“I would have gotten around to having my car sent out eventually.” After finding a minimum wage job and saving up for three months.
“Hush up and give your keys to the nice man, Payton.”
I dig my keys from my pocket and hold them out to the delivery guy. “The insurance card is in the glove box.”
“Thanks,” he says and heads toward the driveway.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“No, I didn’t, but you’ll be glad I did. Trust me.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m getting really excited!”
“I know. I’m excited, too.” I am, but I’m also sort of scared. I’ve always played it safe. So many things have changed for me recently that I’m finding it difficult to cope. That’s the trouble with life. It’s merely a series of moments, each one completely different from the last. I can’t stop any of it from happening. “Listen, I’m really tired. Cleaning and packing totally kicked my ass. I need a nap.”
She giggles. “Yeah, I bet. I’ve got a bunch of charity stuff to do this week, so if I don’t talk to you, have a Merry Christmas. Wish your mom one for me, too.”
“Okay, I will. Merry Christmas!”
❄ ❄ ❄
Christmas Day is ridiculous. Mom spends the whole day hugging me at random points and going on about “the very real intricacies” of empty nest syndrome. Her present to me is the title to my car, which she paid off six months early. She reminds me at least ten times that I need to insure it before I drive on the streets of Los Angeles. God forbid I get into an accident. I give her a gift set of her favorite perfume, which, of course, seems like the most pathetic thing ever. I promise her my presents to her will be much cooler someday, when I can afford it. That sets her off on a tangent about how she doesn’t care about what I buy her, as long as I make it home every Christmas from next year until the end of time. We wrap up the holiday in our usual manner: snuggling on the couch, fireplace ablaze, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on cable. As usual, she cries her eyes out. Seriously, if an angel got its wings every time my mother cried over this movie, heaven would be teeming with cherubs.
The next day, I head over to the Bettencourt’s to wish them a belated happy holiday and to say my goodbyes. I told Mr. Bettencourt I’d stop by before my move, and Kendall warned me that I’d better follow through. This is the first time I’ve had to walk across town since I got my license. I already miss driving, so it’s probably for the best that I won’t have to go without a car in LA.
I catch Mr. Bettencourt wheeling garbage bins out for tomorrow morning. I dash down the driveway to help him. “Hi, Mr. B. Let me give you a hand.” I move to grab the handle of one of the bins and find myself absentmindedly wondering whether or not Kendall takes out her own garbage. She probably has a boatload of eager man-servants neighbors willing to do it for her.
He smiles up at me and relinquishes his grip on one container. “Hi, Payton. Thank you.”
Once we place the trash on the curb, he shakes my hand. It’s weird. I’ve known him practically my whole life, yet I can’t recall ever shaking his hand. “Come inside,” he says. “Have a glass of wine with me.”
“Wine,” I repeat, startled.
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. Grace isn’t home, and I certainly won’t tell your mother.”
I give in and follow him into the house.
“Red, white or blush?” He asks, standing in front of the open wine chiller.
I wouldn’t know, truthfully. I’ve hardly ingested enough wine in my lifetime to have a preference. The high school parties I used to attend rarely provided anything more sophisticated than half-flat beer from a keg. “Um, blush?”
“Good choice.” He nods toward the dining room table. I sit. “I’m glad you’re moving in with Kendall. I worry about her out there by herself.”
I take a sip of my Zinfandel. “You shouldn’t worry about her. She’s got it all figured out.”
“She has some things figured out. But she’s still young, and she’s still my daughter.”
“My mom says the same thing about me.”
“You’ll understand when you’re a parent. No matter how old your children get, you worry about them—the decisions they make, the possibility that someday they’ll get their heart broken.”
I’d never break her heart, not that I’d ever be given that opportunity. Anyway, I really don’t want him to know that I have more than amicable feelings for Kendall. I know I love her for all the right reasons, but it would be a lie to say that I’m not interested in her in other ways. I’m pretty sure Mr. Bettencourt would slaughter me with an axe if he ever found out about the lust I harbor for his daughter. “Kendall is smart. She’s got a big heart, but she’s also a great judge of character. I don’t think she’d surround herself with the kind of people who would hurt her.”
“You’re right. She has a good head on her shoulders.” He eyes me carefully and sips his wine. I’m uncomfortable under his gaze, like he’s judging my character. I’m curious what his verdict would be.
I had intended to stay longer, but I suddenly feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. “Thank you for the wine, but I should get going. I have a lot of stuff to do before I leave in the morning.”
“It was a pleasure.” He stands to walk me out.
I hug him instinctively once we’ve reached the door. “Please tell Mrs. B I said goodbye.”
He nods. “You take care of yourself and Kendall, all right?”
“I will.”
Take care of Kendall. The instruction embeds itself in my brain like it’s a mission I’ve chosen to accept. Failure is not an option. If I can only learn how to take care of myself first, everything will be fine.
❄ ❄ ❄
Moving day has arrived. I’m awake long before my alarm goes off. It’s quarter to seven, but my mind is racing much too quickly for me to go back to sleep. My flight takes off at 11:45. I’ve got a whole lot of time to kill before then, so I head down to the kitchen.
I pop some waffles in the toaster and brew a pot of coffee, then slip quietly to the front door to retrieve the morning paper. As I’m making my way back to the kitchen, I stop to look around the living room. A sensation of sadness takes hold of me. This is the last time I’ll get the paper off the porch, or stand right here in this spot, or make breakfast in this kitchen. I’ll never be able to say that I’m doing all these things in my house again. I know it will always be my home, the place where I grew up and made a lifetime of remarkable memories, but from now on, when I’m here, I’ll merely be visiting. It’s completely odd to know that I won’t be living here anymore. I hope Mom will be okay without me.
“Good morning.”
I turn around, notice my mother watching me from the landing of the staircase. The sight of her in her fluffy pink bathrobe makes me smile. “Good morning. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“You didn’t. I could smell the coffee in my sleep. I thought I was dreaming.” She waddles into the kitchen, and I trail her through the door. “Would you like some real breakfast instead of those tasteless frozen things?”
Oh man, would I ever. “You don’t have to cook for me, Ma.”
She opens the refrigerator, pulls out a gallon of milk, a package of bacon, and a carton of eggs and sets them on the table. “Don’t be silly. I won’t get to make you breakfast for a while, so I’ll make a big one for you today. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon sound good?”
“Yes. That sounds amazing.”
She grins. “Set two places.”
I do as I’m told, then pour two cups of coffee—mine with milk and two sugars, hers black. She has already fired up the stove-top when I hand her a mug. She takes a swill and sighs. “You make the best coffee.”
“That’s what you’ll miss the most,” I joke.
“No, Kiddo.” She ruffles my hair like she used to when I was little. “I’m going to miss everything.”
Yeah. I’
m going to miss everything, too.
❄ ❄ ❄
We arrive at the passenger drop-off. Mom puts the car in park, and I hop out to find a luggage caddie. We take turns placing my stuff on the cart—she grabs a box, I grab a bag—working in tandem as a team like we always have. Five minutes later, I’m ready to go. Physically, at least. Emotionally, I’m not so sure.
I fall into her arms like the frightened child that I am, clinging to her for dear life. She squeezes me snugly. I tear up. She doesn’t. My mom: The paragon of sturdiness when it counts the most. “You’d better get a move on, Kiddo.”
“I’ll call you later,” I say before making my way into the terminal.
“I love you!” She hollers after me. “You’re gonna be fine!”
I turn around just in time to watch her image melt away behind the sliding Plexiglas doors. I hope she’s right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kendall
Apparently, a storm over Chicago forced Payton’s flight behind schedule. I’ve been waiting in the airport lounge for nearly two hours. I sit patiently, trying to pay full attention to my book, but the anticipation of Payton’s arrival is making me antsy. Lately, I’ve been inundated with press events and compulsory appearances at insignificant award shows, but I’ve still had more than enough time on my hands to miss her terribly.
At this point, missing her has become so overpowering that it’s starting to get in the way of my obligations. The other day I had an interview for a syndicated morning show, and I could not for the life of me concentrate on the questions the interviewer was asking me. Fortunately, Lawrence was on the sound stage with the camera crew. He kept snapping and motioning with his pointer and middle fingers, reminding me to maintain eye contact with the host. Somehow, I managed to regain my bearings and make it through the interview. Afterward, Lawrence congratulated me on coming across as slightly brain damaged rather than completely brain-dead. If he hadn’t been there, I would have been so consumed by my thoughts that I surely would have come across as having the IQ of a comatose goldfish. But Lawrence can’t be around every moment of every day. Sooner or later, I’ll be caught completely off guard, say something perfectly idiotic, and screw myself for sure.
“Excuse me. Come here often?”
I’d know that sensual, lightly graveled voice anywhere. Payton. I look up from my page, and she’s towering over me. I spring to my feet and embrace her eagerly. “Funny you should ask that. Yes, it seems like I’m here all the time.”
I take a step back and study her for a while. I am altogether captivated. It feels as though I’m staring into the eyes of some kind of apparition. But she’s real. And she’s here. And she’s unequivocally gorgeous. She’s wearing a body-hugging black hoodie and paint-splattered jeans with holes in the knees. Her hair is down. I get the familiar urge to play with it but don’t allow myself to reach out.
She, however, goes straight for my freshly trimmed, side-swept bangs. Gently, she pushes them out of my face. “I see you’re back to blonde. Very nice. You look like you again.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Red fades too fast. It takes way too much effort to upkeep.”
“You know what’s really too much effort? Flying. That was the longest six hours ever. I have no idea how you spend half your life on airplanes.”
I chuckle. “The day isn’t anywhere near done yet. We have to round up all your stuff, get to the apartment, and unpack everything.”
“I’m exhausted just thinking about it,” she pouts.
“Come on. Let’s get a jump on it.” I take hold of her hand and lead her toward the baggage claim. She weaves her long, thin fingers into the spaces between mine. Our hands fit perfectly together, like they were created to complement each other. I don’t ever want to let go.
❄ ❄ ❄
She told me she was packing light, but she has a lot less stuff than I was expecting. Her two military-style duffle bags and two guitars fit easily into the trunk of my car. We toss the pair of cardboard boxes into the back seat.
“How far is the drive?”
“That depends. About twenty minutes, but with traffic it could take much longer.”
She fans herself with her hand and checks the in-dash temperature display. “Seventy-five degrees! It was only forty when I got on the plane at Newark.”
“Seventy-five is unusual for LA in December. Normally, it tops out at around sixty-six.”
“Ugh,” she says and unbuckles her seat belt. She leans forward and pulls her heavy sweatshirt up and over her head, revealing a clingy white tank top. The cotton shirt is so thin, I can see straight through it to the lace bra she’s got on beneath it. She’s sweating a little, but in that extraordinarily sexy way girls do when they’re dancing in a crowded club. I remind myself to keep my eyes on the road. If I gawk at her like I want to, we’ll probably die in a fiery car wreck right here on the 405. The thought is horrifying—not the crashing part, the thinking she’s incredibly sexy part. I could’ve gone my entire life without ever thinking that about Payton and been just peachy with it.
“You look hot.” The phrase slips out before I have a chance to think about how wrong it sounds. “Uncomfortable, that is. We could stop somewhere to pick up some spring water if you want.”
She gestures no with a headshake. “It’s okay. I feel better now. I just want to get home.”
Home. My home, her home, our home. Amazing. “The freeway is looking kind of packed. Getting home might take a while.”
She switches on my iPod. “No worries. We’ve got good tunes.”
❄ ❄ ❄
I watch Payton’s reaction as we’re pulling on to Hamilton. Her body language is plain adorable, kind of like a puppy’s. Her window is down, and she’s resting her chin on the doorframe. I can tell she is scrutinizing every little detail of the block from the huge houses and luxurious condos to the lofty palm trees lining both sides of the street.
“Well?”
She peels her eyes away from the outside world and glues them on me. “Well, what?”
“What do you think of the neighborhood?”
She groans. “I think I’m too poor to live here.”
I feel a laugh brewing in my chest, but suppress it. “Oh, stop it.”
“I’m serious. One look at me, and you can tell I’m way out of my league.”
“What? Like you’re going to be walking down the street one day and someone will call the cops on you ‘cause they’ve confused you for a hobo?”
“Yeah, something like that,” she says.
“Please. You think everyone is all haute couture all the time? Famous people like jeans and Converse as much as anyone else.”
“In that case, I should fit right in,” she says as we approach the underground garage of our apartment complex.
I press the switch on the remote and pull the car into the space marked “PH1.” Payton’s GTI is parked in the spot next to mine. “Here.” I pop the glove box, hand her the keys to her car, and a remote to the garage door. She removes the apartment key from her pocket and fiddles with it until it’s securely fastened to her car keys.
“Thanks.” She gets out, unlocks the passenger side door of the VeeDub, and clips the remote onto the fold-down sun visor. Then she turns back and starts unloading her boxes from my back seat. “Can you open the trunk for me, please?”
“Let me call the concierge first. He’ll send down a cart.” I grab my Blackberry from my purse.
She flashes a sour expression at me. “We have a concierge?”
Was she expecting otherwise? This is Beverly Hills! I nod. “On weekdays we’ve got Rob, weeknights it’s Jason, and on the weekends it’s either Mike or Brandon. You should see what some of the people in this building make those guys do. I saw Brandon walking somebody’s dog once!”
She arches her left eyebrow conspicuously. “And what do you ask them to do?”
“Hardly anything.” I shrug. “They’ll usually grab my bags for me
without my asking them to.”
She folds her arms and considers it for a minute. “Okay, make the call.”
I dial. Rob agrees to have a luggage trolley sent down for us.
Payton surveys me as we’re waiting. “You take your own garbage out, right?”
“What?” I ask with a snigger. Where did that bit of randomness come from? “We have a trash chute. But yes, I take my own garbage to it.” I’m about to mutter something about curiosity killing the cat when the elevator opens behind us. Rob emerges, cart in tow.
“Here you are, Ms. Bettencourt.”
“Thanks, Rob. This is my roommate, Payton Taylor.”
“Hello. Nice to meet you.” I can see that he’s eyeballing her furiously. I want to say, “Yeah, she’s scorching, but it’s impolite to stare.” Instead, I simply chuckle.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Payton responds politely despite the fact that it seems that she’s noticed him ogling her. “Um, I’m sorry, Rob. Can you put the brakes on this thing while I load it up?”
He steps on the foot brake. “Please, let me get that for you.” He diligently begins shifting her stuff from the trunk to the caddie. When he’s done, he closes the trunk and escorts us to the elevator. He rides with us to the first floor lounge and turns to us before stepping off. “Ms. Taylor, please call down to the front desk should you need anything.”
“I will, thank you.”
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
As soon as the door is closed behind him, we’re both in stitches. “I think you’ve got a fan,” I sputter.
“Right, he’s a fan of my C-cups like every other guy.”
“Pssh, you’re a beautiful girl.” Go on, Stupid! Say something else that’ll give you away! Tell her that you’re a fan of her C-cups, too, why don’t you? With breakneck speed I add, “In this town that will get you anything you want.”
“I’d rather get what I want by working for it,” she scoffs.
The elevator dings and the “PH” light illuminates. “Here we go.” I take the handle of the cart—mostly so I can show her that pretty girls aren’t afraid to do actual work—and push it down the hall. She follows close behind.
The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) Page 11