Love and Gravity

by Samantha Sotto

  “Don’t.” Andrea pulled his arm away from the wall. “Keep it dark.” She shut the door behind them. She wrapped her hands around his nape and drew him to her mouth.

  Nate pulled away. “What are you doing?”

  She pressed against him and found his lips in the dark. She didn’t have an answer for Nate. All she knew was that while she kissed him, she couldn’t cry, and that while she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend that she felt something other than pain.

  —

  Andrea watched Nate dream. She gently pushed the hair from his brow to see more of his face. Her breathing fell in time with his. It was easy to fall into their old rhythm. Andrea exhaled. “I love you.” The words slipped out with her breath so quietly that Andrea wasn’t sure if she had said it at all. She tried to say it again. Nate stirred and she bit her lip. She could not have felt more for him. And that was the problem. She only had half a heart to spare. The other half had grown bitter and cold, but it wasn’t empty. Hating Isaac took up space. Nate deserved so much more love than her chest could hold. She slipped out from under his arm and rolled out of bed.

  She felt around the floor for her clothes. They felt heavier than when she had stripped them off. She pulled on her jeans, trying not to make a sound. Isaac’s letter fell out of her pocket. She crumpled it and aimed at the steel trash can beneath a small desk. The letter bounced off the bin’s stainless-steel rim. She grabbed the letter from the floor. Its wax seal cracked. Her resolve followed. She opened the letter and read it.

  Look up.

  Andrea frowned at the minuscule words in the center of the page. Her father was dead and all Isaac had sent her was another puzzle. She balled the letter in her fist.

  “Hey, you.” Nate yawned. “Good morning. Do you want to order room service for breakfast?”

  “No, thanks.” Andrea shoved the letter into her pocket. “I have to go.”

  Nate wrapped the blanket around his waist and stood up. “Why?”

  Andrea slipped her arms through her blouse. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. I did.” Andrea fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. Tears blurred her vision. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

  “I love you, Dre.”

  “I know.” Andrea kissed his cheek, wetting it with tears. “Maybe now you’ll finally be able to stop,” she said, giving Nate the monster she wished she had.

  —

  The two words Isaac’s letter contained screamed in her head on the taxi ride home. The TV was still on in the living room when Andrea let herself in. Sebastian was asleep on the couch. She crept past him and slipped into the closest place she could reread Isaac’s letter in private. She locked the music room’s door and fished the letter from her jeans.

  Look up.

  White light flashed in front of her. Andrea lifted her eyes. A crack spread over an acoustic foam panel. Whoever opened it was playing Isaac’s song from the other side. Andrea could not hear a single note, but they resonated in her marrow. She held her breath and waited for the silent song’s player to appear.

  Isaac emerged from the darkness beyond the crack. His head hung low. He uttered silent words. Andrea read his lips.

  I am sorry for your loss, Andrea.

  Andrea clenched her fists. “You’re sorry? Why didn’t you tell me what was going to happen? Why did you let him die? We didn’t have to take that stupid walk. I could have taken him to the hospital. I—”

  I am deeply, deeply sorry.

  Isaac stepped away from the crack and vanished into the shadows.

  “Isaac!” Andrea lunged at the wall. “Come back. Answer me!”

  A paper plane flew through the shrinking crack and slammed into her chest. She picked it up. Its wings were crisp and bleached white. The plane was not made from any sheet from Isaac’s journals. It was crafted from a page torn from one of hers. Her large block-print handwriting leapt at her from its wings.

  Find Nate. Come home.

  When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction on the first body.

  —ISAAC NEWTON’S THIRD LAW OF MOTION

  Los Angeles

  Present Day

  Andrea is twenty-two.

  It took Andrea three weeks to bring herself to stand in front of the door of Nate’s apartment. He pulled it open before she could steady her hand to knock. Andrea lowered her head.

  Nate gripped the edge of the door. His jaw hardened. “What are you doing here?”

  Andrea forced herself to meet his eyes. It was the first time she’d seen him since she left his hotel room. Looking at his face was like staring into the sun. “Can I…uh…come in?”

  “No. I was on the way out. I have a date.”

  “A date.” The words sliced her tongue. “Oh.”

  “You should go.”

  “I need your help. It’s about my dad.”

  Nate frowned. “Your dad?”

  “Yes.”

  Nate heaved a sigh. “Fine. But make it quick.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Trish. It’s me. Sorry. I’m running a little late. See you at eight? Okay. Great. Bye. Yeah. Me, too.”

  Andrea stepped inside the studio apartment. It had more furniture and was much neater than when she used to live down the hall from it. “Her…um…name’s Trish, huh?”

  Nate folded his arms over his chest and stood by the door. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk. I don’t have much time.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about what—”

  “You said this was about your dad.”

  “It is.”

  “Then stop apologizing. We are two adults who had sex. Life goes on.”

  “Nate…”

  “Are you going to tell me what you need my help for or what?”

  “But—”

  “Dre, stop. If you’re just here to talk about that night, please go. I get it. Your dad had just died. You were sad. I was, too. We both made a mistake. You told me to stop loving you. I have. I’m fucking a girl named Trish. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  The air squeezed out of Andrea’s lungs. She steadied herself against a wall. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “The truth? About what?”

  “Do you remember the day I let you listen to the song I made for Sebastian?”

  He flinched. “Why?”

  “You saw something on the music room’s wall.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Jesus, Dre. I’ve told you a million times. I didn’t see anything. It’s been years. Let it go. And how the hell does one stupid afternoon when we were kids have anything to do with your dad?”

  “You saw a glowing crack on the wall, Nate. I know because I saw it, too. I’ve seen it all my life.” Andrea planted her backpack on the coffee table. Paper rustled inside it. “And I can tell you what’s on the other side.”

  —

  Nate’s phone vibrated on his kitchen counter. A pretty brunette’s face flashed on its screen. Nate ignored it just as he had for the past hour. His eyes flew across the page of the letter where Isaac had written to Andrea about the number he had carved on his stone sundial. Andrea had told Nate about Isaac, his song, and the crack, but had kept one secret to herself. Nate did not need to know about her grave. If he did, he was never going to agree to what she was going to ask of him.

  He set the letter next to the pile he had finished reading. “This can’t be true. Isaac Newton lived more than three hundred years ago. How could he have written these letters? How can he be in love with you? This is beyond absurd.”

  “Don’t you think I know how crazy all of this sounds? I wish I were insane. It would make things so much easier,” Andrea said. “But I’m not crazy. In these letters is the truth I’ve lived with since
I was seven years old.”

  “Then prove it. Play your cello and open the crack.”

  “I told you. It doesn’t work all the time. That’s why I’m here.”

  A wrinkle crept over Nate’s forehead. “I don’t understand.”

  “You read what Isaac said about the numbers he’s been sending me.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “He said that they’re important, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them. I thought that they were related to our song in some way, but I couldn’t match them up with any notes. I was hoping you could make sense out of them.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve always been great at math. If you take a look at them you might be able to figure out what they’re for. Isaac used codes to keep his alchemy experiments a secret. Maybe these numbers work the same way.”

  Nate rubbed his forehead. “Let’s just assume for a minute that what you’re saying is true—just what do you think this code will do?”

  “I’m hoping it will open the crack wide enough so that…” She drew a deep breath. “I can cross over.”

  “What? But you said that everything that crosses that wall turns to dust. Why on earth would you want to go over to the other side?”

  “The wall isn’t going to turn me into dust.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Andrea reached into her backpack and pulled out a crumpled paper plane. “Because this didn’t.”

  “Find Nate. Come home,” Nate said, reading the words on its crisp wing. “What is this? Where did you get it?”

  “It came through the crack.”

  “This is insane.”

  “Hear me out. I think this plane proves what the numbers are for. They’ll make the crack safe to cross. Just take a look at them. If you won’t do it for me, then do it for my dad.”

  The crease in his brow deepened. “What does your dad have to do with these letters?”

  “Everything. Behind my wall is all the time I need to save him. Three hundred years’ worth. If I cross over, I’ll be able to convince Isaac to change his letter and warn me about my dad’s death. I might be able to do something to—”

  “Let me get this straight.” Nate rubbed his face. “You want me to believe that playing a song can open a crack in time, Isaac Newton is sending you love letters, and that you are planning to change the past by walking through a wall. Did I miss anything?”

  “You saw the crack with your own eyes. You know that I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Look, I’ll admit that I don’t know what I saw in your music room, and I won’t even pretend to understand the letters you’ve shown me, but I do know what the numbers in the letters are. I know how badly you want your dad back, but these numbers aren’t going to help you. They aren’t codes. They’re Fibonacci numbers, an integer sequence.” He grabbed one of Isaac’s letters from the stack beside him and pointed to the numbers beneath his signature. “They’re formed by adding the first two numbers and the rest are formed by adding the previous two together. One plus one equals two, two plus three equals five, three plus five equals eight.”

  “I know. I figured that part out. But there must be something more to them. Why would Isaac send them? Why would he say that they were important? Check them again.”

  “Looking at them again won’t change anything. Even if you’re right about the numbers being a code, we’d need some sort of message key to decrypt it.”

  She clasped his hand. “Then let’s look for the key. If we work on this together I’m sure that we could—”

  “Dre, stop.” Nate pulled his hand away. “I’m not doing this.”

  God created everything by number, weight and measure.

  —ISAAC NEWTON

  Los Angeles

  Present Day

  Andrea is twenty-three.

  The X-ray film lodged in the flap of the hospital’s trash can. Andrea left it there and marched away, clasping her bow arm to her chest. She had wasted her money and time. This was the third doctor she had seen and he had told her the same thing. There was nothing wrong with her wrist. The pain that burned through her ligaments whenever she tried to play the cello knew better. It was the same pain she’d felt when her father had gripped her arm before he fell in a heap on the street. She had buried him a year ago, but she still felt his hand holding her tight. He died all over again each time she floundered at playing the songs he had taught her. After months of struggling with her Cello for Beginners book and Isaac’s song, her apartment manager served her with a formal notice to stop.

  —

  A figure in gray stood outside her door when Andrea returned to her apartment.

  “Good morning, Ms. Louviere.” Mr. Westin pulled off his hat. His gray suit was too large for him and slightly rumpled as always, but the line of his mouth was less familiar. It dipped toward his chin. “Did you receive the last letter? I stopped by your home to deliver it and heard about what happened to your father. I would have given you my condolences, but I didn’t want to intrude. I asked a young man to hand you the letter instead. I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. I got the letter.” Today was the first day that she wasn’t surprised to see him. Apart from the pain in her forearm, she had not felt much about anything lately. She kneaded her wrist and unlocked her door. “Shall we get started on your next lesson?”

  “We don’t have to if you don’t—”

  “I insist, Mr. Westin.”

  He arched a silver brow, deepening the lines on his forehead. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. You’re playing your first song today.” Andrea led him to the dining room. “I’m looking forward to hearing it.”

  “I see. I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.”

  Andrea sat down and opened her cello case. Her fingers left marks on the layer of dust that covered it. She stared at her bow.

  “Is everything all right?” Mr. Westin asked.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve played.” Andrea pulled the bow over the cello’s strings to tune them. It wobbled and screeched. Her arm burned. Sweat dripped down from her neck and soaked into her collar.

  “Ms. Louviere, we don’t have to do this today.”

  “Do you know how many cello lessons my dad gave me?”

  “Quite a few, I imagine.”

  “And do you know how many of them I remember as though they happened yesterday?”

  He shook his head.

  “One. It was the day I played my first song. The piece wasn’t anything complicated, but the way it made my dad smile…” Her voice broke.

  “Ms. Louviere…”

  “I want to smile like he did that morning. I want to remember what it’s like to be happy.”

  Mr. Westin’s shoulder sagged. “I’m just an old man who delivers your packages. I’m afraid that I can’t make you happy like that.”

  She placed the cello in his arms. “Try.”

  —

  Mr. Westin used his wrinkled hands in unison for the first time, putting together the basics Andrea had taught him. She made him do exercises to improve his fingers’ agility and showed him how to shift his hand’s positions over the fingerboard as he played scales.

  “Well done. You’ve made a lot of progress.” She handed him a piece of paper. “I made you a list of finger patterns to practice. Just keep on doing the exercises until they feel natural to you. Thirty minutes. Every day. Minimum.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Louviere, for your patience and your time.”

  Andrea gave him a folder of sheet music. “These are some songs by Catherine Colledge. ‘Stepping Stones,’ ‘Wagon Wheels,’ and ‘Fast Forward.’ They’re fairly simple and you should be able to play them soon. I also included ‘In Aller Frühe’ by Alexander Gretchaninoff. It’s a little bit more complicated than Colledge’s pieces, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it with enough practice.”

  “I’ll do my best. So what question can I
assist you with to compensate you for this lesson?”

  “Question?” Andrea cracked a joyless smile. “Are we still doing that?”

  “Of course. We had an agreement.”

  “I thought we did, Mr. Westin, but then you lied to me about the box of letters at Woolsthorpe. I asked you if it was still there and you said that it was. I went to the manor to look for it, but the box was gone.”

  “I have never lied to you, Ms. Louviere. At the time you asked me about them, the box and all the letters it contained were still there.”

  “You took them.” She looked away. A part of her had known ever since she discovered the empty hole at Woolsthorpe that it had been Mr. Westin who had taken Isaac’s letters from his hiding place. “You took them because you knew that I was going to search for them, didn’t you?”

  “Will any answer I give you make you feel the slightest bit better?”

  “No.”

  “These might.” He laid two wax-sealed letters side by side on the dining table. “This is to be opened today,” he said, pointing to one of them. “And the second is to be read after your trip.”

  “What trip?”

  “Have a good day, Ms. Louviere.” He smiled, stood up, and walked out the door.

  —

  Andrea sat on the floor beside her bed and laid the two letters over a coffee stain that had come free with the apartment’s cream carpet. She selected the thinner one and opened it as Mr. Westin had instructed. Her bold block-letter handwriting was scrawled over the weathered page.

  I do not know exactly how this letter will find its way, but I am trusting that time will deliver this message from my hand to yours. I know that nothing that I can say will make what I must tell you easier to believe. I can only offer you my word that everything in this letter is true.

  I know you and the anger and grief inside your heart. I am not writing to console you. I am writing to you to tell you the truth: Fate isn’t anyone’s fault.

  Isaac told you what he could just as I am telling all that I can now. It destroyed him that he couldn’t give you more. It was not his choice to make. He didn’t take Dad away. He gave you an extra week with him and one last embrace. In time, you will heal enough to feel grateful. You will be happy again. Everything will be okay. I promise.