The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

by Kristen Zimmer

  “Hey,” she says, her voice hushed.

  “Hi.” I don’t know what to say to her. I’m slightly angry that she’s been blowing me off. Never mind not calling me for days, she hasn’t even bothered responding to my texts. Here I am, planning the single most significant move of my life, and we’re totally incommunicado? Wasn’t this her brilliant idea in the first place? “Are you sick?”

  “No.” She kicks off the railing and steps closer to me.

  “Are you sure? Even movie stars are allowed to have colds once in a while.”

  “I know. I don’t have a cold.”

  I cross my arms. “Then where the hell have you been?” Gross! What are you, her mom? What the hell right do I have to be mad at her? She’s a busy person. She has a life that’s so much bigger than mine, so much bigger than me. It would be stupid to think otherwise.

  “I’m sorry,” she says delicately. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

  And she hasn’t said a thing about it until now? I don’t like being left in the dark. Payton, you should talk. You haven’t exactly been an open book lately. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not really. It’s stuff I need to figure out for myself. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry I haven’t been able to involve you in any of it. It’s been hard for me, feeling like I couldn’t pick up the phone and discuss everything with you.”

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. “Some problems can’t be solved by talking about them.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” I ask jokingly.

  She chuckles. “God, no! There’s zero possibility of that.”

  “Phew.” I wipe my hand across my forehead in mock relief. “Glad to hear that.”

  She smiles. “I’ve got to get home. The ‘rents are hosting their illustrious Turkey Day Banquet, and they invited every person they’ve ever met. It’s going to be huge this year, first holiday I’ve actually managed to make it home for in a while.”

  “Yeah, my family is coming over soon, too.”

  “Do you think you can get away later? I’d like to hang out for a while before I have to head to the airport.”

  Yes, I can get away. If I have to crawl out my bedroom window and climb down the garden trellis, I will get away. “Sure. I’ll swing by around eight?”

  “Perfect. You’ll be saving me from the part of the evening where my mother hassles us into a circle and forces us all to share one thing we’re thankful for.”

  “Wicked.”

  Without reluctance, she hugs me. The anxiety I’ve been feeling due to our unusual lack of communication is calmed for a moment. All too quickly, she releases me. “Later,” she calls from the sidewalk.

  “Later.” I watch her speed down the road in her dad’s bright red convertible.

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  Luckily, I don’t have to sneak out of the house via my bedroom window. I’m pretty sure I would’ve fallen to my death, or at the very least broken every vertebrae in my spinal column. Mom lets me leave after dinner without much of a fuss. It’s surprising. She is usually adamant that I subject myself to the full extent of family time on holidays. She says I’m allowed a brief respite because “I was so lively and interactive during dinner.” In actuality, I know it’s because she doesn’t want me sitting around the house sulking while my aunt is over. I say goodbye to everyone and quickly book it out the door before Mom has enough time to change her mind.

  I’m running late. It’s twenty after eight when I ring Kendall’s doorbell. Her mom answers with a contented smile.

  “Hi, Mrs. B! Happy Thanksgiving,” I say while peering over her shoulder into the living room. Okay, wow. Kendall wasn’t joking about the whole sharing circle thing. There must be about twenty people seated around facing each other. Kendall spots me through the archway. Her eyes launch daggers at me as if to say “The one time you’re late, and it had to be tonight!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Bettencourt replies. I know before she says another word that she’s going to invite me inside. “Kendall is in the family room. Go on in.”

  Oh, damn it! I so do not feel like sharing right now. “Thank you.” I skulk by her.

  Kendall meets me at the archway and whispers, “Really?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Have a seat, ladies,” Mrs. Bettencourt directs as she reenters the room.

  Kendall seizes my elbow and yanks me toward the loveseat. “We’re not getting out of this unscathed. Keep a straight face and say anything when the time comes.”

  “Okay.” It’s kind of funny that she’s acting like this is some kind of live-or-die situation. How hard is it to talk about something you’re glad to have or have done? It’s not like she has stage fright or anything.

  Mr. Bettencourt starts off the circle by talking about how he’s thankful for his wonderful family. Then it’s Kendall’s cousins, aunts, and uncles. Before long, it’s Kendall’s turn. She must have been spacing out or something while everyone else was speaking; her mother calls her name twice before she responds.

  Kendall looks like she’s thinking hard about what she’s going to say, as though the fate of world peace depends on her words. “I’m thankful for love,” she mutters, looking square at me. “I’m thankful for all the people in this room who love me and whom I love more than anything.”

  My mouth suddenly goes drier than the Mojave during a drought. Out of the blue, I feel as if I’ve been gnawing on a mixture of sandpaper and kitty litter for at least a good year. And then I’m coughing an incessant, obtrusive cough. It sounds more like choking than coughing, really.

  Mr. Bettencourt rushes across the room with a glass of water in his hand and thrusts it toward me. “Here, drink this.”

  I take the offered glass, put it to my lips, and sip it deeply. After a few swallows, the hacking stops. I take a long breath. “Thank you,” I say to him, then clear my throat. “In case anyone was wondering, I’m thankful for water.”

  A chorus of delighted laughter rings throughout the room. I’ve never been happier to have excellent comedic timing. If anyone were to ask, there would be no feasible way I could explain what just happened. Anyway, was Kendall even talking about me? Am I included in that small collection of people she loves more than anything? Sure, I am. She loves me like a friend, or worse, like a sister.

  Kendall places her hand on my back and rubs gently. “Better?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She hops off the sofa and takes my hand. “Let’s go upstairs. It’s too loud down here.”

  Just shut up and go. “Yes,” I say as I get up to follow her.

  The first thing I notice when we enter her room is the colossal stack of packed bags at the foot of her bed. I know she was away on a shoot for a month, but really? I don’t remember her having her entire freaking wardrobe with her when I dropped her off at the airport the last time. “Is it me, or have you acquired a whole lot of new baggage to bring back to Cali with you?”

  She falls onto the mattress, giggling like mad. I wonder if she’s having some sort of mental breakdown, because nothing about my question could’ve possibly caused that kind hysteria. “You have no idea how much baggage I’ve picked up since I’ve been home,” she complains.

  I don’t know. From the looks of it, I’d say I have a pretty fair idea. “Is your dad driving you to the airport? There is no way he can fit all this stuff into that tiny hot wheels thing you bought him.”

  “Hell no,” she shakes her head. “I called a car service.”

  “You probably should’ve called U-Haul.”

  She harrumphs as she sits upright and pats the mattress twice. I seat myself beside her. “Speaking of U-Haul…” she says as she stretches to the foot of the bed to riffle through a duffle on the top of her luggage pile. I seize the opportunity to admire her perfect posterior, which is accentuated by the stretchy material of her yoga pants. She pop
s back up and almost catches me ogling her. I was never before aware of the danger of near-misses. I’ll be more careful to avoid them in future. “This is for you.” She hands me a blue box about the size of a deck of cards. A thin, red ribbon is tied around it.

  Another present? Damn it, I don’t want your presents! I want your presence. Don’t you get that? I flash a contemptuous look at the box and slide it back toward her. “Whatever that is, take it back. I appreciate the thought, but I’m not going to accept one more gift from you.”

  “It’s not a gift. It’s a necessity.”

  “A necessity? I wasn’t aware oxygen could be boxed.”

  “Believe me, it’s something you’ll need and use often. Open it.”

  I’m skeptical, but she’s managed to peak my curiosity. I undo the ribbon and flip the lid off. Inside, there is a lone key attached to a metal ‘P’ keychain.

  “It’s for my—for our apartment. I was going to wait until I picked you up from LAX, but I was way too excited about it.”

  I don’t know what to say. After that vanishing act she pulled, I was beginning to think she was having second thoughts about the whole thing. “So, you still want this to happen then?” I’m not prepared for her to answer my question with a no, but it’s a major thing, and I need to know one way or the other.

  She palms her knees and remains noiseless for a few moments. “I can’t apologize enough for disappearing on you,” she murmurs. “Yes, I still want this to happen.”

  I’m relieved even though I know it’s going to be difficult at first, living with her while endlessly battling this menacing ache I have to touch her. That’s the last straw! I am going to get over these feelings for her if it takes blunt force trauma! Getting over her—it’s the only solution to an impossible problem, a fantastical love that won’t ever be reciprocated. I need to bury my grief before my grief buries me. But there is something else I have to get out of the way first. “I finished that song like you asked. Where is your keyboard?” I need to play it for her. It was written about her all along, right from the opening measure.

  “Over there,” she points toward her closet.

  I stumble over, retrieve the keyboard from its box and carry it back to the bed. I plug it into the wall then settle myself down in front of it. I don’t have the sheet music with me, but it isn’t necessary. I know every note and rest by heart.

  The keys are plastic. The feel of them beneath my fingers is different from the ivory keys of my grandfather’s piano. It doesn’t matter, though. The song sounds every bit as forlorn and haunting as I intended. Each bar I play is like another excruciating stab to the chest. Music. This is how I bleed.

  “I renamed it,” I utter once I’ve played the last note. “It’s called ‘Melody for the Dying.’” I look up from the keyboard to see her wiping tears from her cheeks. Now you know what it’s like. That was the sound of love, unrequited.

  “That was incredible,” she whispers. “I could actually feel the sorrow.”

  “Thank you.” But now it’s time to put the pain away, stuff it into a folder marked “forget,” and tuck it into the obscurest recesses of my mind.

  “Hollywood is going to fawn over you someday. Seriously, you are the next Danny Elfman.”

  “I want to be the next Hans Zimmer. Maybe with some of The Chemical Brothers mixed in.”

  “Then that’s who you’ll be.” She smiles and throws her arms around my neck. I collapse sideways into her. I’m practically lying in her lap, and she’s nearly cuddling me. I should move and break the contact. Instead, I turn over slightly until I’m fully on my back. My head is resting on her stomach. Her legs are folded beneath my shoulders. This is no way to begin the “getting over her” process, but god, does it feel fantastic.

  She’s playing with my hair again—lightly brushing her fingers through it. For the first time in the longest while, I’m actually relaxed around her. I close my eyes and listen to her breathe. In and out. In and out. The sound is soothing like whitecaps crashing against the shore.

  “Kendall,” I say, disturbing the serenity of the moment. “I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep doing that.”

  “So, fall asleep.”

  I check my watch. It’s almost ten. “Don’t you have to leave soon?”

  She leans over me and peeps at my watch. “Not until one.”

  “You want me to waste the last few hours I have with you napping?”

  She yawns. “It’s not a waste if we’re both napping.”

  I sit up to study her. She seems like she could definitely use some shut-eye. If I was able to last an entire night sleeping next to her, what damage could a few hours do? “Lie down.” I nod and set the alarm on my watch for half past midnight.

  She turns off the bedside lamp, finds a cozy position, and fluffs a pillow behind her head. I stretch out beside her. She inches closer and rests her temple against my shoulder. I’m resolved not to let my angst return and screw everything up, so I shut my eyes and enjoy the warmth of her skin against mine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kendall

  According to the clock on my bedroom wall, it’s 12:20. I’ve been awake for close to fifteen minutes, but I haven’t moved except to breathe. It’s worse than the last time I woke up next to Payton. At that point, I hadn’t quite figured out what I was feeling. But now I am hyper aware of it. I squandered hours and hours trying to put a name to it. When I finally got a firm grasp on what to call the thing I was feeling, I wasted even more time trying to make it go away. I say I wasted time because it was the most futile attempt I ever made at anything. Watching her now—lying here so peacefully, looking as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside—it should not have come as a surprise that my feelings for her are anything but platonic.

  I’m not talking about the physical aspect at all. Yes, she has the same biological makeup as I do, and I’m still struggling to get beyond that, but I honestly think that anatomy has fundamentally nothing to do with love. That isn’t to say she’s not attractive. I mean, duh! Look at her. The girl has amazing cheekbones, sumptuous lips, radiant olive skin, and abs toned to perfection. I don’t care if you’re gay or straight, male or female; you would literally have to be blind not to find her attractive. I don’t know if physical chemistry would be an issue for me, but right now I’m not concerned with that. It isn’t as simple as a fascination of the flesh. It’s everything about her that I love: her intelligence, her ambition, her talent, her sense of humor, her dependability, her kindness.

  The real problem is that she’s my best friend. We have an undeniable connection that’s more intense than 10,000 Kelvin heat, more dynamic than seismic activity. It’s like there’s gravity between us—she’s the only thing anchoring me to the world, keeping me from floating off into the upper stratosphere and getting lost in space. I can’t risk losing her. I would be an empty shell of a person if she weren’t in my life.

  Payton’s wristwatch alarm sounds off at 12:30. She slowly begins to stir. I shut my eyes in a hurry. She can’t catch me watching her sleep. That is way too creepy, and not to mention, obvious.

  The mattress beneath her contracts as she pushes herself up on her elbows. She’s looking at me. I’ve still got my eyes closed, but I can feel her gaze like it’s a corporeal thing. “Kendall,” she whispers, lightly pushing my messy bangs behind my left ear. Do that again. Touch me anywhere. “Kendall,” she repeats, “it’s time to wake up.”

  I open my eyes to find her leaning over me. She’s bathed in the dim, far-away glow of street lights. The greenish-white sheen illuminates her enough that I can just make out the curvature of her lips. She’s smiling. God, Payton! Why do you have to be so dazzling, even in the dark?

  “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” she says.

  “Hey, yourself,” I whisper. My brain is screaming, “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!” But there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  Without waiting for a response, my dad walks in and flips on the light. I am flus
h on my back and Payton is still slightly leant over me. The shock on my dad’s face is precious. I know what he thinks he walked in on. I want to say “Nice going, Dad. We could’ve been butt-naked, screwing like jackrabbits, and you would’ve ruined the whole thing!” But I don’t want him to have a stroke or anything, so I keep quiet.

  He coughs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Um, no, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Payton stumbles over her words. “We were just waking up.”

  “I see,” he replies. “Kendall, I wanted to see if you needed any help bringing your things downstairs. Your car will be here soon.”

  Both Payton and I sit up. We dangle our legs over the side of the bed and kick our calves against it the way little children do. “Sounds good, Dad. Thanks.”

  My dad grabs two suitcases. Payton shuffles over to the pile and grabs two more.

  “Everywhere I go, there’s room service,” I joke.

  “No there isn’t.” Payton hands me a duffle. “Here you go.”

  “So surly.” I chortle, pick up my keyboard, and follow her out of the room.

  I’m pleasantly surprised the three of us manage to get all my crap down to the foyer in a single trip. “Thanks for the help,” I say to both my dad and Payton once I’ve reached the bottom of the stairwell.

  “You’re welcome,” they reply in tune.

  Outside, a car door slams. I hustle to the front door and peer through the windows to find what I feared: my ride to the airport, the first step back to La La Land. Hollywood—the home of big dreams and big names. I’m very quickly figuring out that it’s only a fantasy coated in glitz and glamour. Out there it’s constant commotion, endless parties, and red carpet events. It’s hardly ever quiet, almost never calm. It’s all about style and money and being seen. No one cares about you unless your face is on billboards or your name is on VIP lists. I kind of don’t want to go back.

  “Mom’s asleep,” Dad says. “Do you want me to wake her so you can say goodbye?”