How We Deal With Gravity(10)
“Do you want to try?” I say, my hands still making music.
Max doesn’t answer, but just continues to stare. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. I know he doesn’t like to look people in the eyes—I got that much from last night. And I know he doesn’t like to talk much. Hell, I don’t either—I get him more than he knows.
The sounds downstairs start to pick up, so I stop strumming and pull the guitar strap from around my neck. Max is still looking at it, but not moving from his spot. I lean it against the edge of the mattress, there and available, while I leave the room. Maybe it’s just a weird fantasy, but part of me feels like maybe if I’m not looking, Max will pick it up and start to play.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I lean back to peek to see if Max has gone into my room, but he hasn’t. I can still see his feet, his body swaying in the doorway. He probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with his mom—I can see Avery being strict with him, telling him not to touch stuff that isn’t his.
As soon as the smell hits my senses, I’m suddenly fifteen again. Ray’s skillet is bubbling with bacon and sausage—and I swear it’s swimming in the very same grease it was when he used to make me breakfast years ago.
“Now that’s how a man likes to wake up,” I say, pulling my arms over my head into a wide stretch and patting Ray on the back.
“Breakfast ain’t free, ya know. Take the trash out, would ya? There’s old eggs in there,” Ray says, nodding toward the trash bin by the door.
I salute him and run up the stairs quickly to grab my shoes so I can haul the trash outside. Max isn’t in my doorway anymore, but his own door is now closed. I wonder if he just went back to bed, or if his mom is awake? Who am I kidding—I just want to know if Avery’s home, and if I’m going to get to see her this morning.
I skip back down the stairs and grab the bag of trash by the door and walk it around to the side of the house. It’s funny how very little has changed. Ray’s GMC pickup is still pulled up on part of the lawn, and it looks like Avery’s taken over the Buick; I can see a booster seat in the back.
Avery’s mom used to pick her up from school in that car, but after she died from breast cancer, Ray just let it sit in the driveway—untouched. We were seniors when Ruthie passed away—I remember Avery changed after that, too. Not that we talked much then, but she always had this light in her, this fire. She was a go-getter, the one who was going to leave this place to change the world, make it better. But after her mom died, she sort of slipped into the background. I guess Adam was there to pick her up.
I kick the tire on the Buick out of fondness—I’m glad to see the tires full again. I take in the rest of the outside of the house on my way back inside, too. The paint is chipping, and the siding is slipping in a few spots. If I stay here long enough, I’m going to have to put in some work on the place. That’s the least I could do for Ray.
By the time I’m back in the kitchen, Avery’s made it downstairs. She’s wearing a gigantic long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of black leggings, her hair all twisted on top of her head. She looks like sunshine in the morning. She’s pouring a glass of juice, and mouthing something in a whisper to her dad. She hushes as soon as she sees me, and I feel like even more of a f*cking loser than I did just an hour ago.
“Hey, Ray. You know, I’ve been thinking—I didn’t realize you had such a full house and all. I can just stay at the apartment. Mom’s still up on the rent…” I start, and I notice the fraction of a smile curl on Avery’s lips. She’s relieved, and it makes me feel like shit—but it’s short-lived, because Ray squashes my idea the second I suggest it.
“Shut it. You’re staying here. Now eat your breakfast,” Ray says, sliding a plate to me. I sit down and prop my elbows up on either side before grabbing a fork and digging in. I sneak a glimpse at Avery again, and the smile that started seconds ago has been replaced with a look of pain.
This entire trip back home is torture. My mind is spinning, trying to come up with an idea—a way out. But I’m broke. I mean I have a small amount in savings, but the label barely paid me a dime, and the guys are all sorting out their own shit, just as broke as I am. I’m stuck here. And as long as I’m not kidding myself, I’m probably stuck here for a while—at least until I can book myself some gigs and earn enough to try and make a go at this on my own.
Avery won’t even look at me. I try to open my mouth, start a conversation with her, at least a dozen times—but every time I’m left with my mouth agape, nothing to say. I could apologize, but I’ve done that. She doesn’t want to hear it. I could ask her what’s wrong with Max, but I’m not going near that conversation. That’s what earned me the * of the year honor in the first place.
“Max coming down?” Ray asks as he slides into his seat with a full plate of sausage and eggs. I’m so grateful he’s picked up the conversation.
“He should be. He was writing something upstairs. I couldn’t get him to stop,” Avery says, looking back to the stairs.
“I can go get him? Tell him breakfast is ready?” my words come out anxious and desperate, leaving my mouth so fast that I didn’t have time to think. Avery’s just staring at me with disgust, her brow pinched, as she slides out of her seat and heads upstairs. Fuck, I’m an idiot.