How We Deal With Gravity (16 page)

He points right at his band mates sitting in the corner.
They all raise their beers, jokingly crossing their hearts. By the looks on
their faces, I can tell what Mason did surprised them, and something deep
inside me is waiting for them to start laughing, for the joke to end—the
punch line. But it never comes.

Mason jumps down from the chair, his black work boots making
a heavy thud on the floor. I manage to find Claire’s face in the background
over his shoulder. I think she may be cheering, but everything is happening in
a blurry slow motion, so I can’t really tell. Mason isn’t moving away, but
instead, he’s reaching for my hand, pulling me closer to the tight gray fabric
of his T-shirt that is hugging his arms and chest.

In seconds, his hands are cradling both sides of my face,
his fingertips pushing into my hairline, and then his lips are on me hard. He’s
kissing me so wildly, he’s moving me backward until he reaches behind my lower
back, pulling me close, leaning me with his force. I give in instantly, my body
betraying my mind’s warning signs, and I grip at his back, holding fists full
of his T-shirt in my hands.

His lips are everything they were last night, everything
they were in my dream. His kiss is firm, commanding—he is definitely in
charge, and I’m following, willingly. He smells of the most unbelievable
spices, and with each inhale I’m kissing him harder, suddenly drunk on his
scent.

He sucks in my top lip, holding it hostage in his mouth for
a few long seconds, his hands holding me close to him, almost like he’s afraid
something will take me away if he lets go. When he finally releases his hold on
my mouth, we’re both breathless, our foreheads pressed together while we cling
to one another. I’m lost in this moment, content to just stand here, when
another whistle forces my eyes open, this one from Claire.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there this morning,” he whispers,
still holding me close. “I wanted to be, but there was something…something very
important…that I had to do. I can’t tell you, but I’m asking you to believe
me…to trust me. I know I’ve got to earn everything with you. And I will, Avery.
I will. I meant every word of that. I like you…I
more
than like you. So maybe we can start with that?”

My tongue is numb, and my face is still tingling from his
touch. I can feel the moisture forming in the corners of my eyes, and I
desperately don’t want to cry, but I know I’m going to tear up any second now.
I just nod
yes
to him, because I like
him too. I
more
than like him. But
I’m also not ready for him to hear any of that yet. That’s…going to take time.

Mason

“You dog, you bagged Birdie, didn’t you?” Ben says as soon
as I get back to the table to join the guys. He’s so loud I know Avery heard
him. She ducked back into the kitchen as soon as everyone’s attention left us,
and I saw Claire tail after her. She’ll be back there for a while. She looked
like she wanted to kill me for my grand display…but she also smiled, so I got
what I wanted.

“It’s amazing that you don’t have a girlfriend,” I say,
taking a drink of my beer and doing my best to ignore the three sets of eyes
staring at me from the other side of the table.

“Fuck you, I have a shit ton of girlfriends,” Ben says,
punching me in the arm hard enough to make my beer slip from my mouth and
dribble down my chin. I punch him back, and he holds up his fists like he wants
to go, but he starts laughing right away, then flips me off.

“Dude, you’ve been home for like, what…two weeks? Who’s this
Birdie chick?” Josh asks.

“First off, like I said, don’t call her
Birdie
. She hates that name, and I lo—really like this girl.
So don’t be a bunch of assholes to her, okay?” I say, my heart racing with what
I
almost
said. Fuck, do I
love
Avery?
 
Josh is right, it’s only been a couple
of weeks. But I’ve also known her my entire life, and I kind of feel like maybe
I missed out on something a long time ago.

“She’s smokin’ hot!” Matt pipes in, his attention on me just
long enough to add his approval, and then he’s quickly distracted by some
brunette at the next table.

“Yeah, she’s smokin’ hot, all right,” Ben says, leaning back
and folding his arms over his chest while he studies me. “You’ve known Birdie
forever. What’s this new…
thing
?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug him off, pissed that he’s still
calling her Birdie. I don’t really know how to answer him. All I know is
something clicked, and I just see her a whole hell of a lot differently now. I
know it won’t make sense to the guys, but I don’t really care.

“Hmmm, a’right then. She’s not coming to rehearsals and shit,
though,” he says, pointing a finger at me like some tough asshole. I just roll
my eyes and shake my head at him, not too worried about Avery ever wanting to
hole up in the basement while me and the guys pick apart each other’s playing.

I nursed two beers and picked at a grilled cheese for about
an hour, just killing time until Avery’s shift was done. The guys hung around
for a while, but eventually, they all headed over to Ben’s to watch the game. I
could tell Ben was ticked off I didn’t go with them, but he’ll get over it. How
many times has that dickhead blown me off for a girl?

I thought about going home early, hanging out with Max, but
once he asked me what three-four time meant in music, he was back in
hyper-focus mode on his iPad. So I waited, and then I took off for the house
when I heard Avery saying goodnight. I didn’t want to look like I was following
her, but who am I kidding. I’ve been dying to get her alone. And I feel like a
damned stalker sitting here in the driveway.

The way I see it, I have two choices now—get out of my
car as soon as she turns her engine off and scare that crap out of her, or
duck, wait for her to get inside, and then crawl into the house later, hoping
she doesn’t notice. Both are bad ideas, so I kick open my door just as she
kills her lights, and wave my hands over her head to try to get her attention.

“What are you, my escort now or something?” she sasses.
She’s trying to keep that same front up with me, but she’s having a hard time
now, and I can see the smile creeping into her lips.

“Escort. Stalker. Take your pick,” I say, moving closer to
her. Surprisingly, she lets me walk up to her until my hands are locked with
hers. Ray’s not home, won’t be home for hours. Claire is here, and it’s early,
so I know Max is still awake, but we have this little window of time
here…outside…before anyone realizes we’re home.

“So that was some stunt you pulled today,” she smirks, and I
move in even closer, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Yeah, you liked it,” I tease. She bites at her bottom lip
and the smallest giggle slips out. I kiss her in response. Not hard, just a
quick peck.

“I did,” she says, all breathy and sexy. I don’t know who
this girl is—she’s a far cry from the one who wanted to knee me in the
groin a week ago—but my god do I like her. “It’s early, and Max is up. I
have to get inside.”

“I figured. I just wanted to catch you—you know,
before your dad beats the shit out of me later?” I wince and put my arm around
her to walk inside.

“Oh wow, I didn’t really think about that. Yeah, Dad’s going
to kill you,” she laughs. I’m smiling at her, but I know deep down Ray’s not
real happy about this. And I get it—I understood everything he said this
morning. I even thought about killing it all right then and there, just chalking
it up to high emotions and an innocent mistake. But the thought of not kissing
Avery again—or of seeing her kiss someone else—made my stomach
hurt.

I pull my arm away as soon as we get inside, giving a wink
to Claire before I head upstairs. “Mason Street, you and I are gonna have
words, mister!” she yells at my back. I just wave my hand. I know she just
wants to get details, and probably give me her own version of Ray’s warning,
and she can do that—
tomorrow.

Max is working at the small desk in Avery’s room, his feet
kicking wildly underneath. I walk over to the door, but he never looks up.

“Whatcha working on, Max?” I’ve learned that if I use his
name it helps get his attention. Claire taught me that.

“I have to fill in every box for my teacher. I have to turn
this in tomorrow,” he says, his fingers gripping at the edges of the paper like
he wants to crumple it or tear it into pieces. I’m careful, but I move in a
little closer so I can see. It’s an oversized paper, and there are a few boxes
with some sparse color in them.

“Mind if I take a look?” I ask, and he kicks back from the
desk, his eyes still on the paper in front of him. I turn it, just enough to
read the words. It’s a family tree, and it’s asking him to draw pictures of his
mother, father, and friends. Max has only one small stick figure in
each—the same drawing over and over.
Shit!

He pulls himself in and starts to draw backgrounds and
scenes in each box, coloring carefully. They all look kind of the same, just
different colors, and I’ve never felt sadder seeing something than I do right
now.

“Can I help…maybe give you some ideas, Max?” I swallow hard.
I don’t know how this works—I don’t know if Max is the kind of kid you
can give ideas to. I know he’s good at asking questions.

“Claire says I have to make sure everything is colored, and
work on this until 7:15 p.m.,” he says, continuing to color, his hand moving
more quickly now. I just stand behind him, rubbing my hand over my neck, trying
to find a way to talk to him, to fill in those goddamned empty boxes.

“Okay, well, what if you fill in one of those boxes with
me?” I say, hoping like hell he doesn’t just rip the paper in half at my lame
suggestion. When he doesn’t protest, I keep going. “I mean…you and I…we’re
friends, right? So, if you draw me next to you, that’s one more box done.”

He seems to like my idea as he reaches for a blue crayon and
adds a tall stick figure next to his. “Why am I blue?” I ask, a little curious.

“You wear jeans a lot,” he says, and it makes me laugh.
Everything Max says is slow, but he never seems to have any problem talking.
And he’s funnier than people give him credit for.

“You’re right. I do wear jeans a lot. Blue is the perfect
color,” I say. “Now, how about your mom in that box? What color is she?”

When Max picks up the pink, I don’t even question it. It’s
perfect—fragile, feminine but bold, just like his mother. He’s busy
working on the mother’s box while I’m staring at the father’s
one—suddenly stuck, and wanting to punch something. I should probably
call downstairs for backup, but I feel like this would just hurt Avery, and
open up a wound that so far she’s been good at ignoring.

Then an idea strikes me. “Everyone in the house has a box
except your grandpa. How about we give him that one? He’s a dad—he’s even
a grand dad, so it’s like he fits the question in two ways.”

I hold my breath the entire time Max finishes coloring
Avery’s box; when he reaches over for a brown color and starts to draw Ray
without even saying anything to me, I almost pass out from the lack of oxygen.
The clock says 7:12 p. m., and I’ve never been so happy to see a deadline
approaching.

“Three more minutes, Max, and you’re done. I’m going to go
do my homework now, okay?” I say, and Max just keeps coloring, silently.

I back out of the room, and turn to head to mine, only to
see Avery’s back flat against the wall, her fingertips over her lips and a
single wet stream down her cheek. I don’t know what to say, so I just pull her
into my arms and hold her, letting her quiver silently for the next three
minutes. When she hears the timer go off on Max’s desk, she backs away and
mouths, “Thank you,” to me. I pull her head forward to my lips to kiss the top
before heading into my room and shutting the door behind me.

That was exhausting—a different kind of exhausting. I
don’t know if I did the right thing, and I don’t know how Avery has lived
this
. It’s not Max’s autism—it’s
the enormous hole Adam left behind
and
Max’s
autism. How do you explain to any kid that their parent, one-half of who they
are, just couldn’t hack it? I know my mom never really explained it to me.

I can hear the water running, and cabinets opening in the
hall, so I know Avery’s getting Max ready for bed. I’m completely amazed by
her. Nothing is easy, everything is so fucking hard—it makes me feel
foolish for thinking I have ever deserved anything at all.

When the water stops, I decide to spend a little time on the
guitar to clear my head. Maybe part of me is hoping Avery will hear it and
follow it into my room. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m hoping.

I don’t really like the Beatles. I know everyone says you’re
supposed to, and I appreciate some of the risks they took, but they just have
never really been my
fit
. I’m more of
a blues lover, and gritty classic rock like the Stones. But for whatever
reason, all my fingers can seem to play tonight is “Blackbird” by the Beatles.
That song has always made me think of Avery; it’s kind of where I got the
nickname
Birdie
. I must play it six
or seven times before she finally cracks open my door and slides down to sit
against the frame, her knees barely covered by the long T-shirt she has
stretched over them.

“You still doing
this
?”
I say, nodding my head in her direction, pointing out that she’s still in the
hall.

“You used to play that all the time. I love that song,” she
says, and it makes everything inside me feel warm…right. I smile and finish out
the last verse, taking my time and improvising a little on the chorus to make
it last just a little longer.

“That song always made me think of you,” I say, putting my
guitar away and purposely not looking at her when I admit it. “That’s where
Birdie comes from…sorry.”

“I wish you told me that. I probably would have liked Birdie
then,” she says, her smile soft, but still so damned cautious.

“I think we’re past you needing to keep the door open,” I
laugh, hoping like hell she’ll come closer so I can touch her. She slides up to
her knees and crawls inside, shutting the door behind her, and then sitting
with her back against it.

“I’m a terrible mom,” she says, her face suddenly full of
pain. I hate Adam for doing this to her.

“No you’re not,” I say, forcing her to look at me, rather
than the nothingness she keeps trying to go to.

“I’m not?” she asks, her breathing growing harder. “My son
probably thinks his father is dead. Not that I’d know, because I’m such a
chicken shit that I’ve opted to pretend he never existed. I haven’t said Adam’s
name out loud in front of Max once since the day he left.”

Her eyes are full of water when she talks, and I would give
anything to fix this guilt she’s feeling. I don’t think she’s earned
it—any of it.

“My dad left us when I was five,” I say the only thing I
think might make this better for her. Her eyes shift completely to me when I
do, and her breath hitches. I can’t take the intensity of her stare along with
the weight of the story I’m about to tell her, so I lie back and look up at the
ceiling instead.

“I don’t remember much. He had a beard…
I think
?
I had a baby
brother. He died when he was maybe two or three weeks old,” I say, and when
Avery gasps I stop her. I’m not telling her this to make her feel sad. I’m
trying to make her feel less alone.

“It’s okay. Your dad knows, but we don’t talk about it much.
I don’t expect people to know about it. I was five when he died. Mom was really
sick. I know now she was depressed, but it just looked like the flu to me…you
know…from a kid’s eyes?” Avery is holding herself tightly, her arms wrapped
around her body. “My dad—his name was Mitch—he didn’t know how to
deal with my mom. He was a truck driver, and he used to be on the road for
days. Then one day, he just never came home. Mom doesn’t talk about it. And I
don’t ask. What good would it do?”

“Do you…ever wonder about him?” she asks, her voice
cracking.

“I’m not gonna lie. Yeah, Avery. I wonder about him. But I
wonder about him less and less every year he’s gone. I’d give anything to be
able to disconnect from it a little, too—like Max does,” I say, and her
eyes flash wide for a brief second from my honesty. “You’re not a bad mom.
You’re an amazing mom—an unbelievable mom. Hell, Avery, you’re pretty
much the best damn human being I’ve ever met. So please, quit doubting
yourself.”