The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance)
Page 3
Kendall balls her fist at him. “That wasn’t any better.”
“Never,” I say, then instantly feel the heat of flush in my cheeks. Did I really just admit to that? “I’ve hooked up with a few girls, but never… to that extent.”
“Never?” Everyone questions in unison, their voices steeped in amazement.
“How do you know you’re gay if you’ve never had sex with a chick?” Jared asks.
Per usual, you can count on Jared to ask the asinine questions! “Have you ever had sex with a guy?”
“No,” he says unaffectedly. I’m surprised there isn’t a look of total repulsion on his face.
“Then, how do you know you’re straight?”
He considers his answer much longer than he’s considered anything else he’s ever said. “I don’t know, man. Girls are sexy as hell.”
“So, breasts, thighs, butt, hips—girls just do it for you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s the same for me. I’m just waiting to meet the right girl—someone I’m sure I’m comfortable with because I’ve had the chance to get to know her—rather than hop into bed with the first cute girl I meet.”
“Word, I feel you. That’s cool.”
Sarah squints suspiciously at me. “Are you telling us you go to one of the biggest universities in the state and you haven’t met a girl you’re interested in?”
“Why is that so hard to believe? I’ve been flooded with work from the get-go. I barely have time to breathe much less date.” It’s not a lie, just the closest I can get to an explanation. I am usually trapped under a mountain of books and paperwork, but I have enough spare time to at least make an effort. So, why don’t I?
“What would your ideal girl be like?” Kendall probes. “What’s your type?”
Good question. I haven’t given as much thought to it as I probably should have by this point in my life. “I don’t think I have a ‘type.’”
“Everyone has a type, Payton.”
I allow myself to really speculate about it for the first time in a long while. My brain runs through a checklist of desirable character traits, mentally marking off the tiny boxes next to each. “She’d have to be smart, that’s absolutely a requirement. Kind, but still a little feisty. Funny in the sense that she’s okay with laughing at herself every once in a while. And she’d have to love music. Maybe not every bit as much as I do, but a lot.”
“What about physically?” Kendall adds curiously. “Say you could pick your ideal woman out of a line-up of famous chicks. Who would you go for?”
The very first person who comes to mind is Kendall Bettencourt. What in the hell? The thought torpedoes me into the most surreal panic. She is one of the most important people in my life, not some hotter-than-a-house-on-fire bombshell from a movie poster. I know her. She’s a sweet, sassy, intelligent, beautiful-on-the-inside, real person. And… Oh my god. She is my type! She is the standard by which I assess every other woman on the planet. Oh, this is so effin’ bad. I need to get out of here. Bring the damn check, please!
I’d pick you, Kendall. You are, in every possible sense of the word, the most breathtaking woman I have ever met. That would be the most truthful answer I could give, but I know when to keep the truth to my damn self. “You know that X-Men movie, the one where Xavier can still walk?”
Kendall furrows her eyebrows at me as if to say ‘yeah, and?’
“The actress who played Mystique in that. Hello, blue body paint.”
“Yes!” Jared shouts. “Nice, Payday. Fist pump!”
“Please,” Sarah waves him off. “Refrain from fist pumping. That gives Jersey such a bad name.”
“Whatever. You see more fists pumping in The Garden State than you do gardens,” Jared says in defense.
“All right, all right,” Kendall interjects. “It’s time for this party to end. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
❄ ❄ ❄
As we pull up to my house, I notice my mother’s Honda is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. She must be working an overnight shift again. Head ER nurse is the crappiest job. Mom sleeps in the on-call room more often than in her own room. I don’t normally mind, but tonight I’m dreading it. Suddenly, agreeing to let Kendall share my bed seems like the worst idea I’ve ever had. My stomach is doing backflips, and I’m sure I’m going to hurl. This is going to be fun.
Kendall drops her Gucci duffle on the floor and combs over the DVD tower in my room. “Oh, I so called it!” She slides X-Men: First Class out of its spot and dangles it in front of my face. “You are a loser. A LOSER!”
The fact that I own this dreadful movie makes my fabricated ‘perfect woman’ story slightly more believable, but it will never be true. Kendall remains in the forefront of my brain, all beautiful and perfect and real as ever.
Just sell it, you moron. “What,” I say flatly. “Jennifer Whatshername has impeccable bone structure.”
“Her bone structure,” she scoffs. “Good thing that’s what does it for you. She’s gotten quite slim recently.”
“Did you really mean to insinuate that someone is too thin? Yeah, skinny, you should talk.” I want to squash the revelation that will surely doom our friendship. I need to act normal. With the intent of sending my stupid attraction to its grave, I press my fingers into her ribs and start tickling her. She squeals and squirms frantically while batting at my arms. I notice her sweater ride up her torso, but before I can pull my hands away I make contact with the soft, sun-kissed skin above her waist. That’s around the time I realize how thoroughly screwed I am. I guess once you acknowledge the fact that you’ve got it bad for your best friend, there isn’t a damn thing you can do to make it all okay again. Dear God, if you’re listening, please strike me down right this moment. It’s easy to avoid awkwardness when you’re in a coma or dead.
I quickly stop touching her and snatch the DVD away from her. “This isn’t even the crappiest movie in my extensive collection of crappy movies, okay? I own every film you’ve been in, to date.”
She frowns. “Did you just call my movies bad?”
“Not all of your movies are bad. You have to admit that some of them are rather basic, though.”
“Basic? That’s Payton-speak for ‘mind-numbing.’”
I draw in the deepest breath I’ve ever taken and try to keep my mouth from saying the most obviously obsessive fangirl things. “No, that’s Payton-speak for ‘the best friggin’ thing ever.’”
“You’re right, anyway. Thanks to my mom, most of the stuff I’ve done up to now is boring. But this new film I’m starting is surprisingly well written. Actually, it’s kind of intense, totally the kind of film my mom would have absolutely insisted I have nothing to do with.” She pauses sharply. “Did I tell you that my character is a drug-addicted bisexual rock star?”
This day keeps getting better and better! “No, you didn’t tell me that. Do you get to kiss anyone interesting? That chick from those sparkly vampire movies, perhaps?”
“You know if I had been cast in that franchise, it wouldn’t have sucked as miserably as it did.”
“Not even you could have saved those movies.”
“How jealous would you be if I said I got to kiss a certain someone with ‘perfect bone structure’?”
I would be jealous that she gets to kiss you. Play it cool, I remind myself. “Do you, really?”
“No, just some fellow up-and-comer. I’ve never met your heart-throb, but if I ever do, I’ll be sure to let her know how sexy you think she is when she’s blue and covered in scales.”
“Do that and I’ll put a hit out on you, Dirty Jersey style.”
She smirks at me and sits down on the bed. She’s quiet for a while. It’s unnerving. “A lot of people are saying that I’m going to be nominated for an Elite Award for In Heaven’s Arms.” She doesn’t sound too thrilled at the idea.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
She shrugs. “It would change things for me.”
She reaches out for my arms and pulls me down next to her on the bed. I practically die at the sudden contact between us. “I’m serious. I don’t have much privacy as it is now. I might as well keep my apartment door permanently propped open if I’m nominated.”
“I’ll make you a deal. If it happens, I’ll move to LA to become your personal bodyguard.”
“That’s a good deal. I’ll take it.” She gestures for a handshake. Gingerly, I oblige her. Her hand is warm and smooth. I resist the urge to press my lips against it.
Damn it! These feelings for Kendall are fully freaking me out. They were never part of my consciousness before, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure they have always existed—resting dormant just beneath the surface of perceptibility. Now that they’ve broken through whatever barrier kept them locked away, I’ve become so harshly aware of them that it’s physically painful. It’s like I’m treading on jagged glass, and I can’t deal with it. All it takes is one minor slip up, one wrong footfall, and I’ll be shredded into tiny pieces.
I’m quickly finding that I cannot wait for her to board that plane in the morning.
❄ ❄ ❄
Kendall yawns as the credits of X-Men scroll across the TV screen. She gets up to riffle through her bag in search of pajamas. Unfortunately for my sanity, her idea of comfortable sleepwear is a pink cami and a pair of black shorts designed to conceal the absolute minimum amount of butt-cheek allowed by law. Please, not those. Don’t you have track pants, or like, a snow suit in that bag?
“Payton, your bed is beckoning to me, ‘Kendall, fall into me. I’m so cozy!’” she says in squeaky, high-pitched voice.
It’s eleven o’clock. I’m exhausted, but so terrified at the idea of sleeping next to her that I’m willing to battle the impulse to doze. Those damn shorts are not helping in the slightest. They have downright entranced me.
“Did you hear me?” Kendall snaps her fingers. “It’s bedtime, unless you want us both to stumble around like zombies in the morning.”
I snatch a pair of sweatpants from a pile of clothes in the corner then stop to look around. There are an endless number of textbooks and staff paper notebooks strewn haphazardly about the navy carpet. My closet looks like it threw up, and my wall-mounted rack of guitars is so dusty it could cause an asthma attack. I should have cleaned up before she got here. “I’m gonna change in the bathroom,” I say as I scuttle toward the door.
She shoots me a sideways grin. “Giving me the boudoir are you? That’s very sweet.”
“You can thank me with a fruit basket,” I call over my shoulder and bolt down the hall.
She is already huddled beneath the plush, green comforter by the time I’ve subdued my anxiety enough to reenter the room. Her breathing is shallow and rhythmic, a sure sign that she’s fallen asleep. I tiptoe over to the bed, gently lift the sheets and work my way into them. Please don’t wake up, I think as I cocoon myself with a spare fleece blanket. If I’m swaddled tightly enough, there is no way I can accidentally make contact with her body while in the subconscious throes of slumber. I contemplate concocting some form of pillowy chastity fort to separate us even more, but that would be something I’d have to explain in the morning. I can feel my mind succumbing to fatigue, so I turn my back to her and allow myself to quietly nod off.
❄ ❄ ❄
Faint beams of early morning sunlight wake me. Reluctantly, I lift my head to read the bedside digital clock. It’s 6:33. At some point in the night I managed to escape my blanket shackles. I’m lying on my back with my left arm propped under my pillow. Kendall’s head is nuzzled into the spot where my shoulder and collarbone meet. Her arm is slung across my stomach—which, of course, is exposed because I don’t own a single shirt long enough to resist creeping up my torso as I toss and turn in the night. It’s a hairline past 6:30 in the morning, and I’m already freaking out. That must be one for the record books.
I draw in a series of quick, short breaths—preparing myself to move as lightly and slowly as possible. It’s like that coyote ugly thing, except the girl I’m trying not to disturb is absurdly gorgeous, and we most definitely did not do anything sexual the night before. Or any night ever.
As I attempt to slide off the bed, Kendall slightly stirs, but does not wake. She makes a minor adjustment to the placement of her arm and instantly goes from lazily hugging my side to fully holding me. There is a difference between the two. It’s a discreet longing—an added bit of effort—that turns a hug into a hold. I’m as sure as I’ve ever been of anything that I am being held right now. Without warning, I feel a hot, wet tear roll down my face. It splashes onto my t-shirt. I want this moment to last forever. I know it’s the only one of its kind I’ll ever have with Kendall.
I turn my head toward her and find myself unexpectedly peering into her snowy blue irises. She is very much awake, but has yet to move. “Good morning,” she yawns.
“Hey.”
She sits up, cracks her neck, and stretches. “I’m sorry. I slept, like, on top of you.”
“It’s okay, as long as you didn’t drool.” I pull at my shirt, pretending to check for any soaked-through spots. I know I won’t find any save for the tiny tear mark at the collar.
“I do not drool,” she says. “What time is it?”
I grab the clock off the nightstand and bring it close to her face. “This is a six,” I point. “That’s a three and that’s an eight.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so cute when you’re snarky.”
“Get dressed.” I slip off of the bed and pluck a pair of jeans from their spot on the desk chair. I take it back, that whole ‘I can’t wait for her to leave’ thing. “You’ll miss your flight if we don’t get going.”
❄ ❄ ❄
We pull up to the airport drop-off zone with barely enough time for Kendall to get through security and book it to her gate. If it weren’t for me, she would’ve missed her flight for sure. It’s always been this way. Kendall is fifteen minutes late; I’m fifteen minutes early. Together we cancel each other out and arrive everywhere right on time. She constantly says that without me around, she has no idea how she manages to be on time for anything. I joke that she doesn’t manage it at all.
She hasn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and I miss her already. “Text me when you land,” I say as I pop the trunk so she can grab her luggage.
“Don’t I always?”
Yes, you do. “Just a reminder.”
She leans into me, gives me a peck on the cheek, and the tightest hug. “I’ll see you soon. I promise.”
I hate it when she makes promises she can’t keep, but I know she’ll try at least. “See you soon.”
And then she’s gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Kendall
I avoid travelling with an entourage whenever possible. Having that many people with you is a pitiful cry for attention, as far as I’m concerned. And it’s not like the paparazzi need any help doing their job; if they want to track you down, they’re like hellhounds on a mission. Besides, your entourage is only around to cater to your every whim and handle the transport of your luggage. I am perfectly capable of handling my own damn luggage trolley. It’s so obnoxious when famous people allow others to do everything for them. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these A-Listers have their personal assistants wipe their asses for them, too.
Newark Liberty International Airport is a hot mess most of the time. I prefer JFK for business travel, but Newark is much easier to access from home. Today, however, security is running pretty smoothly. I’m through the checkpoint and headed to the gate fairly quickly. In the distance, I
see a bunch of people seated in the lounge. They’re presumably waiting for economy class to begin boarding. There are a few perks to my job—never again having to fly coach is one of them.
I throw my sunglasses on in hopes of dodging attention. It is way too early for me to be all smiley and receptive to any fans. Lawrence insists—like any good publicist would, I suppose—that there are two things every notable person should always have: A full face of makeup and a friendly disposition. Unfortunately, at 7:30 in the morning I generally have neither.
I’m recognized almost immediately by a group of guys in Louisiana State University attire. They make some noise and flock toward me. All of a sudden, there are pens, notebooks, and cameras being shoved in my face. Really? I plaster on the biggest smile I can muster as I pose for pictures and sign my name a few times. It’s amusing how total strangers react when they meet somebody they consider a “celebrity.” They always seem to go straight in for the hug, never mind the customary introductory handshake. I’m not sure how I feel about letting people I don’t know get so close to me. I’m sort of OCD about being touched, though I don’t usually have a say about it.
Once all the excitement of the spontaneous meet-and-greet dies down, I say goodbye to my new friends, gather my things, and hurry my way onto the plane. Sometimes I can’t believe this is real life. I can’t fathom how my presence is so astounding that people make a big deal out of getting my signature. Take flight attendants, for instance. Now, they are some awesome people. They normally couldn’t give a damn about who the hell is on the plane as long as everyone sits down and shuts up. It’s sort of weird that they always call me by name, though. “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Bettencourt?” or “Enjoy your flight, Ms. Bettencourt.”
One of the awesome attendant’s voices booms over the loud speaker asking for all electronic devices to be switched off. I’ve got the drill down pat, so I don’t wait for the announcement to finish. I pull my Blackberry from the pocket of my jeans, start for the off button and then pause. “Taking off now,” I type to Payton. “Think I’ll step up from texting to calling you when I land :).” I press send.