How We Deal With Gravity

by Ginger Scott

  “No, Mason,” she says, her breath hitching slightly, and I realize then that she’s trying not to cry. “Thank you. You have no idea…just having someone else there. Just…thank you.”

  Her eyes crawl up to meet mine slowly, and the look on her face breaks my heart. The tears are pooling just above the faint freckles on her cheek, and a single blink forces them to slide down her face. Without even thinking, I raise my hand to her right cheek and stop the trail of one with my thumb, slowly sliding it away, but leaving my hand there on her face, probably longer than I should.

  I start to think that I would be perfectly content just to stand right here, right like this, for the rest of the afternoon, when the door swings open behind her, and the face that greets me is suddenly the last one I want to see.

  “Hey, fucktard!” shouts Ben, the drummer in my band, breaking apart any moment I was possibly having with Avery. In the brief second before Ben pulls me inside, I notice the painful look on Avery’s face as her eyes shut tightly, and all I want to do is punch my best friend in the gut and run away with her.

  She’s gone within seconds, and so is Max. My band mates are on their second pitcher of beer, and talking about our set next week at Dusty’s—and inside, I want to protest and tell them I’m going on alone. But I just sit there and stare at the place where Avery was standing minutes ago, just nodding and smiling and pretending I’m glad to see them.

  And two days ago, I would have been.

  Chapter 8: Just Another Day at the Office

  Avery

  I’m glad Mason’s band showed up. When Ben opened that door, it probably stopped me from doing something really stupid. I’m sure I’m going to fail the “lit” paper I worked on Sunday afternoon, because I can’t remember a single thing I wrote. My head was too busy being stuck on Mason, and what he did for Max. And I don’t have time to be stuck on anything other than what it takes to start and finish my day.

  Claire called me during her shift to warn me that the entire band was there. They started drinking at Dusty’s earlier this afternoon—all of them. She said they weren’t too rowdy, but that one of them offered her $100 to sleep with her. I laughed—that sounds like Ben. He’s the only one of the group other than Mason that I know.

  Ben went to our high school. He was a bit of an outsider at first—played in the school band and was always into theater, but usually kept to himself. He was a great drummer, though—and that’s why he and Mason hit it off. Ben was the first member of Mason’s band, and our senior year, he used to play with him at Dusty’s. When he started hanging out with Mason, he started going to more parties and dating more girls—his social status sort of shot through the roof.

  He was always the first one to laugh when Mason called me Birdie. What’s sad is before that, Ben and I were kind of friends.

  Max starts school tomorrow. We had his final one-on-one session today with Jenny, and she spent most of our two hours together reassuring me that Max is ready. I don’t know, though. I don’t think Max will ever be ready. But I guess I have to try, right? I have to let him try.

  I took tomorrow off. I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus. I let my English professor know, too, and she gave me an advance of the assignment so I don’t have to go to class—not that I’ll be able to gather my thoughts enough for that, either. Great, that’s two failed assignments I can count on.

  I can hear Mason’s laugh before I even open the door. It’s the loudest and most obnoxious he’s sounded since he’s been back in town, and my entire chest constricts in anticipation of having to talk to this version of him. I swing the door open and move quickly through the restaurant; I’m almost behind the bar without being noticed when I hear Ben’s voice.

  “Heyyyyyy, there she is. You’re right—it is Birdie! Hey, Birdie!” He’s hammered, and it’s barely four o’clock. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but I won’t let him get to me either, so instead, I raise my right hand and flip him the middle finger while I walk the rest of the way through the door.

  “Dammmmmmn,” I hear the other guys teasing him while the door shuts, and I’m glad I made a dent. I just hope I didn’t provoke them to give me more shit. I’m strong—and I’ve worked hard to get strong. But even I have my limits. And if they all pile on, they’ll break me.

  “Where’s Max?” Claire asks when she joins me at the back lockers.

  “I just let him stay home. Dad’s with him; he’s coming in later, so I figured you could just meet Max there. Is that okay?” I hate how much I rely on Claire. She always says she doesn’t mind. But my life has become her life—and she didn’t really sign up for all of this.

  “Of course. I’ll pick up something to eat for your pop on my way there. Max need anything?” she asks, but I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t register her words. “Avery? You in there?”

  “Oh, uh…yeah. Sorry…” I shake my head, and strip my shirt to put my Dusty’s one on. “I’m just so stressed. It’s school tomorrow—Max’s first day.”

  “That’s right,” she says, sitting down on the bench next to me, pulling her shoes off, and replacing them with flip-flops. “It’ll be good, Avery. You knew this was coming. And Max…he’s ready. He’s been so good for me in the evenings.”

  “Yeah, but no offense, Claire. I’m not worried about how he is at night. It’s the four hours in the beginning of the day in a classroom full of other five-year-olds that scares the shit out of me. What if he has a meltdown? What if he doesn’t make any friends? What if…” I can’t help the crack in my emotions when I think about this, and I have to pause to wipe my eyes on the inside of my shirt. “What if he can’t do this, Claire? Where do we go from that?”

  My friend slides over to me and pulls me in with her slender arm, tugging me close. “Then we figure that out…if that’s what happens,” she says, and I start to protest, but she’s quick to hold up her hand. “Ah ah ah. I said if. Don’t be so quick to discount that boy of yours. He’s mighty capable—and you should know that.”

  I smile at her when she says that. I smile because I can tell she believes Max is capable, too. She’s right—I’m his advocate, his fighter and his hero. And if anyone believes Max can do this, it’s me. And if I have to burn Rome just to get him through kindergarten, than that’s what the hell I’m going to do.

  “You’re good at this, you know. This best friend gig?” I say, swatting at her with my apron while she stands. She just laughs and runs her fingers through her hair a few times before grabbing her bag and purse.

  “I’ll read with him tonight. And we’ll get to bed early, just so he’s rested. But, hey…listen,” she says, peeking out the kitchen door at the cackling group of four sitting near the pool tables. “If you need to call me…you know, just to get through that? I’ll be up, okay?”

  Pursing my lips into a tight smile, I just give her a nod. Yeah. That. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through that. But if my son can head bravely into a classroom full of kids he doesn’t know tomorrow, then the least I can do is survive a six-hour shift with a bunch of drunk, washed-up musicians.

  I follow Claire out and wave goodbye while I start to set up glasses with Cole. I’m glad he’s here. He’s been bouncing and bartending for my dad for the last three years, and I’m glad my dad has someone he can count on. Cole moved here with his brother, and they share a small house on the far north end of town. They’re into horses. They even do riding lessons during the week. I’ve always wanted to set Cole up with Claire—I know she’d be up for it. But, he’s just sort of this mystery. I might just try though…once Max gets school settled, and I can start to focus again.

  “Sorry about that,” Mason’s voice startles me, and I end up dropping the glass I’m drying.

  “Job opening!” I hear one of the guys from his band shout. I just roll my eyes at it and bend down to start cleaning it up.

  “Shit, now I’m double sorry,” Mason says, his body now right next to me, helping me pick up the shards that have scatter
ed along the floor.

  “It’s okay. It’s my fault. Butter fingers,” I say, not sure why I’m making excuses. I should have said yes, it is your fault. You and those thugs you call friends.

  “Hey, I told them to knock it off with the Birdie stuff,” Mason says as we stand. I sweep my glass pieces into his open hand and he turns to toss them into the trash.

  “Why’d you even bring it up,” I sigh.

  “Don’t worry. They won’t call you that again. Ben’s grown up a lot—and they got my point when I told them not to,” he says.

  “Oh yeah, and what point is that?” I ask, going back to drying the stack of glasses in front of me.

  “That I’ll kick their ass out in this parking lot if they start shit with you. That point,” Mason says, reaching over and popping a pretzel in his mouth before heading back to his seat, giving me one last grin.

  He defended me. And damn it, I like that he defended me. I can feel Cole’s stare, but I ignore him, and keep working on the glasses until I run out and need to load in more.

  “Cole, can you bring in another rack? Last thing I want to do is drop more,” I say. Cole chuckles and smirks at me before heading to the back, slinging his towel over his shoulder. He’s back with more in seconds.

  “So, just curious,” he says while he drops the new bin in front of me, and I immediately go to work drying and loading. “Are you helping me because you wanted to help out? Or…are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding,” I answer fast, my tongue pinched between my teeth while I concentrate on a spot on one of the glasses.

  “Uh huh. Sure,” he says, laughing softly while he walks back to the other end of the bar.

  All right. I’m hiding. But no one needs to know that other than me. And so far, it’s working out for me. The bar is filling up, and I’ll be busy with customers soon. Barb just got here, and I know she’ll want to wait on her son and his friends, so I can keep to myself. It’s my survival plan.

  The first hour flies by. It’s open mic night, so the acts are starting to arrive. I always like open mic—it’s the best and the worst of karaoke. And sometimes, the bad acts are worth more than a dozen great ones. There’s a guy with a violin who took up the corner booth, and I can’t wait to hear his story.

  Barb’s been handling Mason’s friends, and true to his word, no one has uttered a single Birdie since he told them to stop. I must be cashing in some karma, because my tips have been over-the-top tonight, too. The last table left me thirty bucks!

  I take my break in the back for a few minutes, and pull out my phone to check on Claire and Max. It’s barely seven, so I know he’s still awake. She usually sends me a quick note when he goes to bed, but she hasn’t yet.

  Super busy tonight. Say goodnight to Max for me. I probably won’t see your text until late.

  I wait a few seconds, and Claire quickly responds.

  Good. Hope the tippers are generous, LOL! I got a marriage proposal from an old man today. Can you beat that?

  One day, Claire is going to say yes to one of the old ranchers who hit on her. She always jokes, but I think she’s thought about it before. I want my friend to find love—probably more than I want to find it myself.

  No, you got me there. But Ben did call me Birdie!

  I roll my eyes remembering his voice. I think the nickname bothers me more now than it did back then—probably because I’ve had years to really think about it, and build it up in my head.

  He’s an ass.

  How’s Mason?

  I stare at her text for a full minute, because I don’t know how to answer that. Mason has been taking up a lot of my mental space. What he did for Max at the barber was so unexpected. I don’t know why my son is so taken with him, but I guess apples don’t fall far from their trees. I just can’t help but feel like the other shoe is going to drop soon, so I keep him at an arm’s-length. I’m willing to be friendly. But I won’t call him friend.

  Oh, you know…he’s Mason. He’s not as drunk as the other guys, so that’s good, I guess.

  I wait for her to write back, but she doesn’t. I know it’s almost time to start prepping Max for bed. I hate that I don’t get to tuck him in most nights. But Claire always reminds me that I’m only missing the routine. Max has never been an affectionate kid. He’ll hug me, when forced. Sometimes, when I’m holding his arms down after an anger episode, I imagine that I’m holding him and rocking him to sleep. It’s similar—I’m calming him. But he doesn’t seek my touch out—ever. I used to cry over it, but I buried those feelings when I realized there were some things that Max’s autism was never going to let us overcome. He loves me. He just doesn’t say it with words or embraces. And that’s okay.

  The crowd is pretty steady over the next three hours. That’s how open mic night usually goes. The first few acts aren’t much to brag about, but the later the evening gets, the more likely it is someone good will go on. That’s how Dad tries out potential spotlights. If they can win over the open-mic-night crowd, he’ll usually offer them a weekend.

  There’s a girl with a guitar closing tonight, and she’s pretty good. I can tell my dad thinks so too, because he’s been hanging around the edge of the stage. He’ll offer her a weekend, and I’ll love watching her face light up. Every single person that plays the Dusty’s stage has a dream. Even when they say they don’t when they step up there, they’ve got one by the time they step down.

  This girl is a dreamer. She’s young, maybe about nineteen or twenty. She’s good, too. Even Mason and his friends are listening. I haven’t been to their table all night, so I take a deep breath and head over to help clear some of the glasses. I don’t want to look like I’m avoiding them.

  “Hey, stranger,” Mason says, his feet propped up on the edge of the table. He’s a little buzzed—I can tell. He’s playing with his phone, not really looking at me, but the sloppy smirk on his face shows he’s aware I’m here. He’s wearing an old pair of Converse, black jeans that fit tight to his legs and gather at his shoes, and a V-neck white T-shirt. Even though he smells mostly of beer, I also pick up his cologne underneath—rich and woodsy. I like it. I like it more than I should.

  I also like his haircut. I’ve noticed it a few times tonight. It’s short around his neck, like it used to be. There’s still a wave in the top, and it flops a little in his face, but not quite as much as it did before the cut.

  He’s watching me over his phone. I can see his eyes move to me every so often, and I just smile and continue on with my work. His attention scares the hell out of me, because I know how quickly it can latch on to someone else. But for now, I give myself this little moment. Right now, slightly drunk, Mason Street finds me pretty enough to flirt with, and damn it, I am.

  “Do you ever just stop?” Mason asks, pushing his phone back into his pocket and dropping his feet to the ground. He leans forward on his elbows, looking at me across the table. His arms flex slightly, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his bicep and the tattoo.

  “What’s with the tiger?” I ask, changing the subject entirely.

  “He was a makeup tattoo. Covering up something stupid I got when I was drunk once in Vegas. You didn’t answer my question.” He moves over a seat, so he’s closer to me, and I shift my tray to my other hip, just to add a barrier. He notices, and his lip curls up on the side in a devious grin.

  “I know. I’m avoiding it,” I say back. He’s not going to charm me—this girl can dish it, and take it.

  He sits back in his chair, and folds his arms now, propping a foot back up along the side of the table. He’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, and I’m just waiting for him to come back with a second round. I keep loading up my tray, and when it’s full, I turn to leave. I’m almost free when Mason catches up to me and walks me to the bar.

  “I probably should have asked that differently,” he says, pulling the tray from my hands and putting the dirties in the bin before handing it back to me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Avery. Not
a girl in her twenties, anyways. You just go and go and go. And I was just thinking, you never take time to just stop—and to just be.”

  I’m sure the face I’m making back at him isn’t flattering, but really…that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can I just be?

  “You know what kind of girl does that?” I say, moving in a little closer just so Mason knows he doesn’t intimidate me. “A vapid one, without a kid, and who is planning a beach-house getaway with her girlfriends. That girl is a fairytale, Mason. Make-believe. Us real women? We have responsibilities—and we put other people first. Because it’s the right thing to do. So no—no, I don’t just ever…stop. Too much depends on me going.”

  I can actually feel my hands shaking I’m so flustered by this conversation. All I want to do is smash my tray in his face and race off to the locker area to lie down and breathe. But I can’t.

  I can’t, because somewhere in the midst of my rant, Mason grabbed my hand with his, and now all I can freaking focus on is the feeling of his thumb lightly grazing my fingers and how much it makes me want to burst into tears.

  “One drink, right before close. That’s all I’m asking,” Mason says, his eyes boring into mine like lasers. “I’m not saying pick up and go backpacking across Europe. I’m just asking you to take a break, for once in your life. Have a beer with the guys and me while Ray closes up. We’ll shoot some pool, or throw some darts. Twenty minutes, and then you can go back to living for everyone else.”

  Mason’s hand is still on mine, and my brain is tangled from the many emotions being mixed like a blender inside my chest. Whatever the cause, I nod yes slowly, and slide my hand from his.

  “So, yeah? After the show tonight—we’ll hang out? Just for one drink?” Mason’s walking backward, and he’s looking at me like he used to in my dreams. This entire week has been surreal, and I’m capping it off with a far-fetched fantasy. My smile is cautious, but it’s genuine. I’ve taken a leap—and there’s the possibility that I’ll go home to Claire tonight, and cry for an hour. Or, maybe I won’t cry. Maybe I won’t cry at all, but rather...