How We Deal With Gravity

by Ginger Scott

  “He’s signing us to a Southwest tour,” he says, not looking at me while he speaks. I knew it was coming, but my stomach still hurts hearing it anyhow.

  “That’s amazing, Mason,” I say.

  “Is it?” he asks, turning to me, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his lips shut tightly.

  “Yes, it is. This is your dream, Mason. And you have to see,” I say, knowing he does.

  “What if I don’t go?” he asks, and the way he’s biting at the edge of his lip, I can tell he’s serious.

  “You have to go. You’ll regret it,” I say, my insides kicking myself. But I also know a thing or two about regrets. Not that I regret a minute of my life with Max. But Adam—I regret him.

  “But, would it make a difference?” he asks, this time reaching forward and holding my chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger. My lips tingle just wanting to kiss him, but I can’t.

  “Probably not,” I lie. As soon as I speak, his hand drops from my face and his eyes close.

  “Because of Adam and the letters?” he asks, looking at Max with his face pushed close to the glass of an exhibit.

  “Because of a lot of things,” I say, promising myself I won’t cry now in front of him.

  We follow Max through the entire dark room back out into the sun, and start the large loop that winds throughout the zoo. The desert animals are next, and I know he will spend a lot of time on these, so we walk slowly until Max is satisfied. Mason is quiet, and it starts to feel like we’re angry with one another the longer the silence goes on. By the time we reach the elephants, I’m frustrated with him, and I’m about to ask him why he even bothered to come, when I feel his fingers push through mine.

  The touch of his hand startles me, and I let out the smallest cry, which only makes him squeeze me tighter. Neither of us looks at one another, but we keep our hands locked for the small walk that is left. I let Max sift through a few things in the gift shop, and he zeroes in on a resin paperweight with a scorpion sealed inside. We take it to the register, and before I can hand over my card, Mason gives a ten to the cashier.

  “I used to have one of those when I was your age,” he says to Max, who isn’t really listening to him, but just looking at his new treasure, wondering how someone got the scorpion sealed inside.

  Mason looks at me next, and smiles softly. I mouth “Thank you,” for giving Max the gift.

  The ride home feels heavier. Mason reaches for the radio at one point, turning the music up a tick, looking at Max in the mirror to make sure it isn’t too loud. Max is busy with his scorpion though, completely lost in that world.

  “My birthday is tomorrow. My mom is making dinner, and she wanted us to come,” he says, his head flat against the passenger window.

  “I’d love to have dinner with you and your mom,” I say.

  “Max, too,” he says.

  “We’ll both be there,” I say, my words lingering with everything else I want to ask. We’re only a few miles from home, so I force myself to stay here, in this moment. “When do you leave?”

  “Tuesday morning,” he says, and I can hear him swallow hard. “Avery, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  I reach over and put my hand on his knee, and he covers it with his hand, his eyes low, looking at our touch. I squeeze once to get his attention, and he turns to me. “You’re doing it. You have this tremendous opportunity. And we…we probably rushed into things a little.”

  “I’d do it all again. Just the same,” he says, his face serious as he looks at me. All I can do is suck in my bottom lip and force a smile in return, because I know if I say anything else, I’m going to fall to pieces and run us off the road.

  When I pull into the driveway and park, Mason gets out and walks right to his car. “I’ve gotta meet the guys. If your dad calls, tell him I’ll stop by Dusty’s,” he says, his words barely ending before his car door shuts and his engine is on. His eyes are intent on the gravel drive in front of him—and nothing else—as he pulls away. I gasp for air, forcing myself not to cry until I get Max inside, and I can hide in the bathroom.

  Mason

  The partying for the guys never really stopped. The three of them were passed out still when I got to Ben’s. He never locks his door, and I just walked into the house, greeted by a coffee table filled with half-eaten take-out boxes and a few flies.

  I managed to wake everyone up, but they weren’t really good for much, and anything we talked about right now would only be remembered by one of us. I think they soaked in enough to know we had to catch the bus in Phoenix while the tour we were joining was passing through on the way to Vegas. I told Ben I’d just spend the night at his house Monday so we could leave early together in the morning. I didn’t want to have to leave Avery more than once.

  When I pull up, the Dusty’s sign is flicking off and on again. If I come back here after our tour, I’m going to fix that for Ray. The last thing that man needs to do is climb a ladder, and it’s probably just a short in one of the bulbs. Ray has a local country band booked for tonight, so the parking lot is full of mostly pickups and girls with big hair and bigger hats. I recognize the song when I walk through the bar, and it hits me that this is the same band that was playing when I first rolled into town weeks ago.

  I sit down on one of the stools and give them a good listen, I guess hoping it might help me remember everything just a little more vividly.

  “Hey, man. I heard about the tour. Congrats,” Cole says, pulling the cap from a Heineken and sliding it over to me, and then popping one for himself—we both take a drink, a sort of silent salute. “Ray’s waiting on you. Said to send you on back when you showed up.”

  “Thanks, man. Hey, in case I don’t see you—take care of these guys…a’right?” I say, and Cole shrinks his eyes a little when he looks at my hand before finally shaking it. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives me an understanding nod and smiles before getting back to the growing line of ladies waiting for him at the bar.

  Ray is busy in his office, filling out a few order forms and checking them against the inventory books. I used to help him with this when I was a kid. I was good at counting crates. “You know, the business is out there, old man,” I say, and Ray laughs lightly and pulls the reading glasses off his face.

  “I can’t concentrate worth shit out there when someone’s playing,” he says, kicking back in his chair, and motioning for me to sit down. “So, tell me…how’s this thing working? When do you leave?”

  “We hit the road Tuesday, early. We’ll be gone at least six weeks, maybe eight,” I say, watching him chew on the end of his pen and study me. I can read the thoughts he’s not saying out loud, what he really wants to know. What does this mean for Avery and me? It’s the same question I had, and the same one she answered for me. And it’s probably going to be the theme of whatever album my ass is lucky enough to write.

  “You coming back after that?” he says, his own way of getting to the point.

  “I guess that depends…on a lot of things,” I say, rubbing my hand over my face, trying to find feeling somewhere.

  “Well, I’ve got something…sort of a good luck thing I wanna give ya,” Ray says, grunting as he gets to his feet and moves into the back storage area. I can hear a few boxes sliding around, followed by more grunting.

  “You want me to come lift whatever it is? You sound like a walking hernia,” I joke, and Ray’s face reads smart-ass when he comes back into his office. He moves closer to his desk and sets a dusty guitar case on top, flicking open the buckles on the lid.

  “I had her fixed up,” he says, reaching in and lifting his old guitar—a classic Les Paul. The color was always my favorite, tan in the middle, and burnt black around the edges. Ray taught me everything I know on this guitar, and I secretly wanted it for most of my life.

  “Ray, I…I don’t know what to say,” I say, my hands shaking as I take the guitar from him and hold it close to my body.

  “I don’t really play much a
nymore, and it just seemed like a waste. I got her out when you first came to see me, sent her over to Pitch Fork’s for tuning up. Just turned out I had an occasion to give it to you,” he smiles, and I know he’s proud of me. I also know he knows how conflicted I am about leaving, but he’s a good enough man not to make it worse with a lecture about the promises I made.

  I strum a chord, and it sounds like it did the first time I heard it, my mind flooded with memories—from the first time I drank chocolate milk on the stool out front to the first time Ray pushed me up on that stage. I want to race home and test it out, plug it in and see how it sounds…but then I’d also have to show it to Avery, and we’d have to talk about it, talk about me leaving, about me disappointing her, and letting down Max. And she’d have to remind me that there’s nothing I can do to make her change her mind…again.

  “I know I should probably say it’s too much and I can’t accept it, but…I’m not going to lie, I want it,” I smile, and he laughs at my honesty. I play a few more chords and then hand it back over for him to tuck safely in its case.

  “The handle’s shot, so be careful when you lug it around. You might want to invest in a better case,” he says, handing it over to me completely.

  I can’t get over looking at it in my hands. The depth of his gift isn’t lost on me, and it has my eyes tearing a little, so I set the guitar down on my chair and walk around the desk to give him a hug.

  “I’m proud of you, Mace. Real proud…no matter what happens, huh?” he says, pulling me square with him, his hands on my shoulders. “Ave’s real proud of you too. She’ll come around; she’s just careful. She has to be. You get it, right?”

  “I do,” I say, my heart absolutely sick knowing that after tomorrow night’s dinner, there’s a chance I may never see Avery Abbot again.

  Chapter 21: Dinner for Four

  Avery

  Early this morning, I told Max about having dinner with Barb. I told him, because I knew if I made solid plans with him, I couldn’t back out. And I want to back out—I want to desperately. But I’d hate myself for it.

  I sent Mason a text, and told him we’d meet him at his mother’s apartment. He was gone early this morning, and I noticed everything was cleared out of his room. My dad said he was spending the night with the guys because of their early start on Tuesday, but I know Mason is just avoiding me.

  I’m not angry with him. Honestly, I’ve blown it with Max millions of times. And the more distance I get from the letters coming from Adam, the more I appreciate Mason making him write them. The result might not have been very good, but the intention was heartfelt. It doesn’t change the fact that me being in a relationship with Mason is a bad idea. I need to have one hundred percent of my focus on Max and his success, and anyone else in my life needs to have those same priorities. Mason doesn’t—and that’s okay.

  I brought Max’s dinner. I know Barb will understand. I have it clutched in both of my hands in a small Tupperware container while we wait at the front door. Max is fidgety today. He had some additional homework to finish after school, which of course wasn’t part of his plan. I bribed him with a few extra candies, and I’m sure he won’t want his dinner. I’m also sure he remembers how I skipped breakfast the other day, so this evening might end up getting cut short.

  Mason opens the door, and he’s dressed nicer than I expected. His shirt is a white button down, tailored to his chest, and the ends aren’t tucked in to his black dress pants. He’s wearing black dress shoes, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing a piece of the tiger’s tail and a really nice silver watch. He waves us in; when I pass, he pulls me in for a hug, and kisses the top of my head. He smells like a dream.

  “Sorry, we’re a little underdressed,” I say, looking down at my flip-flops and long maxi skirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail before we left, so at least I look like I gave some thought to how I looked. Max is wearing purple shorts and a yellow shirt, and he looks a little like an Easter egg.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes hovering over my face for a few long seconds. “I dressed up for my mom. I got the sense this was a big deal to her.”

  Not sure what to do, I hand Max’s dish to Mason. “It’s for Max. He won’t eat other food, so I brought his normal dinner,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place.

  “Right, good idea. I’ll let my mom know. Come on in, we’re in the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, walking to the back of his mother’s apartment. I follow him, taking note of all of the pictures of Mason on her walls. It’s like reliving my own youth seeing him grow in school portraits. I stop at one—a family collage holding several photos in the same frame.

  “My mom likes pictures,” he says, his breath tickling my shoulder and causing goosebumps to rise on my arms. I know he notices, but he doesn’t draw attention to it or embarrass me. “Every photo I take or get, she hangs it up.”

  It’s completely the opposite of what I expected to see in his mother’s home. I never visited their house when I was a kid—Mason was always at ours. And his mom moved so many times later in life, there was just never really an opportunity. “She seems proud of you,” I say, dialing in on one photo in particular, a young Mason with his mom bending down in a garden to smell flowers.

  “Yeah, I guess…” he says, his gaze somewhat lost and his mood melancholy as he takes in the full line of photos on the wall. “They just don’t seem real. I mean, I’m smiling in these pictures, but…I don’t remember having these memories.”

  Mason’s memories are wrapped up in my home, with my dad, and while I’m glad he has those, I’m sad he doesn’t have them with Barb.

  “Ehhhh, I’m just being crazy. Ignore me,” he shrugs, shaking his head and forcing a renewed smile on his face. He’s putting on a good act—for his mother and me.

  Barb is busy putting the final touches on the table when we walk into the kitchen, and I smile when I see the small sheet cake she made. It’s almost like she’s trying to make up for a dozen missed birthdays with this one dinner.

  “Avery, oh honey, thanks for coming!” she says, giving me a hug. Barb has always been nice to me. When I first started waitressing at Dusty’s, she would handle the rough customers for me, sometimes throwing them out all on her own.

  “Thanks for having us,” I say, pulling the lid from Max’s dinner of fruits, veggies and crackers. “I hope you don’t mind, but he’s sort of picky.”

  “Of course not,” she says, pulling out a plate for me to set up for Max.

  We all get situated around the table, and Barb scoops large heaps of pasta into each of our bowls. Her sauce, on the potholder on the table, is still bubbling; when I put my spoon in to pour some on my plate, the sauce snaps, and a drop burns my arm. Without a word, Mason dips the corner of his napkin in his ice water and presses it to my arm.

  “Better?” he whispers, and I just nod.

  “So, Avery…did Mason tell you the news?” Barb says, her face beaming. She should be proud—Mason deserves this. In fact, he should be headlining, not just opening for bands. But his time will come; I know it will.

  “He did. It’s very exciting,” I say, and I notice that Max is swinging his legs under the table while I talk. I reach next to me and stop them with my hand. “Max, Mason is going to perform some concerts in some other states. Isn’t that neat?”

  Max takes a big bite of one of his crackers, chewing with his mouth open, not quite finishing his bite when he finally speaks. “I think he should just stay at Grandpa’s,” he says, and I hear the air escape Mason’s nose in one swift exhale.

  “I know, we all are going to miss him, but we want other people to get to hear his songs, too,” I say, knowing that for Max, missing Mason is partly about not wanting to see something he’s grown comfortable with change. But I also think that somewhere, in the midst of things, Mason has become his friend.

  “You should play our song for people,” he says, going right back to his crackers.

  Mason
laughs a little under his breath at first. “I will, Max. I’ll make sure they know who my writer is,” he says, his eyes meeting mine and holding on. Every look twists my stomach a little tighter, just as does every minute passing—every second closer to the time when he’ll be gone.

  Mason ends up telling us stories about his first tour, about places they played and how much smaller they are from the places they’re about to go. He does most of the talking; I can tell he’s trying to fill the silence because his mom doesn’t really have much to say.

  We all manage to save room for a small piece of cake, and, after some teasing, Mason gets away with not having to blow out any candles. I help Barb clear the table when we’re done, and Max takes care of putting his container away. I know he’s going to get antsy soon, so I pull the iPad from my bag, and set him up on the sofa with it for a few minutes, so I can help with dishes. Barb is packing up a few to-go boxes for me to take some leftovers home to Ray when an old Otis Redding song comes on the radio.

  Mason smiles when he hears it, and walks to the corner of the kitchen to turn it up. “May I?” he says, reaching for his mother’s hands.

  She doesn’t answer, wiping the small tear in the corner of her eye with the neckline of her blouse, and smiles at him, her lips tight, holding in her emotions. I watch as she gives her son her hand, and he moves her the few steps to the middle of the kitchen floor and pulls her in for a dance. I almost feel like I’m intruding, but I’m so grateful to bear witness to this moment. Mason is giving his mother a gift, for nothing in return, just because he wants to. I pull my phone out when they aren’t looking and snap a photo, then message it to him instantly—Mason will finally have a memory attached to one of those images of him with his mom.

  We listen to a few more songs while Barb brews a pot of coffee, but Max’s patience starts to wear. He’s no longer staying in his seat very long, instead pacing around the room on his toes while playing his game on the iPad. We usually go to the store in the afternoons on Mondays, and I know Max will want to make sure we have everything we need for his lunch bag next week.