How We Deal With Gravity (11 page)

“You look nervous there. Might want to pull out your lip
balm…you know, moisten those babies up. Just sayin’,” I tease, and she blushes
instantly. She stands and turns her back to me, pretending to straighten her
shirt and move the stool she was sitting on, but I know she’s really just
trying to hide her face. I’m getting to her—and I’ve never wanted to win
a round of darts more in my life.

Fourteen.

“That’s on the line,” she says immediately. She’s
protesting—it’s funny.

“Let’s inspect it. Don’t you dare touch it until I get
there,” I say, walking up behind her. It’s clearly a fourteen—the dart
isn’t even touching any of the line. I see it, and Avery sees it. She sees it
so well, she’s no longer breathing, but just standing there, staring at it, her
eyes wide and her hands rolling her own darts in her fingertips.

“Well?” I say, knowing I’m right, but wanting to snap her
out of this damn trance she’s in.

“Fine. Fourteen,” she says, turning around with a huff.

Okay, she actually seems legitimately pissed at me now. She
throws three more low numbers, and the look on her face is so stressed, it’s
actually painful to watch. We go on for five more rounds, and honestly only
because I have to hit a
five
to close
it out.

When I hit it, I almost want to lie, and say it’s on the
line, just to give her a chance. I’ve gone from being willing to cheat—to
win the chance to kiss Avery—to wanting to throw the damn match myself.
It’s not that my feelings are hurt by her reaction to kissing me…well, maybe
they’re hurt a little. But it’s more than that. I feel like I’m taking
advantage of her or something, like I’m forcing her to do something she finds
disgusting. I know
that’s not the
truth, but it just doesn’t
feel
right.
There’s no delaying it, though, and the regret that spills through my veins
when she turns to look at me—her face so fucking disappointed—just
about kills me.

I didn’t even really get to
talk
to her, which is what I really wanted in the first place.

“Well, you won. Let’s get this over with,” she says,
finishing the last drink from her glass, and slamming it hard on the table
before wiping her lips dry with the back of her hand. She’s standing there, her
arms limp at her sides, and her eyes closed, like she’s playing a boring game
of hide-and-seek. This…
this…
is
nothing like I pictured it.

I walk closer to her, and I hold my breath so she can’t
sense how close I am. I’m about to call the whole thing off, give her an out,
when her bottom lip comes loose, letting out the tiniest of breaths, and I see
her shiver. I take note of her hands, which are no longer limp, but balled into
tight fists.

I just need to know—just some sign that my hunch is
right. I move even closer, and I can see her muscles tighten at my nearness.
There are inches between our feet, and one sway of my body, or hers, and we’d
be touching. I stare long and hard at her neck—that long, milky neck. Her
hair falls over both shoulders. It’s long and wavy from the hair tie she was
wearing earlier tonight. I reach up gently, and sweep the waves falling over
her left shoulder behind her ear, and Avery’s eyes close even harder.

She’s not telling me to stop. And I know she would if she
wanted to—Avery doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. So I push my
luck a little more, and move my lips close to her shoulder first, then her
neck. I blow lightly, and every tiny hair on her neck obeys. She sucks in one
more short breath, and the sound of it makes me smile.

I spare a glance over her shoulder just to confirm we’re
alone, and we are. No one is interested in us—we’re off in our own
universe. Matt and Josh are snoring at the table, and I’m pretty sure Ben left
with that girl from earlier.

“So you and I…we made a bet,” I whisper in her ear. “You remember
the terms?”

Avery nods
yes
slowly, her lips still barely parted, and her breaths becoming quicker, no
doubt to match her pulse. What I’m about to do is going to be the hardest thing
I’ve ever done in my entire life. But I
have
to do it.

“We said if you lost, you had to let me kiss you, right?” I
say, my thumb slowly stroking the skin along her neck, slipping barely under
the collar of her shirt until I touch the strap of her bra. My touch makes her
quiver again, and I almost change my mind.

“I won, didn’t I, Avery?” I say her name, because I want her
to hear me call her by it—not
Birdie.
When she goes home tonight, I want her to think of something entirely new, a
new beginning. And I don’t want any of those old memories tainting it.

Avery nods lightly, her tongue sweeping over the center of
her lips
and driving me fucking mad
!
I breathe in slowly, and will myself to
go on.

“I’m going to kiss you then,” I say, moving both of my hands
to either side of her face, cradling it until my fingers are woven deep within
her hair, and she’s completely under my control. My thumb glides slowly across
her lips, stopping at the center, and pausing for just a second, almost begging
her to let it inside, to taste it. I move my lips closer now, too, and I turn
my head, just enough so she can feel it—anticipate my touch.

I let my nose graze against hers and then along her cheek,
while I slowly turn her head to the side so I can press my lips to her ear once
again. I inhale her scent, and this time, I memorize it—just in case this
was it, my only moment. Then I speak against her ear, my lips touching her just
enough to ignite an unbelievable desire to bite her gently.

“But I’m not going to kiss you now,” I say, my eyes closed
while I hope like hell this is the right move. “I get to kiss you, but I didn’t
say when. And right now, you’re not ready. Don’t think this means I don’t
want
to kiss you. Because I do—I
want to kiss you so goddamned hard that you can barely breathe. And one
day—one day really fucking soon—I’m going to. But not tonight.
Instead, tonight, I’m just going to thank my lot in life for the fact that I
grew up in a bar, learning how to throw darts.”

When I let her go, she keeps her eyes closed for another
second or two before opening them, and I’m convinced I made the right choice
when I see the disappointment on her face. That’s what I want—I want her
to
want
me to kiss her again. I could
kick myself for taking it for granted the first time, and I’ll never make that
mistake again.

Her eyes are trained on mine the moment she opens them; I
just push my hands in my pockets, shrug my shoulders, and give her the
sincerest smile I’ve got. Then, I watch her spin around and walk away, pushing
hard against the kitchen door, and vanishing—probably leaving through the
back just to avoid me.

And that’s okay. Because I know even though she didn’t
confront me, I’m in her head. I’m
deep
in
her head—and she’s going to have a hard time shaking this one.

Avery

“No, Claire, he
didn’t
kiss me; that’s what I said,” my friend keeps replaying my story to her over
and over—hoping that one of these times it ends with Mason kissing me.
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because Mason likes to play games, and that’s all
this is. A distraction.

“Okay, well…are you guys going to go out sometime?” she
asks.

“No. That was it—just that stupid game of darts, and
an
almost
kiss. That’s where the
story ends,” I say, looking for my orange headband to pull my hair back. I have
to get Max to school—
school
. I
don’t have time to be rehashing
what ifs
and
do I think Mason likes me
with
Claire…like we’re at a slumber party.

“I don’t get it,” Claire starts, and I can tell she’s going
to dive into another round of analyzing, so I stop her.

“I don’t get it either, Claire. But I’m done worrying about
it. I have to get Max ready. I’ll call you later,” I pinch the phone between my
shoulder and chin so I can slide my headband on while my friend says goodbye.

Max is already downstairs eating his breakfast. He’s eating
just like we do almost every morning. We’re sticking with our routine…only
today, unlike the rest, we’ll turn left out of the driveway—and go to
Cave Creek Public. The teachers are ready, and according to Max’s therapists,
Max is ready.
I
on the other hand am
nowhere in the
realm
of ready.

“So the trick with school is you have to get yourself a good
nickname,” I hear Mason explaining as I walk down the stairs. I spare a peek,
and Max isn’t listening to him. I’m actually glad he can shut things like this
out because the
last
thing Max needs
is a nickname.

“Morning, Avery,” Mason says over his shoulder. He heard the
stairs.
I hate those stairs.

“Morning, Mason. Thank you for starting breakfast,” I say,
realizing my dad is long gone. It’s just been the two of them.

“No problem. Was just learning from Max here about his big
day,” Mason says, leaning back, and sipping on his coffee. It’s first thing in
the morning, and I can tell he hasn’t showered, but damn it if I don’t find him
appealing. I wonder if I would have found him this alluring before last night?
His hair is twisted on the top, thanks to his new haircut, and he’s wearing a
striped pair of pajama bottoms along with an old Dusty’s T-shirt. He hasn’t
shaved—
I always like it when he
doesn’t shave.
I stop myself from getting carried away when the smirk on
Mason’s face registers with me.

“So, you sleep all right last night, Avery?” he grins.
That damn grin
!
I’m about to come up with a boring response, when he winks at me,
and I just get all flustered, causing him to chuckle. I’m playing right into
his hands, and I hate it.

“Max,” I turn my full attention to my son instead. “Do you
have everything in your backpack?” I pull it from the back of the chair, but
Max stops me quickly. I’m making him nervous, changing the order of his things,
so I put it back and just smile.

“We need to leave in six minutes, okay?” I set the stove
clock. This is one of the tricks Claire taught me, she uses it when she’s
changing up Max’s bedtime routine. He likes order, and when he knows what’s
coming next, he does better.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and reach for the milk, only
to find Mason standing right behind me—
close
behind me. “Excuse me, just wanted to get a little milk for
the coffee,” he says, his breath tickling my neck. I quickly step forward to
give myself some safety—some distance. He doesn’t
really
want milk. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him touch
milk. He’s just trying to get to me, and I’m not going to let him.

I reach in and grab the gallon to pour it over my cereal and
then hand it to him, and he purposely puts his hand over mine during our
exchange. It makes me flinch, and that makes the corner of his lip raise a
hint.
He’s winning.

I pull out my notebook, and review my to-do list—over
and over—while I eat my cereal. I have it memorized, but I need something
to do for four minutes, and this will work. With a minute to spare, I lay out
everything that I’m about to put inside Max’s lunch bag to review it with him.

“I have all of your favorites in here. And remember, they’re
in these bags today, different from the plate, but the food is the same,” I
say. Max isn’t looking at me, so I kneel down next to the table, and repeat
myself, only this time I ask him to look me in the eye.

“I understand,” he says, his eye contact with me is shorter
than he can normally hold it. I know he’s anxious. He can’t say he’s anxious,
and he doesn’t understand what it means, or what the feeling is, but I know
it’s inside him. His legs are already bouncing under the chair, so I hold my
hand on his knee to stop it.

“Hey, it’s going to be all right,” Mason says, his hand on
my shoulder. This time, I leave it there, and I don’t even pretend that it
offends me, because it’s so very much the opposite. I freeze at his touch, but
I slowly let out everything I’ve been carrying inside. My face is blocked from
them both as I stay knelt below the table, and I let a single tear fall down my
face. It needed to. I probably need to shed more than that one, but that’s all
I have time for.

“Thank you,” I say, almost a whisper. When I stand, I blot
my eyes dry, and take a deep breath before I turn around. Mason isn’t teasing
anymore—he’s sincere. It’s surprising…yet, it isn’t.

“Okay, Max. It’s time,” I say, gathering his lunch bag and
backpack along with my school things. We’re venturing into new. I know it’s
good, and it’s what I’ve wished for since the diagnosis. But I just can’t shake
the feeling in my gut—
fear.

The drive to school was flawless, even the stoplights were
on my side. I walked Max to class, and spoke with his teacher, and she assured
me she was ready.

Ready.

Seems everyone is ready—but me.

I stayed to watch, observing from the back of the class
until the teacher gave me a signal that it would be a good time to “slip out.”
I didn’t want to go, but I knew I had to. I sat in the parking lot for the rest
of the day, just watching the minutes tick by, and playing games on my phone.

Picking Max up was almost worse than dropping him off. I had
spent so much time conjuring visions of worst-case scenarios, that by the time
I actually got out of the car, I had convinced myself they were true. In my
head, Max was locked in a closet, kids teasing him, and the teachers frustrated
at not knowing how to restrain him. I actually ran to his class and waited
outside for the bell to ring. When the other kids came streaming out—many
of them running—I started to panic, searching for my son.
Where was he in the mix? Was he in another
classroom somewhere? Is this going to work? This isn’t going to work.

He was the last to leave the classroom, walking in a
perfectly straight line to the door, just as his teacher had instructed. I
wanted to hug him, I was so proud. But I didn’t. Instead, I just sat on my
knees, forced him to look at me, and asked him how his day was.
Fine
was all I was going to get. But
fine was more than enough.

His teacher, Mrs. Bently, gave me a smile and
thumbs up
, so Max and I headed for the
car. We haven’t talked the entire trip to Dusty’s—not because I don’t
have a million questions, but because our therapist told me to try to keep
other things to a normal routine. I’m not working today, but I know my dad is
curious, so we’ll stop in before heading home with Claire. Max plays on the
iPad on the way to Dusty’s—it’s a reward that he earns for doing well in
therapy and for working hard. And today, Max worked very hard.

“Well, how’d it go?” My dad is the first to ask the second I
walk in the door. Mason is standing on the other side of the bar, behind him,
and as if on instinct…my eyes go to him.

“It went…great,” I let the smile crack now in full force,
and my eyes water. I’ve held it together most of the day, but I’ve got to let
some of it out. Max heads to the corner booth—just like every other day.
Cole is quick to follow with his chocolate milk, and I watch as Max crawls to
the center of the booth, his spot, where he can feel comforted by both sides of
the cushions.

Mason is in front of me, hands in his pockets, and the same
smile he left me with this morning is still on his face. “Told you it’d be all
right,” he says, nodding his head in Max’s direction.

I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does, and now
I’m sobbing, hands over my face, and my purse and Max’s backpack at my feet.
Mason is fast, and his arms are around me in seconds, and I let them be. I grip
at the back of his shirt, and bury my face deep in his shoulder, the tears
pouring out now. I can’t stop the shaking, and every time I try to catch my
breath and my body shudders, I feel Mason squeeze me harder.

My dad is next to us soon, and I feel his hand rubbing my
back. He’s offering his shoulder now, too, but I can’t leave Mason’s—I
won’t. I need it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice muffled by Mason’s shoulder.

“What’s to be sorry about?” Mason says, his voice soft in my
ear. “You’ve been strong…still are. You needed this.”

I loosen my grip and let my hands slide down his shirt to
his shoulders. It’s a nice shirt—it’s a plaid button-down, probably
something from Abercrombie or something like that. It smells nice, too. Of
course, I’ve just left a giant wet spot on the shoulder, and wrinkled the hell
out of it.

I pull it straight as I back away and wipe at the spot I
drenched with tears. “Oh,” I giggle nervously, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to
need a new shirt.”

Mason looks down and rubs his hand along the wrinkles a few
times before sniffing. “Nah, looks fine,” he says, his half-smile something I
can’t help but stare at.

We hold our gaze, and I watch as his smile shifts into
something more serious. I want to leave, but something inside me tells me to
stay—to see this out. So I do. Mason reaches his hand up once again and
slides his thumb gently over my cheek, his eyes trained on his hand. His brow
is pinched in thought, and his lips part with a breath, like he’s about to say
something—something important.

“Yay! First day of school, done!” Claire says behind me, her
voice loud and unabashed. Whatever Mason was about to say, he’s not going to
say it now. He’s still standing in front of me, and he’s still looking at me
with the weight of everything he wants to say just hanging there in the
balance. His brown eyes are almost golden they seem so warm.

As soon as Claire is next to me, Mason disappears. What’s
more surprising is my overwhelming urge to follow him. I don’t, though.
Instead, I turn to my friend, who is already grilling me with questions about
Max’s first day. I answer her quickly, and head to the back, my eyes scanning
all directions for Mason, wondering where he went.

“Okay, so what was that?” Claire says, changing her Dusty’s
shirt and completely switching her line of questioning.

“What?” I pretend. This won’t last long—it never does.
She doesn’t even speak, but rather puts one hand on her hip and narrows her
eyes on me. I give in to her glare immediately.

“I…I don’t know,” I say, flopping forward, and putting my
palms to my head. “I’m in trouble, Claire.”

“Yeah you are,” she says, clicking her locker shut and
sitting next to me, reaching for Max’s backpack. “You sorta like him
again…don’t you?”

Her tone isn’t teasing, which I appreciate. But I don’t want
to answer her question. I don’t want to, because yeah, I
sorta like him
again. In fact, I more than
sorta like him
. And I barely remember what this feeling feels like,
but I also
sorta
remember that it
hurts.

“Hey, Avery?” Mason’s voice calls from the kitchen door. My
heart speeds up the second I recognize it, and out of instinct I grip Claire’s
hand.

“Yeah, just a second,” I say, standing and checking my
shirt, making sure it’s tucked in completely. I brush back the fine hairs,
adjust my headband, and get a reassuring smile from Claire that I look somewhat
put together.

I try to keep my face normal—not smile too big, not
chew my lip with nerves. The closer I get to Mason, though, the more uneasy I
get. He’s scratching at his neck, and he seems unsure about something.

“Whatcha need?” I say, my stomach now completely twisted on
itself.

“You, uh…you have someone here to see you,” he says. I don’t
like the face he’s making, and even though I can’t read it, I can glean enough
to tell that whatever—
whoever—
is
waiting for me on the other side of this door is about to change the course of
my day.

“Oooookayyyyy…” I say, looking over his shoulder and then
back to his face, trying to get one more read. At first, I see nothing but an
empty bar. Maybe it’s someone from the school, maybe Max had an issue and the principal
stopped by—that’s okay, I can work with that. I knew there would be bumps
along the way.

I scan both ends of the restaurant area. Nothing. For some
reason, not seeing someone is making my worry intensify, and I’m starting to
feel sick. I start to move to the main door when Barb arrives and opens it
wide. She says, “Hello,” and I nod at her with a smile. But that smile lasts
only a fraction of a second, because behind her, I catch a glimpse of my guest
while the door is closing.

Adam. I haven’t seen him since the day he left—more
than four years ago. I don’t know where he’s been, and I’ve told myself for the
last couple of years that I don’t care. But right now, more than any urge I’ve
ever felt, I want to run to him, slam him hard in the chest, and knock the life
from him—just like he did to me.