How We Deal With Gravity(9)

“You never would have what, Mason? You never would have made fun of him if you knew he was mine? But if he’s someone else’s child, someone else’s son, then he’s fair game to call names?” I can tell I’ve backed him into a corner, because the shameful look on his face is the same one I’ve imagined putting there millions of times.

“He’s five, Mason. He’s just a kid. But there you go, swooping right on in and exploiting whatever makes him different,” I’m on a roll now, and Mason is getting a lifetime of my pent-up resentment. “Gahhhh, you are exactly the same person you were when you left. No wonder you ended up back here. Some f*cking music career, Mason—why don’t you go back and tend to your dish soap?”

I spin around so fast, and leave him standing there alone, I don’t have time to take in what I know is a crippling look of shock. For once in my life, I said the exact thing I would have pretended to say when I relived the day in my shower. And it feels wonderful.





Chapter 3: Speaking Max


Mason



Getting slapped by Avery Abbot was enough to make me change my entire opinion of her being weak. But getting put in my place, and being called a failure? Ooooph—that one stuck with me all night and well into this morning.

I left the bar after she ripped me apart, just glad that we were alone when she did so no one could give me shit for it. I gave myself enough shit. Feeling guilty was strange for me. I’m starting to wonder why I thought staying with Ray Abbot was such a good idea in the first place—he’s done nothing but tell me what a disappointment I am, and his daughter thinks I’m a complete jerk.

I am a jerk—who am I kidding?

I travel light. When I left home the first time, five years ago, it was with my giant football bag stuffed with every piece of clothing I owned. I still have the same damned bag, and the clothes inside haven’t changed much either. I dragged that and my guitar into the house last night, and into the small spare room with the blow-up mattress. I slept here a few times in high school—when I wasn’t getting along with one of my mom’s boyfriends.

Ray’s always been my escape plan. It’s funny; when I look back on it now, I think Avery kind of liked it when I stayed at her house. She used to sit in the hall when I sat on the spare bed and played a song. She’d never come all the way into the room—too nervous. But she would sit there, with her skinny legs folded up into her chest, hugging them to her body.

We’re the same age, maybe a few months apart, but she’s always seemed younger, like a child that I had to be careful around. She was good at school—student council, honor society…shit like that. I scraped by. Football, basketball, and girls—that’s how I spent my time. And damn, when Ray started putting me on stage, the girls part got really easy.

By the time I was a senior, Avery wasn’t interested in listening to me play any more. I didn’t really care because she was never my type. Somehow, though, she’s the only thing on my goddamned mind this morning.

This house is so quiet. I think Ray’s awake; I swear I can hear something happening in the kitchen downstairs. Everything in this house is old, but the kitchen is from the fifties. The cabinets have been painted yellow a few times, so much so they stick when you open them. The stove has coils, and they smell when you turn it on—burning off whatever was cooked last. The fridge vibrates when you open it because the suction is so strong you actually need to brace part of it with your foot when you tug on the door.

It’s almost eight in the morning, and I’ve been up for the last two hours. I pull my guitar onto my lap and strum it once, just to see if anyone notices.

Nothing.

I’ll play lightly. Avery and Max’s bedroom is on the other end of the hall, so I don’t think I’ll wake them. I loop the strap over my head, and position myself with my knee bent on the corner of the mattress. It’s not ideal, but I haven’t touched my guitar in days. I start to get scared I’ll forget what it feels like, where to put my fingers, if I don’t at least play for a few minutes.

This guitar has always been home. As soon as I touch the strings, I’m gone—there’s this melody I’ve been trying to work out for weeks. I haven’t written in months, but this one phrase seems to keep repeating every time I play. There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t seem to work it out. It’s kind of like my life.

My eyes are closed when I hear the sound of someone’s breathing. It’s not Ray, because his is heavy—labored. I’m hoping—damn it, I’m actually hoping—that I’ll see Avery at my door, when I peel one eye open and look right at Max.

He’s not surprised to see me. Avery must have explained to him that I’d be in their house. He doesn’t even seem to be nervous around a stranger. He’s just staring intently at my hands, watching my fingers move up and down the length of the guitar. It’s like he’s memorizing every movement, the way his eyes twitch a little with every motion.

I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, I’m shit with kids. I’ve never really been around them, except for my friends when we were growing up, but I don’t think that counts. I just keep playing instead of talking, and Max seems to be fine with that.

I start to change up the melody a little, and Max clearly notices, his eyes flashing wider for a fraction of a second—like a computer memorizing more data. He hasn’t moved a single step from his position in the very center of my doorway. His hands are limp at his sides, and he’s swaying a little. I’ve played for a good five or six minutes under his watch, and at this point I’m not even being quiet anymore.