The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

by Kristen Zimmer

  “A world of no.” I don’t even like her when she’s fully awake, let alone when she’s crabby from being woken up. He flashes a little grin then heaves a few bags out to the car. Payton follows his lead.

  Dad takes the keyboard from me and places it in the trunk. He turns to me and pats my head. “Okay, Pumpkin, you’re all set.”

  I hug him and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for everything, Daddy.”

  He nods. “Call your mother in the morning. She always worries when you travel.” He turns toward Payton. “And you! Don’t be a stranger. Come visit us before your big move.”

  “Yes, sir,” she salutes him and smiles. We watch him as he retreats into the house.

  And then there were two.

  Payton is quiet and much too far away from me. I want her right here—in my face and in my arms. Leaving her has always been the hardest part for me, long before I became aware of exactly how much she means to me. There’s sadness in her eyes whenever I have to go, like she’s convinced it’s the last time she’ll ever see me. This time around, the sadness is killing me.

  I reach for her. “Come here.” She steps to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I cling to her shoulders, resting my head against her chest. I listen to the steady pitter-patter of her heart and think about how glad I am for the extra four inches she has on me. “I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow.” I take a small step backward so that I can look into her eyes.

  She brushes her hand against my cheek. “It’s okay. I’ll see you again in thirty-two days.”

  “Thirty-two days,” I repeat. Somehow, countdowns make everything better.

  “Right.”

  “Okay.” I slowly pull myself away. If I don’t leave now, I’m afraid I never will.

  “Bye.”

  I slip into the back seat, and the car starts down the road. I watch her through the rear window, shrinking as the distance between us grows.

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  I wake up startled to find myself in my own bed. I’ve forgotten where I am and how I got here. The first reminder I have that I’m back in LA is the panoramic view from my bedroom windows—palm trees as far as the eye can see. It’s early morning, yet I can already tell it’s going to be a warm, sunny day. It’s a shame the weather in LA is rarely anything but beautiful. I love fall on the East Coast—the sharp chill in the air and Payton offering me her sweatshirts to keep me warm. Payton. Thirty-one days.

  I recognize that I’m caught in a daydream and reprimand myself. I need to get my ass in gear if I hope to avoid running late. I hurriedly get dressed and am in my car in record time. I’m on my way to meet with James and the executives of this phenomenally big-budgeted action movie, The Relishing, when I figure I’d better stop at a bookstore and pick up a copy of the novel it’s based on. I haven’t read it yet, but apparently it has a massive cult following. If I don’t portray this character correctly, I risk being hated by millions of zealous teenagers. I don’t need that kind of stress on top of everything else that’s been driving me insane lately.

  Speaking of nuts, I was crazy to think I’d be able to casually stroll into a bookstore in Culver City and pick up a best seller without drawing any interest. Every last soul in the store is in an uproar once they see I’ve grabbed this book. Apparently, everyone is already aware that it’s being made into a film. I am surrounded by people asking questions about it.

  “Is the script true to the story?” a young girl asks.

  “Are you playing Ciara or Emily?” another one chimes in.

  “Who’s been cast as the Mongrel King?” a bookstore employee questions.

  I have no answers for anyone, so I smile politely, pay for the damn book, and push my way back to the car.

  As I drive away, I seriously begin to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself in to. I thought the attention I’ve been receiving because of my last film was bad, but clearly, that was just the beginning. I feel like I’m biding my time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I expect my star to extinguish at any moment, but it keeps getting brighter and brighter. Sometimes I wish I were still Kendall Bettencourt, the ordinary girl next door, instead of Kendall Bettencourt, the Hollywood darling. Then I could wear what I want and date who I want, and no one would care in the slightest.

  All this thinking causes me to nearly speed clear past the studio. I manage to pull into the parking lot right at the last minute. I hand my keys to the valet and head inside.

  James greets me in the hallway outside our designated meeting room. He insists on briefing me on the situation. “Okay, we’re meeting with the producers and the director.”

  “Yeah, so?” I know the routine. I’ve gone through the motions more times than I can count. All I have to do is amp up my charm as high as it can go, lay the ass-kissing on real thick, and then let James handle the negotiations. When I’m satisfied with the terms, I sign on the dotted line. It’s simple: James presents me as the hottest commodity on the market, and informs them that I can be bought if the price is right. Integrity is little more than an afterthought.

  “Don’t curse, and we’ll be fine.”

  Seriously, that’s what he’s worried about? Occasionally, these Hollywood people bring out the ill-mannered troll in me, but that doesn’t mean I am always an ungracious wretch. “I know how to conduct myself during business meetings, you jackass.”

  “Wonderful,” he sneers and guides me into the room.

  The meeting goes smoothly. After a spate of reluctance on my part, and the producer’s ardent reassurance that I can be both a serious actress and an action star, I sign the contract. Landon Stone, the director, gushes over me the entire time. He calls me “the ultimate driving force behind the next sensational teen franchise.” He goes on to say that my face is going to be everywhere—on posters, button pins, and t-shirts. There will be an action figure and a life-sized cardboard cut-out in my likeness, as well.

  James is thrilled. I am scared to death. I don’t care how astoundingly large my paycheck will be, I’m more concerned with my face being plastered all over the place. I’m going to be so sick of seeing myself on magazine covers, I doubt I’ll ever want to look in a mirror again.

  “Why don’t you seem happy?” James disrupts my fit of angst as we’re heading for the parking lot.

  “I am happy.”

  “You should be elated. You’ve landed your most coveted female lead, to date. Forget about everything you’ve done in the past, this is going to make you huge.”

  I groan. “I thought I was already huge.”

  “You are, but you’ve reached the very top tier, now. It doesn’t get any bigger than a Stone-directed adaptation of one of the best-selling books of all time.”

  Excellent! I’ll never have a moment of peace again.

  “Kendall!” I hear my name called from somewhere close behind me. I stop to say goodbye to James, then turn around, hoping that I won’t find a fan looking for an autograph. Happily, the voice belongs to Lauren Atwell. She saunters toward me, a brisk pace to her step.

  “Lauren! Hi!” I throw my arms around her neck. “How’ve you been since we wrapped?”

  “Great! How are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m pretty good. I just signed on to play Ciara in The Relishing. What are you doing here?”

  “That’s so cool! I just read for Emily!”

  “Nice! I hope you get it. We would make the coolest, most ass-kicking movie ever!”

  “We would,” she agrees. “What are you up to now? You want to get a drink or something?”

  I nod. “Love to.” I planned to call her soon, anyway.

  The valet pulls our cars around. I hop into mine and follow her off the lot.

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  We end up at a tiny Irish pub called the Cloverleaf Tavern. It’s in a quiet part of West Hollywood, and it’s remarkably dead for a Friday.

  “This place is cute,” I say as we seat ourselves at the bar. “How’d you find it?”

  She or
ders us both a cocktail. I’m impressed that we aren’t asked for IDs, since everyone who knows us also knows that we’re not quite old enough to legally drink alcohol. “My ex lives around the corner,” she answers.

  I laugh. “I guess you’re not worried about running into him?”

  “Her,” she says. “And no, I’m not. We’re cool. Anyway, this isn’t her scene.”

  I regard her carefully, as though she might be able to sense whatever gayness I’ve got lurking inside me if I get too close. Isn’t there a word for being able to sniff out homosexuality like a trained police dog? Why the hell are all the cool girls lesbians, anyway? “I wouldn’t have guessed you were gay,” I blurt out before recognizing how unbelievably asinine that sounds. Brilliant. I may as well have said “Gee, you sure are purdy for a lesbo,” while clacking my ill-fitting dentures together and relentlessly drooling on myself.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not gay. I just like who I like.”

  Wow. That’s so bohemian! She can just jump from one orientation to the next without concern? I didn’t even know people like that existed, that bisexuality is an actual thing… I always thought you had to check one box—gay or straight. “That’s cool.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “What, that you’re bisexual?” Does it seem like I’m bothered? I hope not. We’re in West Hollywood! If anyone thought I was a homophobe, I’d be bashed and rightfully so. Besides, that would make me an utter cretin, wouldn’t it?

  She nods.

  “No, it doesn’t bother me at all. My best friend from back home is a lesbian. I was just curious about how you deal with the media. I mean, are you open about it?”

  She nods. “I’ve always been open about it. I figure in our line of work, it’s better to be straightforward about who you are and what you want. If you try to keep it a secret, it becomes a weapon. You know better than anyone how brutal the press can be.”

  That makes so much sense. But it takes a much braver person than me to be that honest with the entire world. “I prefer to keep my business to myself. I don’t think my dirty laundry is all that interesting to begin with, so I don’t know why anyone else would want to get a whiff of it.”

  She takes a sip of her drink. “You’re beautiful, talented, and wealthy. I think people like to know that you’re less than perfect so they can feel better about themselves.”

  I snigger. “Less than perfect? I am so far from perfect. I’m a neurotic mess most of the time.” And I have skeletons in my closet like everybody else does.

  “The average person doesn’t see any of that. When they look at people like you and me, they only see what we have, not who we are.”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “You’re a bit of a philosopher, aren’t you?”

  “That’s nothing but a big Greek word for someone who thinks too much.”

  “Hey, that makes me a philosopher, too!” I laugh. “You’re right, though. People don’t get to see who we are. Maybe I should make a documentary about how boring I am when I’m not on screen.”

  “You totally should! Video yourself hanging out at home in your underwear,” she says. “Interview your family and friends about what you do in your spare time. I’ll sign on for that project! I’ll tell everyone how dull you are and that you read an entire trilogy of books and talked on your phone the whole time we were in New Orleans.”

  “Nice! But don’t you think that would be too much of a stab to the heart of the American dream to find out that famous people aren’t much cooler than everyone else?”

  “Probably, but you can throw in some kind of speech about how if you can make it in America, anybody can. I think that’s the truth, anyway.”

  I come to the decision right then that I really like her. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we were to become very good friends.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Payton

  The list of things I need to do before I move grows longer and longer in spite of my best attempts to check stuff off of it.

  I got the whole MALA ordeal out of the way three weeks ago, submitted my application and transcripts. I received a call a few days later from the Dean of Students, saying how talented she thought I was and that I’d make a great fit for the school. She offered me a place in the advanced freshman Film Scoring program. My GPA is high enough that I was also offered the maximum scholarship the school awards. Of course, I accepted right away. I’m scheduled to meet with an academic advisor in early January so I can pick my classes according to the sight reading assessment I was asked to complete. My score was “roughly a prima vista”—able to play any piece of music nearly perfectly at first glance. Nearly perfect. In my vocabulary, that just means I have a lot of work to do. I’m most nervous about Performance 200: Composing for Orchestra. I’ve never written a piece for an entire orchestra before, but I guess I’ll have to deal with it when the time comes.

  With classes at MSU finally finished, I’m trying to concentrate my energy on packing up my room. It’s proving to be quite a daunting task. Why is it that you never realize how much crap you have until you attempt to stuff it all into cardboard boxes? The mountains of clothes I own are not included in the aforementioned crap! My bookshelves are crammed with paperbacks and DVDS. I’m not sure where I had the room to fit all the CDs I’ve thrown out since the invention of the iPod. Most of my trinkets and knickknacks are going to have to stay here. I don’t see the point in taking any of the soccer trophies or medals from various music competitions I’ve won. All those things are mementos from the past, and I want this move to be a new beginning for me—a renaissance of sorts. I’m hoping that once I’ve had the chance to marinate in West Coast sunshine, I’ll be miraculously transformed into a new and improved edition of myself. Payton 2.0 will be confident, alluring even. She’s going to take her mother’s advice and meet new people and impress the hell out of them.

  I didn’t initially intend for my relocation to be any kind of major catharsis, or the catalyst that pushed me from one state of mind to another, but it makes sense that it would be. No one in LA knows me. I’ll have the opportunity to be anyone I want to be. I’ll start out as the mysterious girl who is always being photographed alongside Kendall Bettencourt, but I could act like I’m some kind of rock star and probably become one if I wanted. The issue is, I really don’t. I want to be me, only happier. So, that’s what I’ll aim for—happiness. It’s an achievable goal, right?

  “Hey, Kiddo.” My mom sticks her head through the door, interrupting the packing process. “I don’t think your room has ever been this clean.”

  I look around in astonishment. I’ve managed to fit nearly everything I’m taking with me into two large boxes. My acoustic and electric guitars are nestled safely in their travel cases. Most of my clothes are already in suitcases. I’ve opted to leave the bulk of my winter clothes here, since I likely won’t need them in sunny southern California. Snow boots and heavy sweaters probably won’t be very useful out there, but every last one of my hoodies is coming with me. I don’t care if it never drops below 80 degrees; I love hoodies too much to give them up.

  “Packing is a glorified game of Tetris.”

  She nods. “We both know how good you are at Tetris.” The expression on her face clues me in to the fact that she didn’t wander upstairs merely to check on my progress or talk about Tetris.

  “What’s up?”

  “I want to make sure that you’re doing this for the right reasons. You’re chasing your dream career, not your dream girl, correct? I doubt you need to move clear across the country to find her.”

  “Yes, Mom. I need to steer my life in the right direction, and MALA is for sure the right direction.”

  “That’s good. Dedicate yourself to what truly matters, and you can achieve anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  She wanders over to me and envelopes me in a hug. “I sure am going to miss you. It’s going to be so quiet without you around making a ruckus.”

  “Call me
whenever it gets too quiet. I’ll put you on speaker and play some power chords for you.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She laughs and lets me go. “I’m off to work. Glad we had this talk.”

  “Me too. See you later.”

  By the end of the day, my room is transformed into an almost barren wasteland. Little remains of the clutter I used to live in. I’ve left enough clothing in my closet to get me through the next few days.

  I’m tired and sweaty and about to collapse on my bed when the doorbell rings. I hobble down the stairs, open the door to find a man in blue coveralls standing on my porch. “Hello. I’m looking for a Ms. Payton Taylor. Is she at home?”

  “I’m Payton. Can I help you?”

  “I’m going to need to see your auto insurance card to confirm the VIN on your car. I also need the keys so I can pull it onto the rig.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He consults a sheet of paper on his aluminum clipboard. “It says here that I’m supposed to pick up a white Volkswagen GTI coupe for delivery to an address on Hamilton Drive in Beverley Hills, California.”

  I look beyond him to the street. There’s a massive black truck with the words “Express Transport Depot” scrawled across its side. It seems legit, but this guy must be a loon if he thinks I’m going to hand my car keys over to some dude I’ve never seen before. “Um, can you hold on a second?”

  “All right,” he huffs.

  I grab my cell and dial.

  “I guess the shipping company showed up on time,” Kendall answers.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re flying to LA, not driving.”

  “Right, so what’s up with this?”

  “You need a car in LA. The public transportation here sucks more than the traffic.”

  I groan into the receiver. I wish you’d stop buying me things. “Do I even want to know how much this is costing you?”

  “It’s your Christmas present.” Her voice has a twinge of impatience to it. “Sorry it’s early. I wanted you to be able to get around without depending on a bus schedule.”