How We Deal With Gravity(78)
“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.