How We Deal With Gravity (17 page)

I hold her stare for minutes after that. I haven’t talked
about Mitch for years—and I’m pretty sure I was drunk with Ben the last
time I did. I’m pretty sure I was drunk every single time I ever talked about
my father. But Avery needed to hear this, and for some reason, I want to tell
her things.

The lights flood my room, and I think if they didn’t, we’d
both be happy to sit here, with ten feet of air between us, just staring into
each other’s eyes. Avery looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath,
drawing her legs in close to her body so she can stand. I sit up and walk to
where she is at my door, knowing she’s going to leave because Ray’s home. But
before she goes, she pauses and stands on her tiptoes to reach my lips, holding
both sides of my face with her cold, tiny hands, and kisses me softly. My body
wants to push the door closed behind her and pull her to my bed, but I don’t. I
let her leave. And I hope like hell she comes back.

Avery

I couldn’t wait to show my dad the drawings Max made. I think
more than wanting him to be touched by the fact that Max put him in the father
box, I wanted him to know that Mason helped Max through something difficult. My
father has always been protective, and when Adam left, he stepped right back
into his role of guardian.

He was still in a foul mood when he came in the back door,
heading right to the fridge and cracking open a beer. My father doesn’t drink a
lot—part of his creed in running a bar, he says. So when he does, I know
he’s feeling stress.

“Hey, you’re home early,” I say, my voice quiet enough so
Mason doesn’t hear upstairs.

“Uhhh, yeah,” my dad grunts, kicking his boots off at the
back door, and pulling all of his things from his pockets into one loud pile on
the counter. He’s doing that thing where he barely makes eye contact with me,
like he did the first time he ever caught me kissing a boy.

“I wanted to show you what Max made tonight,” I say, hoping
this will pull him out of his funk.

“Let’s see,” he says, breathing deeply. It’s Max, and he always
takes Max seriously, giving everything about him his full attention.

I open up the folded poster to show him the various
pictures; I can see him scratching at his chin, trying to figure everything
out. When realization of who everyone is hits him—he breathes hard and
heavy.

“He put you in the father’s box. I thought that was pretty
cool,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and squeezing. When he puts his
hand on mine and holds it hard, I know he’s breaking down a little, so I stay
still and let him have his moment.

“That…that one’s Mason, huh?” my dad says, pointing to the
friend box.

“Yeah. Mason, uh…actually helped him with his homework,” I
say, and my father just nods. “I overheard them. He didn’t want Max to be in
any boxes alone.”

“What did Adam want?” my father asks, not even
transitioning. His question jars me—I’m unprepared to answer, so I
stammer, which only makes him get anxious. “Did he do something to you Avery? I
swear to God, I’ll kill that punk.”

“No, Dad. No…I just wasn’t ready to talk about this with
you,” I say, all strength completely draining from me. I sit in the chair next
to him and look down, ashamed of what I have to tell him. “Adam’s getting
married. He, uh—”

“That little shit!” my dad’s hand comes down hard on the
table, and in seconds Mason is behind him at the end of the stairs. I meet his
eyes and try to signal to him that this isn’t about him, but I think he knows.

“There’s more, Dad,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mason for
strength. He steps down to where my father can see him now, and moves over to
join us at the table. When he does, I can see my father instantly tense up. I
don’t know if this is the best idea, but I want Mason here. I
need
him here. “He wants to sever his
parental rights—basically disown Max. He’s hiding him from the new girl.”

The beer bottle flies across the kitchen fast, crashing into
the back door and shattering into hundreds of wet pieces. It scares me, even
though I know my father isn’t angry with me. He’s on his feet fast, tossing the
chair to the floor behind him, and going to the counter immediately for his
keys.

“That son of a bitch!” he yells, turning and pointing at me.
“He can’t do this, Avery. He’s not going to do that to you…to Max!”

He’s out the door, swinging it so hard the deadbolt dents
the inside of the wall. I can’t help but cry, and I reach to fold up the
picture again, wishing I never came down in the first place.

“I got this,” Mason says, following my father’s footsteps
outside. I had almost forgotten he was here for all of that, and I start to
protest to stop him, but I think more than me, my dad needs Mason now.

It takes me a while to find the dustpan. We’re not one of
those families that clean the house often—other than vacuuming and
picking up clutter. I spare a peek out the back window and see Mason talking
emphatically with his hands, my father’s hands stuffed in his pockets while his
feet kick at the ground and his eyes stare at the dirt. I want Mason to get
through to my father, to calm him. More than that, I want my father to trust
Mason—like I’ve grown to.

The pain shoots up my arm quickly, and when I look down,
there’s blood all over my hand. I move to the sink fast to get the cold water
running, grabbing for the dishtowel to wrap it around my hand. I was being
stupid, not looking at the glass shards on the floor. The cut is deep, and the
pain stings; the blood isn’t really slowing down, but all I can focus on is the
conversation happening on the other side of the window.

I take my eyes off for a few minutes to tend to my hand,
wrapping the towel tightly and putting my entire body’s pressure on the wound
as I lean against the sink.

“Avery! Are you all right?” Mason is next to me within
seconds. I didn’t see them come in, but now looking at the floor and the amount
of blood spread around, I feel rather faint.

“The glass. I was…cleaning,” I say, my stomach suddenly
feeling sick. “Oh, Mason…I’m going to throw up.”

“I got you,” he says, sweeping me effortlessly into his arms
and marching me upstairs to the hall bathroom.

“I’ll clean this. You take care of her,” my dad says, his
words seeming to cover more than just the broken glass below.

Mason sets me on the toilet and runs a washcloth under the
cold water, quickly putting it on my head. Then he starts pulling things out
from underneath the sink, sorting through the cleaners and looking desperately
for something to use.

“In the back,” I say, my throat a little hoarse when I
speak. He follows my lead and finds the alcohol and gauze quickly, ripping the
box open and coming over to kneel in front of me.

“Let me see,” he whispers, taking my hand carefully,
unwrapping the kitchen towel now soaked completely in my blood. The cut is
still gushing, and seeing it makes my forehead break out into a sweat. I lay forward
on the counter, trying to force myself to stay with him. “Shit, Avery. It’s
deep. I think I can get it to stop though.”

He’s back under the sink, then moves quickly to the medicine
cabinet, tossing everything out on the floor until he finds the jar of
Vaseline.

“This is how my mom used to stop my bloody noses. You know,
like they do for a boxer. Here,” he reaches for my hand again and mushes a
giant blob on the cut, slowing the bleeding immediately. He’s wrapping the
gauze a second later, pulling it tight and ripping with his teeth before
tucking the end near my wrist. It looks like a giant snow mitt, and for some
reason, seeing it gives me the giggles.

“What kind of fights did you get in to get bloody noses like
that? I look like Mickey Mouse,” I laugh, half waving my bandaged hand at him,
until it stings from the movement. “Ow, shit!”

“Stop moving it, you stubborn woman. Go lay down in my room,
I’ll be right there,” he says, picking up the various packaging and putting
everything back in its place. I’m still giggling when he comes in to his room,
and he just shakes his head at me, smiling on one side of his mouth.

“Seriously, Mason. This is, like, the worst bandaging I’ve
ever seen!” I’m lying on my side, still a little dizzy, and rolling my near-cast
around the air mattress to admire it.

“One, I didn’t get into fights. At least not back then. I
had really bad allergies, and my nose just bled a lot. But thanks for thinking
I was a hoodlum,” he says, pulling his shoes from his feet, kicking them to the
corner before hitting the lights and motioning me to move over in the bed. “And
second, my mom was a bartender, not a nurse. She did the best she could, and so
did I.”

Well shit, now I feel bad. I stop my laughter and force my
lips into a straight line as best as I can. “Thank you. I’m sorry,” I say, and
he just rolls his eyes at me, which unleashes the laughing again.

“Next time, I let you bleed out,” he says, sitting up and
pulling his shirt over his head, which now has my laughter completely hushed. I
shouldn’t be here. Not with my dad downstairs, not with Max in bed down the
hall, not for a second night in a row. This is too much,
too fast.

“I…uh, I should go,” I start to get up, but he rolls to his
side and lays his arm heavily over my chest.

“Uh uh. Ray’s busy downstairs. And you heard him, he said to
take care of you. You stay here tonight. I’ll set my phone to wake us up before
everyone else,” he says, his expression not one to argue with.

“I don’t know,” I start, but he holds up a hand.

“You’re staying here. If your father wants to kick my ass
over it in the morning, I’ll remind him that it’s probably not a good idea to
throw beer bottles at the wall,” he says, and it makes me wince remembering my
dad’s outburst.

“Okay…and thank you—for taking care of me. I was
careless,” I start, but he puts his fingers on my lips quickly before rolling
closer on his side and kissing me gently on the cheek.

“I think I made it pretty clear today, Ave…I’m in
this—both feet,” he says, his face serious, the golden lines in his brown
eyes lit by the stars outside. I can’t help myself, and I reach up and run my
fingers through his hair, looking at it curl softly in my hands. He shuts his
eyes when I do.

“I like your haircut,” I say. He smiles, turning his head
just enough so his lips catch my arm, and he kisses it.

“Me too,” he says, reaching up and scratching at his hair,
before letting his gaze fall open to me again.

“Thanks for talking to my dad—about Adam,” my heart
starts to speed up remembering my father’s reaction. My dad trusted Adam,
treated him like his own son when we got married. He used to tell me how happy
he was I was marrying a
good man like
Adam Price.
I think that’s what gets at my dad the most—the guilt. I
don’t blame him. I was just as enamored. Adam was the valedictorian of our high
school, and we both went to college together. My dad didn’t even blink when we
said we were going to live together—instead, thrilled to see the ring on
my finger. It was always his fear—that his little girl wouldn’t have
anyone to take care of her. And when we got pregnant early, my dad didn’t even
lecture—he just beamed, over-the-moon to be a grandfather. He was Adam’s
greatest fan, all the way up until the day Adam walked away. And then…Adam
gained the most threatening enemy in the world.

“He wanted to go find him, but I told him he left,” Mason
says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I realize what Mason said.

“How do you know he left?” I say, scooting away to look at
him completely. I know before he says anything—it’s written on his face,
and it comes out with the heavy breath he exhales. I suppose deep down I maybe
knew all along, but it still feels like a surprise.

“That’s where I was this morning. I couldn’t let him get
away with it. I know, it wasn’t my place, but I’m sorry, Avery. I just…I
couldn’t,” he says, his eyes falling to mine, pleading with me to understand.
He’s so afraid I’m going to be angry, but instead, Mason may have just
completely crawled inside my heart.

“My hand feels better,” I say softly, watching as the line
of his mouth inches slowly into a smile.

“Come here,” he says, laying his arm flat for me to lie on,
his other above his head, waiting to embrace me. I keep my eyes on his as I
move my body closer, careful of my hand, and just careful in general.

His skin is warm against my face. I’m lying right along the
tiger’s tail on his tattoo, and I let my face fall so I can look at it closely,
tracing the lines with the tips of my fingers. Mason slides his hand up my arm
to my wrist, careful not to squeeze against my bandage, and brings my fingers
to his lips, kissing them softly.

“I’m so sorry, Avery,” he says, moving his head against
mine. “I’m sorry you hurt yourself, and I’m sorry Adam is such a prick. And I’m
sooooo
sorry if I was ever mean to
you. I didn’t know how much you meant to me,” his words literally knock the
breath from my body, and I slide myself closer into his arms, pressing my lips
to his with all of my might.

“Don’t,” I say, suddenly not wanting to hear him
apologize…ever. For years, all I wanted was to see Mason Street grovel, to feel
sorry, and to feel pain. And now all I want to do is love him.

I love him.

Mason

Claire was on board with my plan. I had a feeling she would
be. I was surprised she didn’t try to pry for details about Avery and me, but I
guess chicks only really do that to each other.

I have almost everything figured out—I thought a
Thursday night date would work better for her than a weekend. Max will be
covered, and it’s easier to get Avery out of work. I haven’t talked to Ray
again—not since I told him I took care of Adam.

Ben’s pissed that I’m late. He keeps texting me, wanting to
know when I’ll make it to rehearsals. He’s like a jealous girlfriend when my
time is focused anywhere other than on him.

I figure I’m already on his shit list, so what’s a few more
minutes. I can see there are kids on the playground at Max’s school, and I just
feel this pull—like I need to check on him. I cruise by at about five
miles per hour, rounding the corner slowly. I’m sure I look like a predator,
and I notice at least one of the teachers following my car with her eyes.

I’d speed up and keep driving, except I don’t see Max. Maybe
it’s not his grade or something, but I swear these kids look like Max’s age. My
chest starts to constrict. My head starts to go to dark places—like Max
ran away and nobody noticed, or he’s in trouble…or he’s being pinned down in a bathroom
by some asshole kid.
I was that asshole
kid.

I’m in the parking lot suddenly, like my steering wheel went
on autopilot, and seconds later I’m jogging through the lot to the playground
gate.
I have to find him, I have to find
him.

“Can I help you?” an older woman says, clearly sent to stop
me from entering.

“Hi, I’m sorry. I’m…Max Abbot’s uncle,” I lie through my
teeth. “I just promised his mom I’d swing by to check on him, since I was in
the area.”

“Oh, well, normally you need to check in with the office to
be on school grounds,” she says, her hand still blocking my way through the
gate. I’m honestly thinking about just shoving her out of my way, but I know
that probably wouldn’t go over well.

“Right. Right. I really don’t need to talk to him or anything,
I was just making sure he was doing well at recess, and…look, I sort of
panicked when I didn’t see him. Can you just tell me where he is?” I ask, and
her guard drops a little. She smiles softly and nods. She must understand Max’s
issues. Either that, or my charm now works on the over-sixty crowd. Whatever it
is, she’s motioning for me to follow her onto the basketball court, so I do.

“He’s in there,” she points over to the giant concrete pipe
off in the far corner of the playground. I remember that pipe—we used to
call it the
tunnel of love
when I was
in sixth grade. I kissed Mindy Howard in that tunnel. But something tells me
that’s not what Max is in there for. I squint; I can see his feet propped up on
the sidewall and his hands over his ears; he’s sitting perfectly still.

“Does he go in there often?” I ask, my heart sinking.

“He spends every recess in there. His teacher, Mrs. Bailey,
will sometimes try to coax him out, but…you know Max. He seems content to just
sit in there,” she says, staring at the same lonely boy I am.

“Is that Mrs. Bailey?” I ask, pointing to a woman near the
tunnel.

“That’s her. Come on, I’ll introduce you,” she urges me to
follow, and I do. I’m going to be really late for rehearsal, and Ben is going
to shit over it, but I don’t care. I have to do something here.

“Mrs. Bailey? This is Max’s uncle…I’m sorry, what was your
name?” she says, and I reach out my hand to shake Mrs. Bailey’s hand.

“Mason. I’m Mason,” I say, and she grabs my hand and smiles,
clearly on to me. She seems like she’s going to play along though, so I ride
out the lie.

“Hi, Mason. I didn’t know Max had an uncle,” she smirks when
the older woman walks away.

“He doesn’t,” I respond with a shrug.

“I didn’t think so,” she laughs a little. “Are you friends
with Avery?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, looking at the blue and white shoes now
poking out of the end of the tunnel. “He’s in there…every day, huh?”

“Uh huh. Every recess. It’s still early, and he’ll find his
way. School is hard, Mason. And for a kid like Max, everything is just a little
harder,” she looks at me sympathetically.

“Does he have any…friends?” I ask, remembering the homework
assignment from last night.

“Like I said, we’re working on it…it’s early yet. That’s one
of his goals. He just needs to learn how to
be
with other kids right now,” she says, looking back over at Max. Every so
often, his feet reposition, but his hands stay cupped on his ears. I think his
eyes may even be closed. I just want to run over and give the kid his iPad,
something to do, but I know that wouldn’t help
this
situation. It would only give him an out, a reason to recluse
himself even more.

“Do you think…maybe I could visit your classroom for a few
minutes sometime? I’m a musician, and Max has learned some things about music. Maybe,
like, a show-and-tell? Just to help him break the ice,” I ask, my voice inside
warning me I should probably bring Avery into something like this. But I’ve
already made myself a relative, what’s crossing one more line?

“I think that might be nice,” she says, her smile bigger
now.

“Okay, maybe tomorrow?” I say, not wanting to see Max’s feet
in that tunnel for one more day.

“I’ll make some time in the morning, before recess. At
nine?” she says, opening up the notebook in her arms and jotting down a reminder.

“I’ll be here,” I say, making my own mental note to get
Avery…and Max…up to speed on my plan. “Thank you.”

I shake her hand goodbye and head back to my car, pulling my
phone from my pocket to deal with the dozen or so angry texts from Ben.

What the hell? Where
are you?

I write Ben back quickly before turning on my engine.

Relax, man. I’m on my
way. Be there in 5.

I have to speed a little to get to his house in just under
10 minutes, and he’s pacing in the driveway, smoking, when I pull up.

“Fuck, man? Where’s your head at?” he says, throwing his
cigarette on the ground and stomping it out.

Ben’s house is a lot like his life—the paint is
chipping off the front door, and there are sheets tacked to the walls over the
windows. It’s like a cave inside it’s so dark. It’s a small house on the
not-so-nice end of town, and I’d rather move back in with my mom than live
here. But he was anxious to get out of his house, and the rent here was cheap,
so he jumped on it. He’s kept his lease during the tour, though he always talks
about how when we hit it big, he’s going to buy one of the fancy mountain homes
on the other side of the hill.

 
“My head’s right
here,” I say, not really in the mood to get into it with him. He has some beef
with me being with Avery. I don’t know what it is, but I know enough to know
it’s probably petty and stupid.

“Better be,” he mutters under his breath. A couple months
ago, that would have been enough to send my fist into his face, but I just find
it ridiculous now. That’s how the last year of touring was. Matt and Josh spent
most of the shows so drunk they barely remembered how to play our songs, and
Ben got high, drunk, and belligerent. I’m starting to think time apart wasn’t
such a bad thing.

I pull out my guitar and take my spot on the stool; Josh
sits up from the lounger, ready to go. “I was thinking we could start out the
hour with some cool covers. You know, like shit we always wanted to try?” I
say, looking at Ben, hoping this might just inspire him a little.

“We used to do some Stones,” Ben says, taking his spot
behind the drums and giving it a little kick. “Oh, and you know what might be
cool? What if we did some Johnny Cash?”

My friend actually looks alive, and for the first time in
months, I see a hint of
him
again.

Avery’s already been at work for a few hours when I roll in.
It’s funny how nervous I get before seeing her. I actually changed my shirt in
the car because my other one reeked of Ben’s smoke, and I didn’t want her to
not want to be close to me.

I pick a spot in the corner, far away from everyone else,
because I want to watch her, and when her eyes catch mine the first time as she
passes through the kitchen door, my heart actually beats twice as fast. Her
lips pull up into the quickest smile, and she keeps looking back to me, to make
sure I’m watching her. And I am—I plan on watching her until I follow her
home and beg her to sleep in my bed again. Ray hasn’t killed me yet!

“Well, if it isn’t my only child,” my mom says, sliding into
the booth next to me and patting my leg. “You and the boys playing this
weekend?”

As crazy as my mother makes me, I do love her. She wasn’t
typical, and she’s selfish as hell—but I’d probably beat the shit out of
anyone else that talked bad about her. And I still don’t believe any of her
boyfriends have deserved her.

“We’re playin’ Friday. You working?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she winks, leaning into
me.

We’re quiet at the table together for a few minutes, just
watching people walk in and out of the restaurant. There’s a certain tension to
our silence—an awkwardness that started when I was a teenager, and our
relationship changed. I don’t know what set it off, but I quit being her little
boy, and I think maybe not needing her made her resent me a little. It sounds
stupid, even now in my own head, but we both started pulling away from one
another at the same time. And I think she’s always regretted it. Hell, maybe I
have too. I can tell my mother wants to talk now, but she can’t seem to speak.

“I uh…I finally kissed Avery,” I say, biting my lip and
looking at her sideways. My mom is a romantic at heart, so I know telling her
this will make her smile—and for some reason, I feel like she needs to
smile.

“I heard! Sorry I missed that little speech you made. Claire
told me all about it,” she smiles, and my mom actually looks proud of me. “You
know, I always wanted you to give that girl a chance.”

“Sure you did,” I say, rolling my eyes. My mom always prided
herself on being some great matchmaker—for everyone other than herself.

“Roll your eyes at me all you want, Mason, but I always
thought Avery would be good for you. She’s grounded,” she says, her eyes
looking out over the growing crowd, and her face a little more serious than I’m
used to. “You’ve got a lot of me in you. We’re dreamers. And that’s…that’s a
good thing. But sometimes you need to remember about the important things here
on the ground. Not just all that tempting stuff that’s up in the clouds.”

The heaviness of my mom’s words makes me swallow hard. I
don’t think she’s ever said anything so deep in her entire life, and I don’t
know how to react to it, so I just nod and smile.

“So, it’s your birthday next week,” she says, quickly
changing the subject, just as uncomfortable as I am. Shit, I forgot. I’ll be
twenty-six. I wonder when Avery’s birthday is? Suddenly there are a ton of
things I realize I don’t know about Avery—that’s definitely going into
the
big date
plan. “How about the two
of you come over for dinner? I’ll make my sauce. You still like pasta, right?”

“That’d be nice, ma. We’ll be there,” I say, somehow feeling
like this dinner is more for my mother than my birthday.

“Good. It’s settled then. I’ll see you two at six,” she
says, standing and straightening out her apron and blouse, making sure she
looks her best. My mom is always put together—sometimes a little
over-the-top, but she’s put together. She’s always been the biggest tip earner
at Dusty’s—partly because she flirts with the fat wallets, and partly
because, despite her flaws, my mom is a damn hard worker…when she needs to be.

She gives me one last smile, and heads over to greet the
newest tables of customers. I don’t know why, but the smile on her face when
she walks away makes me sad.

I must be frowning, because Avery is looking at me from
across the bar, and she mouths, “Are you all right?” I just nod and over
exaggerate my smile to compensate. I’m actually better than I’ve ever
been.
 

The night speeds by. Wednesdays are good dinner
crowds—a lot of families come in. I used to like the middle of the week
when I came in here with my mom. Ray was never busy, and that’s when he’d spend
time letting me mess with his guitar. I can tell Ray is still avoiding me a
little, which makes me…uneasy. I love that man, but damn, I’m pretty sure I
love his daughter too, and if he told me I couldn’t be with her, I’m not sure
what I would do.

Avery heads to the back and holds up a finger, letting me
know she’ll only be another minute, so I walk over and sit at the corner of the
bar to wait for her. Ray comes out just then with a couple of books to take
some inventory; I can tell he stutter steps, not sure if he wants to hang out
so close to me.

“Hey, Ray. So we’ve got a good set ready for Friday night,”
I say, wanting to break the damned cold ice building up between the two of us.
Ray smiles and grunts—he’s not sure what to do with me.

I might be taking my life into my own hands, but I stand up
at the bar and head over to where Ray’s sitting, rubbing the sweat from my
palms along my jeans before sticking my hand out for him to shake. It takes him
a few seconds to notice, and when he does, he laughs a little under his breath.

“I didn’t really do this right, and I’m sorry,” I say. He
raises one of his graying eyebrows at me, pulling his lip in tightly. “I
probably should have asked for your blessing, or something like that. But I
really like her, Ray. It’s more than
like
.
”