How We Deal With Gravity (24 page)

When I pull up, the Dusty’s sign is flicking off and on
again. If I come back here after our tour, I’m going to fix that for Ray. The
last thing that man needs to do is climb a ladder, and it’s probably just a
short in one of the bulbs. Ray has a local country band booked for tonight, so
the parking lot is full of mostly pickups and girls with big hair and bigger
hats. I recognize the song when I walk through the bar, and it hits me that
this is the same band that was playing when I first rolled into town weeks ago.

I sit down on one of the stools and give them a good listen,
I guess hoping it might help me remember everything just a little more vividly.

“Hey, man. I heard about the tour. Congrats,” Cole says,
pulling the cap from a Heineken and sliding it over to me, and then popping one
for himself—we both take a drink, a sort of silent
salute.
“Ray’s waiting on you. Said to send you on back when you
showed up.”

“Thanks, man. Hey, in case I don’t see you—take care
of these guys…a’right?” I say, and Cole shrinks his eyes a little when he looks
at my hand before finally shaking it. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives
me an understanding nod and smiles before getting back to the growing line of
ladies waiting for him at the bar.

Ray is busy in his office, filling out a few order forms and
checking them against the inventory books. I used to help him with this when I
was a kid. I was good at counting crates. “You know, the business is out there,
old man,” I say, and Ray laughs lightly and pulls the reading glasses off his
face.

“I can’t concentrate worth shit out there when someone’s
playing,” he says, kicking back in his chair, and motioning for me to sit down.
“So, tell me…how’s this thing working? When do you leave?”

“We hit the road Tuesday, early. We’ll be gone at least six
weeks, maybe eight,” I say, watching him chew on the end of his pen and study
me. I can read the thoughts he’s not saying out loud, what he really wants to
know. What does this mean for Avery and me? It’s the same question I had, and
the same one she answered
for
me. And
it’s probably going to be the theme of whatever album my ass is lucky enough to
write.

“You coming back after that?” he says, his own way of
getting to the point.

“I guess that depends…on a lot of things,” I say, rubbing my
hand over my face, trying to find feeling somewhere.

“Well, I’ve got something…sort of a good luck thing I wanna
give ya,” Ray says, grunting as he gets to his feet and moves into the back
storage area. I can hear a few boxes sliding around, followed by more grunting.

“You want me to come lift whatever it is? You sound like a
walking hernia,” I joke, and Ray’s face reads
smart-ass
when he comes back into his office. He moves closer to
his desk and sets a dusty guitar case on top, flicking open the buckles on the
lid.

“I had her fixed up,” he says, reaching in and lifting his
old guitar—a classic Les Paul. The color was always my favorite, tan in
the middle, and burnt black around the edges. Ray taught me everything I know
on this guitar, and I secretly wanted it for most of my life.

“Ray, I…I don’t know what to say,” I say, my hands shaking
as I take the guitar from him and hold it close to my body.

“I don’t really play much anymore, and it just seemed like a
waste. I got her out when you first came to see me, sent her over to Pitch
Fork’s for tuning up. Just turned out I had an occasion to give it to you,” he
smiles, and I know he’s proud of me. I also know he knows how conflicted I am
about leaving, but he’s a good enough man not to make it worse with a lecture
about the promises I made.

 
I strum a chord,
and it sounds like it did the first time I heard it, my mind flooded with
memories—from the first time I drank chocolate milk on the stool out
front to the first time Ray pushed me up on that stage. I want to race home and
test it out, plug it in and see how it sounds…but then I’d also have to show it
to Avery, and we’d have to talk about it, talk about me leaving, about me
disappointing her, and letting down Max. And she’d have to remind me that
there’s nothing I can do to make her change her mind…again.

“I know I should probably say it’s too much and I can’t
accept it, but…I’m not going to lie, I want it,” I smile, and he laughs at my
honesty. I play a few more chords and then hand it back over for him to tuck
safely in its case.

“The handle’s shot, so be careful when you lug it around.
You might want to invest in a better case,” he says, handing it over to me
completely.

I can’t get over looking at it in my hands. The depth of his
gift isn’t lost on me, and it has my eyes tearing a little, so I set the guitar
down on my chair and walk around the desk to give him a hug.

“I’m proud of you, Mace. Real proud…no matter what happens,
huh?” he says, pulling me square with him, his hands on my shoulders. “Ave’s
real proud of you too. She’ll come around; she’s just careful. She has to be.
You get it, right?”

“I do,” I say, my heart absolutely sick knowing that after
tomorrow night’s dinner, there’s a chance I may never see Avery Abbot again.

Avery

Early this morning, I told Max about having dinner with
Barb. I told him, because I knew if I made solid plans with him, I couldn’t
back out. And I want to back out—I want to desperately. But I’d hate
myself for it.

I sent Mason a text, and told him we’d meet him at his
mother’s apartment. He was gone early this morning, and I noticed everything
was cleared out of his room. My dad said he was spending the night with the
guys because of their early start on Tuesday, but I know Mason is just avoiding
me.

I’m not angry with him. Honestly, I’ve blown it with Max
millions of times. And the more distance I get from the letters coming from
Adam, the more I appreciate Mason making him write them. The result might not
have been very good, but the intention was heartfelt. It doesn’t change the
fact that me being in a relationship with Mason is a bad idea. I need to have
one hundred percent of my focus on Max and his success, and anyone else in my
life needs to have those same priorities. Mason doesn’t—and that’s okay.

I brought Max’s dinner. I know Barb will understand. I have
it clutched in both of my hands in a small Tupperware container while we wait
at the front door. Max is fidgety today. He had some additional homework to
finish after school, which of course wasn’t part of his plan. I bribed him with
a few extra candies, and I’m sure he won’t want his dinner. I’m also sure he
remembers how I skipped breakfast the other day, so this evening might end up
getting cut short.

Mason opens the door, and he’s dressed nicer than I
expected. His shirt is a white button down, tailored to his chest, and the ends
aren’t tucked in to his black dress pants. He’s wearing black dress shoes, and
his sleeves are rolled up, revealing a piece of the tiger’s tail and a really
nice silver watch. He waves us in; when I pass, he pulls me in for a hug, and
kisses the top of my head. He smells like a dream.

“Sorry, we’re a little underdressed,” I say, looking down at
my flip-flops and long maxi skirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail before we
left, so at least I look like I gave some thought to how I looked. Max is
wearing purple shorts and a yellow shirt, and he looks a little like an Easter
egg.

“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes hovering over my
face for a few long seconds. “I dressed up for my mom. I got the sense this was
a big deal to her.”

Not sure what to do, I hand Max’s dish to Mason. “It’s for
Max. He won’t eat other food, so I brought his normal dinner,” I say, suddenly
feeling awkward and out of place.

“Right, good idea. I’ll let my mom know. Come on in, we’re
in the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, walking to the back of his
mother’s apartment. I follow him, taking note of all of the pictures of Mason
on her walls. It’s like reliving my own youth seeing him grow in school
portraits. I stop at one—a family collage holding several photos in the
same frame.

“My mom likes pictures,” he says, his breath tickling my
shoulder and causing goosebumps to rise on my arms. I know he notices, but he
doesn’t draw attention to it or embarrass me. “Every photo I take or get, she
hangs it up.”

It’s completely the opposite of what I expected to see in
his mother’s home. I never visited their house when I was a kid—Mason was
always at ours. And his mom moved so many times later in life, there was just
never really an opportunity. “She seems proud of you,” I say, dialing in on one
photo in particular, a young Mason with his mom bending down in a garden to
smell flowers.

“Yeah, I guess…” he says, his gaze somewhat lost and his
mood melancholy as he takes in the full line of photos on the wall. “They just
don’t seem real. I mean, I’m smiling in these pictures, but…I don’t remember
having these memories.”

Mason’s memories are wrapped up in my home, with my dad, and
while I’m glad he has those, I’m sad he doesn’t have them with Barb.

“Ehhhh, I’m just being crazy. Ignore me,” he shrugs, shaking
his head and forcing a renewed smile on his face. He’s putting on a good
act—for his mother
and
me.

Barb is busy putting the final touches on the table when we
walk into the kitchen, and I smile when I see the small sheet cake she made.
It’s almost like she’s trying to make up for a dozen missed birthdays with this
one dinner.

“Avery, oh honey, thanks for coming!” she says, giving me a
hug. Barb has always been nice to me. When I first started waitressing at
Dusty’s, she would handle the rough customers for me, sometimes throwing them
out all on her own.

“Thanks for having us,” I say, pulling the lid from Max’s
dinner of fruits, veggies and crackers. “I hope you don’t mind, but he’s sort
of picky.”

“Of course not,” she says, pulling out a plate for me to set
up for Max.

We all get situated around the table, and Barb scoops large
heaps of pasta into each of our bowls. Her sauce, on the potholder on the
table, is still bubbling; when I put my spoon in to pour some on my plate, the
sauce snaps, and a drop burns my arm. Without a word, Mason dips the corner of
his napkin in his ice water and presses it to my arm.

“Better?” he whispers, and I just nod.

“So, Avery…did Mason tell you the news?” Barb says, her face
beaming. She should be proud—Mason deserves this. In fact, he should be
headlining, not just opening for bands. But his time will come; I know it will.

“He did. It’s very exciting,” I say, and I notice that Max
is swinging his legs under the table while I talk. I reach next to me and stop
them with my hand. “Max, Mason is going to perform some concerts in some other
states. Isn’t that neat?”

Max takes a big bite of one of his crackers, chewing with
his mouth open, not quite finishing his bite when he finally speaks. “I think
he should just stay at Grandpa’s,” he says, and I hear the air escape Mason’s
nose in one swift exhale.

“I know, we all are going to miss him, but we want other
people to get to hear his songs, too,” I say, knowing that for Max, missing
Mason is partly about not wanting to see something he’s grown comfortable with
change. But I also think that somewhere, in the midst of things, Mason has
become his friend.

“You should play our song for people,” he says, going right
back to his crackers.

Mason laughs a little under his breath at first. “I will,
Max. I’ll make sure they know who my writer is,” he says, his eyes meeting mine
and holding on. Every look twists my stomach a little tighter, just as does
every minute passing—every second closer to the time when he’ll be gone.

Mason ends up telling us stories about his first tour, about
places they played and how much smaller they are from the places they’re about
to go. He does most of the talking; I can tell he’s trying to fill the silence
because his mom doesn’t really have much to say.

We all manage to save room for a small piece of cake, and,
after some teasing, Mason gets away with not having to blow out any candles. I
help Barb clear the table when we’re done, and Max takes care of putting his
container away. I know he’s going to get antsy soon, so I pull the iPad from my
bag, and set him up on the sofa with it for a few minutes, so I can help with
dishes. Barb is packing up a few to-go boxes for me to take some leftovers home
to Ray when an old Otis Redding song comes on the radio.

Mason smiles when he hears it, and walks to the corner of
the kitchen to turn it up. “May I?” he says, reaching for his mother’s hands.

She doesn’t answer, wiping the small tear in the corner of
her eye with the neckline of her blouse, and smiles at him, her lips tight,
holding in her emotions. I watch as she gives her son her hand, and he moves
her the few steps to the middle of the kitchen floor and pulls her in for a
dance. I almost feel like I’m intruding, but I’m so grateful to bear witness to
this moment. Mason is giving his mother a gift, for nothing in return, just
because he wants to. I pull my phone out when they aren’t looking and snap a
photo, then message it to him instantly—Mason will finally have a memory
attached to one of those images of him with his mom.

We listen to a few more songs while Barb brews a pot of
coffee, but Max’s patience starts to wear. He’s no longer staying in his seat
very long, instead pacing around the room on his toes while playing his game on
the iPad. We usually go to the store in the afternoons on Mondays, and I know
Max will want to make sure we have everything we need for his lunch bag next
week.

Maybe I’m inventing a reason to leave, or maybe Max is about
to have a meltdown. Either way, the longer I hesitate, the more my body fills
with anxiety, until I can’t handle it anymore.

“We have to go,” I blurt out, stopping Barb and Mason
mid-conversation. I can tell Mason’s taken off guard, and I can actually see
his mind working on ways to convince me to stay. “I need to get some things for
Max, and he has school tomorrow. I didn’t get much done yesterday, and I need
to take advantage of Claire filling in for me tonight.”

“Right,” Mason says, his face down at his feet.

“Well here, take this home for your dad,” Barb says, tying
the top of a plastic bag tight around a few containers of food and handing it
to me.

“I’ll walk you out,” Mason says, his hand resting on my
back, and his fingers barely grazing my skin, like he’s unsure if his hand
belongs there. We get to the car, and Max is quick to settle in, shutting his
door and buckling up. I can see the iPad light up his face in the back seat,
and I know Mason and I will have a few minutes out here alone before Max will
insist I get in the car.

“So, you leave tomorrow?” I ask, setting my small bag of
food on the rooftop of the car and turning to face Mason, pulling my arms
tightly around my body to warm myself from the breeze.

“I do. Early,” he says, his lips partially open, like more
words are just hanging on his tongue, waiting to be said. He reaches his hand
up, running the back of it down the side of my face, watching his fingers
caress my cheek slowly, tracing every centimeter of my profile. He sweeps a few
loose strands of hair behind my ear and holds his hand there, just staring at
me.

“I should go,” I say, taking in a deep breath, and holding
it like it’s my last.

“I’ll be back,” he says, his eyes giving away the
uncertainty I know he really feels.

“I hope so,” I say, my teeth tugging at my lip while I hedge
on saying the rest. “But I understand if you can’t. Max isn’t expecting you,
and I’ll be okay.”

I won’t be okay, and as I stand here and pretend I’m strong,
I know I’m crumbling inside. But Mason has this life—he has this
gift—
and it just doesn’t match with
anything in my world. And I know that forcing it won’t make it so.

I stretch on the tips of my toes, reach my hand around
Mason’s neck, and press my lips to his lightly, and I whisper, “Good luck,” but
what I’m really saying is…
goodbye
. I
grab the pasta from the roof of my car and open my door to get in, my body
almost anticipating him to protest— to grab me, and pull me back to him,
to refuse to let me go. But I shut the door, and the sounds of outside go
completely silent.

It’s Max and me, just like it always is—and Mason is
on the outside, looking in. He holds up his hand and stretches his fingers, and
I can hear him say, “Goodbye,” through the window. I hold my fingers to my
lips, and then press them flat to the window; he touches the other side, his
touch sliding along the glass as I slowly drive away.

I cry silently for the short drive home, and I force my
breath to regulate by the time I pull into our driveway so I can get Max
upstairs, help him with his bath, and put him to bed. I don’t have the strength
for groceries tonight, so I’ll make do with what we have. But the distraction
of my routine is welcomed, and the next hour goes by rote as I work my way
through the nightly checklist. I’m usually at work for this part, so I look
forward to reading the planet book with Max. I offer to read extra tonight,
mostly because I don’t want to go back to the thoughts in my head, but Max
tells me he’s done. I put the book away, and I pull his heavy blanket over his
body. My body itches to hug him, and so I ask him if I can hug him goodnight
since I don’t get to do this part often. He lets me, but his body is rigid when
I do, and I can tell he doesn’t want me to touch him for long.

“I’m going to work on some homework downstairs and wait for
Grandpa,” I say, pausing for Max to respond, but he only shuts his eyes,
squeezing them tightly, readying himself for me to shut the lights off. He’ll
pretend to sleep for a while, and eventually he’ll fall into it for real.

I spread my notecards out across the kitchen table, and add
a few more to my mix. I have one final paper to complete, and I have a lot of
time, but I need to keep myself busy until my eyes grow tired. I slide the
cards around the table a few times before giving up, and pulling them back
together with my rubber band and deciding to focus on reading. I’m only
slightly more productive doing this, making my way through one entire page in
the hour it takes before my father finally comes through the door.

“Hey, you wait up for your old man?” he smiles, clearing out
his pockets, and piling his usual work stuff on the counter.

“I did. Barb sent me home with leftovers. You want some?
It’s really good,” I say, going to the fridge and pulling out the bag.

“That would be great. Thanks,” my dad says, slipping his
shoes from his feet and falling into his chair, rubbing his hand over his eyes.
“I’m beat today.”

“Well, Barb’s carbs should put you right to sleep then,” I
joke, and my dad nods in agreement.

I heat his food up and put it on a plate for him, sliding it
over and getting us both a glass of milk. I used to love waiting up to watch my
father eat dinner. My mom would always have leftovers ready for him, and she’d
let me sit up extra late on the weekends so I could keep him company. I was
always closest with my dad, and I think it’s because of our late night talks,
which grew more and more complicated the older I got.