason. You had it
so
right. Every single time you played it—it was right. And
when you weren’t looking…”
Oh god, oh
god, oh god. I’m really going to do this.
“I, uh…I sort of recorded it.”

I don’t even have to turn my head to feel the full force of
his smile. I don’t know if I feel giddy or mortified—either way, I just
made Mason Street’s entire fucking day. I’m biting my lower lip with enough
force that I’m sure my teeth are going to puncture it when I finally get the
courage to look at him again, and sure enough—he’s grinning ear-to-ear.

“Look, I didn’t tell you that to make you get all goofy on
me,” I say, standing and smoothing out my shorts so they hang a little lower on
my legs. Suddenly, I feel vulnerable even having my bare feet on display in
front of him.

“I know, I know,” he says with a light chuckle. He follows
me to his doorway, leaning on the frame as I step into the hallway, to safety.
He says he knows, but his damn smile is still in full force.

“It’s just…” I purse my lips, trying to find a way to say
something to him that might make a difference. Something that will penetrate
him—not the usual gushing and flattery he’s used to from women. “It’s
just you’re so goddamned talented, Mason. My dad always believed in you. And so
did I.”

When I see his body twitch, I know my words were right.

“Goodnight, Mason,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm,
like we’re old pals. It feels stupid, but it’s the only way I can think of
leaving. He doesn’t say anything back until I’m almost to my door.

“Hey, Avery?” he whispers, and I turn to find him looking at
the floor, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he looks up, it’s almost as
though I’m looking at that sixteen-year-old again, the one who used to matter.

“Yeah, Mason?” I say, my stomach an absolute mess with
nerves.

“Thanks. Just…thanks,” he says, shrugging his shoulders up
and smiling with tight lips.

“Sure, Mason. Anytime,” I say. I close the door and let my
forehead fall flat on it, and I stay there, frozen, for a good two minutes. I
think I may have just made an enormous error in judgment. I promised myself I
would never fall for Mason’s charm again. But something seems so different.
Maybe…maybe it’s me.