How We Deal With Gravity (8 page)

My mouth betrays me, and slides into a fragile smile. Claire
notices—I can tell because her eyes light up a little. But she doesn’t
call me out on it, probably because she knows how quickly I’ll retreat back
into hiding.

“Maybe…and just hear me out, okay,” she starts, swinging my
legs to the floor to force me to sit up. “Maybe you can just go out there, do
your job, and…I don’t know…stop when you have a minute, and just think about
it. Just see if you get any
vibes.
”

I can’t help but snort-laugh at her suggestion. I’m pretty
sure the only vibes I’m going to get are the ones that travel all the way down
my spine. But I guess it can’t hurt anything to indulge a little—I’ve
always loved to listen to that man sing. And pretending he’s singing to me
isn’t anything new to me either.

“I can do that…but I’m not doing any
vibe testing,”
I say, tucking my shirt back in, and pulling my hair
from its tie so I can rebuild the bun on top of my head.

“And Aves? How about you leave it down?” Claire says,
reaching her hands around mine and urging me to let go of the small band
holding my hair up. “It won’t look like flirting—I know that’s what
you’re worried about. It’s just a hair tie.”

I hold her gaze for a few seconds. I’m not sure I want to do
anything
different.
It feels like
giving in. But, it is just a hair tie—something I take out and put in
every day at work. No big deal. I finally nod
okay
, and shove it back in my pocket before straightening out my
work clothes and marching back to the kitchen door. I turn to Claire one last
time for reassurance.

“Max is happy, so we can stay as long as you want,” she
says, knowing what I need to hear. I smile softly, and take in a deep breath
before I head back out to the crowded bar, hoping I blend in with the sea of
prettier girls out there and fly under the radar. Or maybe I hope I don’t.
Maybe I hope I stand out, and that I’m all Mason can look at. My heart is
sputtering at the thought—it’s fear. I fear the pending disappointment,
and I know it’s inevitable.

He’s finishing up “In Your Eyes”
when I get up the courage to walk to the tall tabletops that line
the back. They’re right in view of the stage, and if there was ever a time to
sneak a look at Mason, this was it. I load my tray with empties, sliding my
hair behind my ear so I can see better, and that’s when I take my moment.

Max is always telling me about gravity, and how it pulls two
masses together. Gravity. That’s what I’m feeling right now. I’m sure I’m
flushed, and despite Dusty’s being filled beyond fire code, I can’t hear the
crowd. I’m completely locked to Mason, his eyes squared to mine, and he’s the
only thing I see. The background…gone. It’s just Mason.

Sitting on that stool with a small spotlight on him, he’s
wearing a worn-out pair of jeans and a tight black T-shirt that hugs his
biceps; the tattoo on his right arm finally showing enough to let me know it’s
a tiger. Dusty’s is never formal. It’s not a place where performers dress
up—but tonight Mason is making that look so unbelievably sexy. His hair
is twisted in all different directions, and he keeps brushing away the long
strands that fall in his eyes.

He licks his lips and bites his tongue before letting a
smile slide up into his cheeks. I actually have to catch myself on one of the
chairs when he does. A few faint whistles from the women in the crowd break
through my tunnel.

“I’ve got a few more, if you guys don’t mind,” he says,
toying with the audience. They eat him up—they always did. “Good, good,”
he chuckles.

Adjusting the mic a little, he props one knee up on the top
ledge of the stool, letting his guitar slide to the side and fall on the strap.
The whistles start again—I get it, he’s downright dreamy right now. But I
still roll my eyes. It’s annoying when Mason gets this kind of attention, and
I’ll admit that I’m probably a little jealous.

“I bet you’re all wondering what I’m doing back in town,”
Mason says, his eyes leaving mine for just a moment before coming back to find
me. I give in and set my tray down, sitting in one of the seats to fully take
him in. “I blew it.”

The crowd laughs, but I know Mason’s not really joking. He’s
dead serious, and when the audience realizes this, too, they start to get
quiet.

“No, it’s okay. Y’all can laugh. But it’s the truth. I tried
doing this all on my own, but I wasn’t ready. I’m sure some of you have read
about our failed concerts, fights in clubs, shit like that. Sorry, Ray…I know
you don’t like it when I swear on stage.”

My dad just waves a bar towel at him and goes back to his
business.

“You see, I was ready to leave this town when I was sixteen.
And I don’t think my head ever matured beyond that, even though I was twenty
when I finally left to tour. In my head…I was still sixteen. Sixteen and
stupid,” Mason laughs at himself now, and the crowd starts to relax and join
in. He has them—he has us all. He could tell us to vote for him for
president right now, and we’d all mail in our ballots.

“Anyways. This isn’t about me messing up my tour. I wanted
to get up here tonight to see if I could remember why I ever made this my dream
in the fist place. I was so focused on success, I forgot about the ride. And I
missed some pretty great things along the way.”

My breath held, I fight against my instinct to
run—just to hear Mason out, to see what he says next. I’m terrified,
because my heart is begging him to make this about me. But I know that, if
anything, it’s about how badly he feels. It’s pity—for making me cry
years ago, and for every other painful bit of my past that Claire gave away. My
legs are aching to retreat, and I’m pushing my weight to the balls of my feet,
readying myself to get back to work, when Mason absolutely floors me.

“If I could do it again…” he pauses, his eyes unmistakably
on me now. “I would definitely kiss the girl in the closet.”

Oh. My. God.

Mason

That wasn’t planned. I mean I did want to say
something
that would let Avery know how
sorry I am. But that last part? That came from somewhere else entirely. What’s
weird is that I don’t regret it. Hell, I felt unbelievable the second the words
left my mouth. Maybe it’s just the chase…but I sorta don’t think that’s it.

I saw something in Avery’s eyes. I’m not going to say it was
forgiveness; I’m not naïve to believe I’ve even come close to earning that yet.
But I think there is definitely a part of her that wants to forgive me.

She was gone by the time I wrapped up my set.
Gone
! I had the usual crowd waiting
around to talk to me, buy me drinks, and all that shit. All I wanted to do was
talk to Avery though; ask her what she thought. I saw Claire talking to her
briefly, and then I watched Claire leave with Max. I was pretty excited that he
stuck around too. But Avery was the one I
really
wanted to talk to. And she was already asleep—or hiding—in her
room by the time I made it home.

The house was empty this morning. Ray always works long
hours on the weekends. He goes in early to set up for Friday and Saturday
nights, and Sunday crowds are usually pretty full, too. Sunday is always
country night.

I notice Avery’s car in the parking lot when I pull in to
Dusty’s. She must have gotten up early to get out of the house before I woke
up. I wonder how she talked Max into getting up early too?

They’re all sitting at the bar together when I walk in.
Ray’s the first to notice me, and he slides a stool out next to him, waving me
over.

“Mason, come on over. We’re having pancakes for breakfast.
Made them myself on the grill,” he says, giving me a wink.

I climb onto my seat, and give Avery a sideways glance, but
she’s looking only at the plate in front of her, nowhere else. Max is busy
working with his fork to get his pancake into his mouth. His is cut into
perfect squares, and his plate seems free of syrup.

“Hey,” Ray whispers to me, urging me to lean in. “Just so
you know, these are gluten-free, and they pretty much taste like crap, so be
generous with the syrup, okay?”

I nod once, and grab the syrup, making a layer of sweet,
sugary goo on the plate before I add my pancake. I catch Avery’s reaction when
she snickers at me, and I use it as an opening.

“What? You never syrup the bottom?” I say, cutting a huge
bite, and stuffing it in my cheek. Ray was right—these are bland as hell.
I reach for the syrup and add more to my plate.
  

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s unique to only you,” Avery says,
laughing lightly. She seems nervous, and damn if it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve
ever seen.

“So, you took off last night. I didn’t get to ask you,
what’d you think?” I really want to have this conversation with Avery alone,
but I don’t get a sense that she’s going to let that happen anytime soon, so I
dive right in.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Max was up late and Claire took him home.
I kind of wanted to get home, too—you know, so I could be with him,” she
says, and I’m sitting at the edge of my stool, just waiting for her to say
something about my song, my
choice
of
song. And that damn bomb I dropped in front of everyone.

“Sure, I understand,” I say, smiling with my eyes wide.
Still waiting. She senses my prodding, and I feel like a jerk that I have to
beg her to tell me I was good.

“You were great, by the way. I knew you would be. See? I
told you,” she says, picking up her plate and walking it to the kitchen. That’s
it? I was great, she was right? No reaction to the fact that I pretty much
publicly asked her to let me kiss her?

“She’s right, Mason. You were
you
last night. That’s the Mason I remember playing here, the kid I
rolled out there for the world to see,” Ray says, standing behind me and giving
my shoulder a squeeze. “Whataya say? You wanna try that again, say next
weekend?”

“Uh, hell yeah!” I respond. I’d do it every night if Ray
would let me. But I know he has a pretty long waiting list. The fact that I get
the prime spot whenever I want says something about how the man feels about me,
and I’m honored.

It’s just me and Max, and our pancakes now, so I take this
opportunity to see what Max thinks.

“I’m glad you were here last night Max. What did you think?”
I ask, hoping that this progress he and I have made keeps moving in this
direction. I’m still surprised when he puts his fork down and acknowledges me.

“It was a Saturday, and I like when I get to sit up later.
It was good,” he says, before picking up his fork to finish his last few bites.
Sometimes I think Max isn’t so different from other five-year-olds, he just
doesn’t have the filter that blocks out the honesty. Sure, Max thought last
night was great—he got to sit up past his bedtime. The fact that I
happened to be playing music in the background is meaningless to the fact that
he got a couple extra hours of iPad game time. And I don’t blame him a bit.
 

“Yeah, last night was pretty awesome,” I say, smiling to
myself, and stuffing the rest of my tasteless pancake into my mouth.

I pick up my plate and ask Max if I can take his. I figure
he doesn’t mind when he pushes it to the side toward me then goes right back to
the iPad. I sort of wish his mom was just as direct. Might make figuring out
where I stand a whole hell of a lot easier.

Avery’s washing up the plates in the kitchen. I pass Ray
when I take mine over, and I could swear he gives me a signal with his glance,
urging me to talk to his daughter. There’s also a good chance I’m imagining
Ray’s approval—truthfully, disappointing him—
again
!
—
scares the
hell out of me. And I can’t think of anything that would disappoint him more
than me chasing after Avery.

I start to help with the plates, but she just grabs mine
from my hand and smiles curtly. It almost felt…hostile.

“Okay…uh, thanks,” I say, taking a few steps back to the
door. I stop, though, mid-stride and close my eyes.
Come on, don’t be a pussy.
I come back and lean on the edge of the
nearby counter, close enough to make her noticeably shift her weight. “So…what
did you
really
think? I heard what
you said. You thought it was good. And thank you. I appreciate that. But…now
that we’re not at the bar…with your family…”

She finishes the last plate and turns the faucet off, but
she keeps her gaze focused on the damn soapy water, her hands wringing the
sponge dry. She looks so uncomfortable that it has me just wanting to
retreat—but I’m in too far. And I’d regret turning back.

“I want to know the things you can’t say…in front of them,”
I lean in closer while I ask this, and her breath halts. I swear her fingers
are trembling, and it’s making me want to reach out and touch her, just to let
her know it’s safe.

It feels like forever until she finally exhales. And just
when I don’t think she’s going to acknowledge it—
directly—
she does.

“Don’t do this, Mason,” her eyelids flit, almost as if it’s
with exhaustion. I’m so taken off guard with her response, I react immediately.

“Don’t…do what? Say ‘I’m sorry?’” I spit back, probably a
lot harsher than I mean to.

“Yeah,” she says, tossing the sponge in the sink and wiping
her hands dry on the front of her jeans while she walks past me. “Don’t say
you’re sorry.”

Shit!

I follow her back though the kitchen door. Max is still
sitting in his place, playing on his iPad, and Ray has moved on to business
already, loading in some crates from the back. I look over and think about
helping him just so I have an excuse to leave
this
conversation. But it’s really my fault I’m having it in the
first place, so instead, I decide to be a prick about it and slide up on one of
the stools next to Max.

“What are you guys doing today?” I ask, knowing Max will
probably answer before Avery. I can actually feel her dig her heels in behind
the bar while her eyes roll.

“Mom says I am to get a haircut,” Max says, his voice almost
robotic, and his eyes not leaving the screen of his tablet.

“Haircut, huh? Okay, that sounds good,” I fold my hands and
smile smugly at Avery. I’m totally tagging along for the haircut. And hell, I
might just follow along for groceries, and watch her do her damn homework just
to piss her off at this point.

“I don’t like having people touch my hair,” Max’s eyes flair
when he says this, and his tone seems more irritated, so I don’t tease anymore.
I don’t want him to think that I’m teasing him.

She leans forward now and forces Max to acknowledge her
gaze. “But you are starting school next week, and part of that means getting a
haircut. We’ve been over this, right Max?” She seems tense again, so I decide
to back off. I’m about to let her off the hook completely when Max becomes my
unexpected wingman.

“Can Mason come?” when Max asks, Avery’s eyes almost leave
her head. I can actually hear her swallow in response, and she quickly turns
her attention to me, her lips barely open, but her face saying everything. She
doesn’t want me to come—I don’t even have to ask. But she
needs
me to come—because Max
asked. I haven’t known him long, but I know enough to know this is a big deal.

My eyes lock with Avery’s, and I do my best to smile,
genuinely. “I’d love to, Max. I’d love to,” I say, and Avery’s shoulders
instantly relax.

I understand why getting a haircut was such a big deal the moment
we pull into the parking lot in front of the barber. Max seemed fine for most
of the car ride, his mind occupied with his game for most of the way. Once we
pulled in, and Avery took the iPad from him to store in her purse, everything
about Max began to change.

It’s not a normal tantrum like I’m used to seeing. My mom
used to babysit kids Max’s age, and when they didn’t get ice cream or to watch
their favorite cartoon, it was hard to convince the neighbors that my mom
wasn’t beating them.

But Max is different. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable.
Something is suddenly off, and his eyes are darting in all directions, not able
to focus on a single person or place. It’s almost panic, but yet it seems so
much worse. He’s unsettled, like he doesn’t belong.

When Avery opens the back door, rather than exiting, Max
starts to kick and rock, each time his movements gaining more power. I want to
help, and I feel like I’m intruding by just standing behind her, but honestly,
I don’t know where the hell to even begin. When she reaches in, just hoping to
get his hand, he smacks it away, repeatedly, and starts humming anxiously.

“Max, you need to use your words. Tell me what’s wrong?” she
sounds so desperate, and I can’t help but join in.

“Yeah, Max. I was excited to come along with you. What’s
wrong, buddy?” I say, but Avery just shoots me a death stare over her shoulder
when I speak. I shrug my shoulders with frustration. I know she’s trying to
dissolve this situation, and I know she’s embarrassed, but
fuck
! I’m just trying to help. I have no idea what to do.

Avery gets in the car next to Max and shuts the door,
locking me on the outside. I’m left to do nothing but lean on the nearby light
post and watch. I can’t hear them, but I know Max is still humming. Avery’s
eyes are closed, and she’s sitting calmly next to Max, just waiting. Her lips
are barely moving, almost as if she’s talking to herself. After a few minutes,
Max seems to be relaxing, and that’s when I see Avery’s eyes open. She
unbuckles her purse and shows Max a bag of something that looks like candies,
and she pulls one out and hands it to him before putting the rest in her purse.
Finally, after at least ten minutes, Max turns his head in her direction; his
eyes are almost on hers when he talks, before he suddenly turns back to the
front.

I look away when the door opens, mostly because I don’t want
to make things worse. Max follows Avery into the barber, and I trail behind,
noticing how he’s dragging his feet and fidgeting with his hands. He’s
terrified.

“Hey, Nick. Thanks for opening up for us,” she says, her
smile soft and utterly defeated. Nick opened up special…just for them. I get
it. And I wish I could tell her. But she doesn’t want pity. She just wants the
next two hours to pass, and me to never bring them up to her. And I get that,
too.

“Sure thing, Avery. You know Max is my favorite customer,”
Nick says, his overgrown, graying mustache dusting the top of his lips. “Max,
can you sit on the special chair for me? I’ll let you decide how high it needs
to be.”

I can tell that Nick has done this before. I can also tell
that he’s not sure if it’s going to work today. Max is still rocking a little
from side-to-side, and his hands have started tugging at one another harder.
I’m so goddamned heartbroken for him that I just jump in with both feet, and
try something completely unwelcomed, but that I think just might work.

“Hey, Nick. I’m Mason,” I reach over to shake his hand, and
Nick smiles at me with a hint of surprise.

“Yeah, I know who you are. You’re Barb’s boy,” he says, and
I cringe inside a little, hoping like hell he’s not one of my mom’s conquests.

“Yes, sir. That’s me,” I say, half-squinting, and holding my
breath, waiting for the lecture on my mother, or worse—me, and what a
douchebag I am.

“You were good over at Dusty’s the other night. You planning
on playing there again?” I’m pretty sure Nick notices my huge sigh of relief,
but I don’t care, because I also notice that Max has stopped swaying.

“I do. Next weekend, in fact,” I say, looking to Avery next,
and making a mental note of her lip tucked nervously in between her teeth.
“I’ve got a few more songs I’d like to try out.”