How We Deal With Gravity

by Ginger Scott

  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.

  Max is bundled in his weighted blanket, fast asleep. He’s always been good at falling asleep, and I feel lucky. Many kids with autism struggle, and I don’t know how their parents survive. I need these few hours in the evening—alone. I need the me time to let my brain stop, though I often spend those hours finishing up homework or researching something for Max. But that’s my choice—and at least I can put my headphones on and just be.

  Max and I sleep next to one another in a set of twin beds. The separate mattresses make it a little easier—this way he won’t be disturbed when I crawl in and out of bed. I grab my headphones and my laptop and nestle into my pile of blankets. I was planning on reading, but that course changed the second I heard Mason playing the guitar.

  It only takes me a few minutes to find the file—I converted most of my old recordings to digital files last year. I never listened to the ones of Mason, though. I was too afraid of how it would make me feel, and I’m pretty emotionally spent as it is most days.
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br />   I double click the folder open and pause, not sure if I’m ready for this. It’s like my hand has other plans though, because in seconds, I see the “Wild Horses” file open up on my play screen and Mason’s guitar is filtering in my ears. It’s more beautiful than I remembered—his voice sounds so young, but his playing was perfection. And even though he was just a teenager, there was so much emotion to every word that left his lips.

  His band website is still up, even though the label dropped them. The links are to personal email addresses, so I decide to take a chance and open one to him. I attach the file and then stare at it for about 20 minutes…starting, stopping, and deleting until I find the right thing to say.

  You know me, always have to prove I’m right. Thought you might like to hear what I hear.

  -A

  Send. It’s done. The adrenaline pouring through my veins now is thick, and I swear I could run a marathon. I just opened a door that I’m pretty sure can’t be shut. I just hope it’s a safe door, and doesn’t come with regret. I push my laptop to the side and shut the screen before snuggling deeper into my covers. I’m going to be getting up early in the morning and doing my best to leave the house before anyone else—Mason—is awake.

  Chapter 5: Calluses

  Mason

  Two hours, if I’m lucky. That’s how long I slept last night, AKA this morning. I sat there on the other side of my door thinking about Avery Abbot until the sun was almost up. I thought about Avery Abbot because she thought about me. And I liked that she thought about me.

  I didn’t get her email until this morning. That’s probably good, because now my head is all kinds of fucked up trying to figure out what to think about it. She has wanted to do nothing but stick a staple through my neck since I ran into her at Dusty’s my first day back in town. But last night…I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading into it, but I think somewhere, deep down, Avery Abbot cares about me. And I think maybe I care about Avery Abbot.

  At first I was just fantasizing about having a little fun with her, maybe getting her drunk and fooling around. But now I kind of just want to kiss her—like a real kiss, not the kind I usually give out just to make some chick think I’m into her so she’ll sleep with me.

  I’ve listened to the clip she sent me a dozen times. The first six, I rolled my eyes, not even letting it play all the way through. But something kept calling me back. My young hands didn’t even know what they were doing back then, picking around the strings trying to make something sound good—sound different, unique. But there was something there, underneath my inexperience.

  Somewhere along the way, I lost my passion, and Avery was right. I hate that she’s right. Or maybe I love it. Fuck, I don’t know. But it had me watching out my window this morning, just waiting for her to get in her car with Max and leave the house so I could pull out my guitar without her thinking she had anything to do with it.

  She had everything to do with it. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  By the time noon rolled around, I had played through everything I’d ever written, and covered about twenty of my favorites just trying to find myself again somewhere in this mess I’ve made. And now I just need to convince Ray to let me go on tonight. I need to see how it feels—in front of an audience. See if my heart kicks again…like it used to.

  I’m a disheveled mess, my hair wet from the thirty-second shower and my shirt half tucked in when I walk into Dusty’s. I always liked the lunch crowd. It was nothing but locals and regulars, people who actually came here to get drunk early and eat the food. I look like I fit right in.

  “Thanks for hanging on to my stuff, Ray,” I hear a familiar, grating voice say from the other side of the swinging door. If I could wish myself to have one super power right now, it would be invisibility. But since that’s not an option, I do the next best thing and duck behind the counter while Ray and my mother walk around the other side.

  “Sure thing, Barb. You know you’ve always got a place here,” Ray says, holding the door open while my mother follows him through. I can see the top of her copper hair as I crouch and slide my way around the opposite direction of the counter. “So, you good startin’ back up tonight then?”

  “Honey, I’m always ready,” she says, her overt flirtation like a wet fish slapped in my face. My mother always threw herself at men—doesn’t matter that she’s known Ray for years. He has a penis, no wife, and a decent job. That made him fair game. At least until some millionaire shows up.

  “You can’t hide here forever, ya know,” I hear behind me as a foot kicks my ass lightly, just enough to push me off balance and onto my hands and knees. I turn around to see a tiny brunette with short bobbed hair and her hand on one hip, her tray balanced against the other. “That’s your mama, Mason. She’s going to know you’re back in town eventually.”

  “Yeah, I know…” I say, studying her face and looking for recognition.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she says, popping a giant bubble with her gum. I know I know her, but damned if I could remember her name right now. She’s one of Avery’s friends—I saw her the other night, and I’m pretty sure not recognizing her now is not going to do me any favors when it comes to Avery. Shit, I hope I never slept with her!

  “I remember you…it’s just…been a while,” I say, standing up and dusting off my jeans, racking my brain…nothing.

  “Uh huh. Sure you do,” she says, walking past me with a smirk on her face.

  “Carrie,” I take a stab in the dark. The look she shoots back at me tells me I’m not even close.

  “Claire, Mason! Good lord, at least you got the first letter right. I’ve known you since sixth grade?” she says, loading up her tray with drinks, straws, and napkins. I decide to help her, hoping my gesture might just earn me some points.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Sorry. I knew you…I just couldn’t get the name to come up. Sorry,” I repeat, sheepishly. It’s better to just own up to this.

  She gives me a short half-smile and pauses for a second or two before shrugging and lifting her tray. I follow behind with a stack of menus. “So, Mason. What are you doing back in town?” she says over her shoulder, dropping off a few drink orders before seating a group of construction workers at a booth.

  “You know, just figuring some things out. Not sure if I want to tour any more or maybe work on some solo stuff,” I say, not really ready to lay my failures out for her.

  “Uh huh,” she says, her smile just dripping with condescension.

  “I’m not with the label any more, so it’s a good time for me to take a break,” I keep going. Fuck! Why do I feel the need to justify myself to this chick?

  She just keeps going about her business, dropping off napkins for one table and bussing another, and I keep following her, like some new kid who doesn’t fit in. That’s me—somehow, I’m the new kid! I used to kick my feet up at the corner booth, and skip school until it was time to go on—college chicks lining up just to sit on my lap. And now here I am, begging for approval from a waitress, who clearly couldn’t give a shit who I am.

  I finally drop the menus I’ve been carrying around into the bin at the hostess desk and sit at one of the nearby stools, pulling out my phone so I can look busy and find a way out of this sudden feeling of inadequacy. Then I hear the stool drag closer, and seconds later Claire is sitting right next to me, leaning on one elbow—staring. I squint at her and grimace, probably a little rudely, but I’m done trying to impress her. So what if she’s Avery’s friend.

  “Avery told me you blew it,” she says, completely deflating me and annoying the fuck out of me at the same time.

  “Yeah, well, what does Avery know,” I say, flipping through my ESPN app just trying to find something else to occupy my attention. Funny how many times I’ve asked myself what Avery knows over the last 48 hours. Turns out she might just know me better than anyone.

  “My god, Mason. Are you really that clueless?” Claire asks.

  “Apparently,” I sigh, c
ontinuing to flip through some story on human growth hormone lawsuits and baseball. Claire’s not taking the hint though, so I close the app and push my phone back in my pocket to give her my reluctant attention.

  “You, like…really have no idea, do you?” she says, with this faint, cocky smirk. I’m starting to hate this chick.

  “Nope,” I say, folding my arms up a little defensively now.

  Claire’s smile gets a little bigger, and now she’s scooting closer. She starts looking around, making that face chicks make when they’re gossiping. For some reason, it’s starting to make me nervous as hell, so I start looking around, too. Finally satisfied that we’re alone, she props her chin up on her hand, cupping it a little for even more privacy. I’m starting to think she’s about to tell me that she’s a transvestite, she’s acting so strange—when she drops an even bigger bomb.

  “Avery was totally in love with you,” she says, a half-whisper. She says a few other things after, about how Avery used to write my name on her notebook and shit, but all I keep hearing—over and over—is that Avery Abbot loved me. Avery Abbot…loved me? Where the fuck was I?

  “Wait…wait. What? Avery can’t stand my ass! And in high school, she barely talked to me. Even when I stayed at her house, she’d always run away, hide in her room. That’s why I called her Birdie, because she was so chirpy and mousy all the time,” I say. I’m pretty sure Claire is full of shit on this one.

  “True. And she never liked it when you called her that. In fact, the first time you did, she came over to my house after school and cried her fucking eyes out,” Claire says, instantly sticking a knife through my gut.

  “Damn, I never knew that. I thought she always liked it when we called her that. She never said anything…” I say, looking down, a little embarrassed that I now have ASSHOLE stamped across my forehead.

  Claire laughs lightly and nudges me to get my attention. “Don’t beat yourself up over that. She had pretty low self-esteem back then. Not the same girl that will tell you where to stick it today,” she says, with a wink.