The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

  I still can’t wrap my head around why it took her so long to tell me that she’s gay. Yes, some people are assholes, but I’d like to think I’m not one of those people. How can you judge people based solely on their sexuality? That’s only a small part of who they are! And it’s not like they can change it, as though it were a bad dye-job or an unsightly outfit. I would never think any less of someone for being who they are. Doesn’t Payton know me well enough to understand that? Of course she does… but I guess it doesn’t matter how well you think you know someone, there’s always a fear that they’ll abandon you. After all, it’s the people you care about the most who can cut you the deepest.

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  The plane lands in New Orleans after three-and-a-half cramped hours, and I cannot wait to get my feet on terra firma. First class boasts extended leg room, but that is a crock of BS. I feel horrible for everyone on the flight who isn’t in the “elite” seating.

  I meet my driver at the baggage claim. He’s holding a sign that says “Bettencourt,” and I sprint toward him before anyone else can catch wind of it. He grabs my luggage from the conveyor belt despite my determination to do it myself and then checks his itinerary. “Ms. Bettencourt, looks like I’m taking you to the Windsor Resort first then to meet with Mr. Ryan at 3:30.”

  “Okay, firstly, the name is Kendall.” I extend my hand to introduce myself properly.

  He shakes my offered hand. “Ricky.”

  “Secondly,” I flip through my organizer. Of course, I can’t find the damn schedule! “Mr. Ryan? I don’t know who that is.”

  “Oh,” he looks at me, startled, and hands me the paper he was reading from. “Jonathan Ryan. He’s a music teacher. You’re supposed to meet him for a lesson.”

  A music lesson! I don’t know why I feel blindsided; I signed on to play a rock star in this movie, after all. I knew I’d have to sing and mock-play guitar, which was almost reason enough for me to turn down the part, but now I actually have to pick up an instrument? I need to call Payton. She will be hysterical. I have zero musical talent.

  “Okay, Ricky.” I sigh. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  The first thing I do when I get to my hotel room is call Payton in a tizzy.

  “Land safely?” she answers.

  “Yes, but I’m freaking out.”

  There’s silence on the line for a moment. “You’ve been there for an hour. What could you possibly be freaking out about already?”

  “Music lessons.” I was right when I said she’d be hysterical. She’s squawking like a murder of crows. “How is this funny, Payton?”

  “The one thing you couldn’t stick with, they’re making you do.”

  “I couldn’t stick with it because I knew I was crap.”

  “That isn’t true, and you know it. I tried to teach you some piano, and you quit after, what, two lessons? You could have gotten it if you would’ve been patient.”

  “Patience is a virtue I’ve never had. You know that.”

  “That’s because you’re, like, instantly good at everything you do… and I bet you could’ve been good at the piano, too, if you would’ve stuck with it.”

  “The instructor’s name is Jonathan Ryan. Payton, the guy has two first names! He’s sure to be an ass.”

  “Um, Payton Taylor. Hello?”

  “But…” I start in protest. She cuts me off.

  “Kendall, I have to go to class. Here are your instructions, short and sweet: You’re going to the lesson. You will pay attention, and you will put some effort into it. I’m sure they don’t expect you to be an overnight virtuoso. They probably want you to get a handle on the logistics of it, is all.”

  “Fine!” I whine.

  “Don’t be petulant. You can do it. I know you can.”

  She has so much faith in me, and I have no idea why. I’m glad she does, though. Somebody has to. “I’ll try.” And I will try. For her.

  “Good. Let me know how it goes… tomorrow, though. I’ve gotta read six chapters tonight for my History of German Douchebaggery class, and I have to start a paper for Modern Lit.”

  “History of German Douchebaggery,” I say with a snort. “Okay. Kick ass on all that.”

  “Kick ass on your lesson,” she replies then hangs up.

  Once again, Payton has talked me off a ledge. I’ve lost count of how much I owe her.

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  I meet Jonathan Ryan at a full-fledged recording studio. I’m talking wall-to-wall noise-cancelling glass complete with condenser microphones hanging from the ceiling. I only know what the hell a condenser microphone is because I dated a sound guy last summer.

  I can tell this dude is a jerk from Jump Street. His hair is gelled into spikes, and he’s wearing eyeliner. Eyeliner, for god’s sake! I want to tell him that he looks like a poser, but that would only make this experience even less enjoyable.

  “Hi. I’m Jon,” he says in a thick southern twang and hustles me toward a black Baby Grand. Right away, I’m thinking of how easily Payton could rock out on that thing. Me? Not so much. “I know the character you’re playing is a guitarist, and you’re not expected to play,” he continues, “but the director wanted you to ‘experience the feel of the music at its roots,’ whatever that means. I think the best way to go about this is with the piano.”

  Okay, I may have been wrong about this guy. There is a slight chance he won’t be so bad. “So what do you want me to do?”

  He pulls the bench away from the piano, sits down and motions for me to join him. “Let’s find out what you know.”

  I look at him like he’s dense. What do I know? Something in the ballpark of nada. I think back to all the times I’d sat with Payton at the piano in her living room. It was old and had belonged to her grandfather who’d played with the likes of John Coltrane and Miles Davis, she told me. She tried to teach me rudimentary things. Now, I wish I had paid closer attention.

  I place my fingers on the keys and press down lightly on a few. One note in particular sounds familiar. Payton used to tap it over and over again. “Is that Middle C? I think that’s what it’s called, I don’t know.”

  “That’s right, it is Middle C. That’s the beginning of the C Major scale. The scale, in whole notes, is CDEFGABC.” He plays each white key as he names them.

  Encouraged, I press the second white key next to Middle C, twice. “E, E,” I say and continue. Before long I’ve played an entire series of notes, first with one hand, then with two. “That’s Brain Stew by Green Day,” I proclaim with pride.

  “Is it?” He asks. “Who taught you that?”

  “Payton,” I say—just her name, as though everyone in the entire world knows exactly who I’m talking about and no further explanation is necessary. But then I remember that not everyone on the planet knows Payton. They know me, and I know her. “I’m sorry. A friend I grew up with taught me. Her name is Payton. She plays guitar and piano and everything else. She’s completely into music. I think she’s responsible for most of the artists I have on my iPod.”

  He nods. “Can you play anything else?”

  I clear my throat. In my head, I’m hearing a song Payton and I used to play together. She taught me the simpler part, and she played the more complex notes. “Yeah, but I need some help with it.” I press the keys slowly.

  Jon knows the duet. He plays the part Payton usually does. I start humming along with the notes, then singing. We play the song through to the end.

  “You have a nice voice,” he says. “Right on key. That’s the most difficult thing to teach, the concept of being on key. It’s either something you have or you don’t.”

  I shrug. “Thanks.”

  “It sounds like there isn’t much more you need to know. You should thank your friend for giving you a solid introduction.”

  “I will.”

  He stands and steps away from the piano. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Good luck with the film.” He extends his hand to me, an
d I shake it.

  “It was nice to meet you, too. Thank you for your time.”

  “No problem,” he says. “Take care.”

  I’m headed toward the door, about to reach for the handle, when Jon appears at my side. He pulls the door open, holds it steady.

  “What is this, chivalry?” I laugh. “I thought that was dead.”

  He grins. “Not here in the South, it isn’t.”

  “Thanks,” I say and move to exit the room.

  “Hang on. Since you’re going to be in New Orleans for a while, I thought maybe I could take you out sometime—show you around the city and everything. I’m assuming that I wouldn’t be stepping on your boyfriend’s toes, of course.”

  I study him for a moment. He seems like a nice guy, and I’m impressed he had the balls to ask, as most guys would just stand there in a stupor, salivating all over themselves. But I really am dead set on taking a vacation from the dating scene to focus all my energy on becoming the best actress I can be; no boy who wears eyeliner is going to persuade me to do otherwise.

  “Listen, Jon, I appreciate you asking, but my schedule is going to be packed while I’m here. I’ll probably be so rundown that I doubt I’ll be up for hanging out in whatever free time I may have.”

  “I understand.” He seems disappointed, but cool. He hands me his business card. “In case you should find yourself in need of a tour guide, call me.”

  I take the card and put it in my pocket. “Okay. I’ll do that,” I say, but I already know I won’t. The only thing I’ve gotten from meeting him is a bizarre urge to learn more piano.

  Ricky is waiting for me by the car when I get outside. He opens the door to the back seat, and I climb in. According to the itinerary, I have the rest of the day to myself.

  “Would you like to go back to the hotel, Ms. Bettencourt?”

  “Kendall,” I correct him. “Would you happen to know anyplace I could pick up a keyboard or something?”

  He laughs. “Kendall, you’re in the Big Easy. We’re knee-deep in music here. I can find you a wobble board if you’d like one.”

  I have no idea what a wobble board is, but it sounds like the coolest thing ever. “Excellent! Let’s track one of those down, too.”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  I text Payton when I get back to my room, “I bought a keyboard. It’s a Yamaha PSR-E333. The guy at the store told me it’s good for beginners. Think you can teach me?”

  I receive a text back straightaway. “I’m guessing your lesson went well. I can try to show you some stuff over Skype, but you should hire a professional—someone to be there with you as you go along.”

  Nope. All the effort she put into trying to teach me, and I brushed it off. It feels wrong to let someone else pick up where she left off. “I remembered how to play ‘Brain Stew’ and ‘Heart and Soul.’ I remembered where Middle C was. If you could teach me that when I was so reluctant to learn, you’re the only one who can teach me anything now,” I send back.

  “Okay,” she replies. “Let me know when you’re free, and we’ll video chat.”

  Good. It’ll be nice to see her face, anyway.

  Her next text reads, “What’s your call-time tomorrow?”

  “I have to be in hair and makeup at 5:30.”

  “In the morning? Oh, how I envy you!”

  I can practically see the sarcasm dripping from her words. “I know. I’m beat. Going to bed soon. I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Sweet dreams!”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  The first two weeks of shooting are horrendous. There isn’t an unscheduled moment from dawn to dusk and to top it off, my co-star, Rebecca, is an amateur at best. Every scene we have together needs at least ten takes. She’s sweet, has a ton of potential, and her amber eyes remind me of Payton’s, but she clearly isn’t ready for the big time yet. She keeps botching her lines—not because she doesn’t know them, but because her confidence is lacking. I want her to succeed as much as I want this film to succeed, so I suggest we continue to workshop the script together. She shows up at my door after a long Friday on set with the most dejected expression on her face and a crinkled script in her hand.

  “Nope! Nuh uh,” I say. “I’m going to close this door. You’re going to knock again, and when I open it I want to see some enthusiasm on your face, like this,” I flash a huge grin. “Got it?”

  She bares her teeth. “Is this good enough?”

  “Perfect!” I invite her in and lead her over to the couch. “Want something to drink?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Sure.” I click my tongue. “So, where do you want to start?”

  She flips to scene thirty-two—a very angry build-up to a very hot love scene. “I think I’d like to run through this one. I’ve got the lines down, but I think we should work on the… I don’t know.”

  “The chemistry,” I agree.

  “Yeah, the chemistry. I’m nervous about it. I’ve never shot a scene this choreographed. And it’s my first on-screen love scene, so I want to get it right.”

  I know where she’s coming from. Your first on-screen love scene is the most awkward thing in the entire world. It’s supposed to look natural, but it’s so ridiculously technical. If you don’t handle it with care, it can easily turn into a total mess. I mean, you don’t have anyone barking directions at you when you’re getting it on in real life, do you?

  “Okay. Let’s go for it.” I read the slug line aloud, “INT. KATIE’S HOTEL ROOM – AFTERNOON,” and continue. Both of us need to be standing relatively close to a bed, according to the directions, so we stand. “You’re wearing that?” I finger the collar of her shirt like it’s the strings of a hoodie. “You could at least make an effort.”

  “We’re going to an interview for a magazine, not the Grammys,” she pushes my hand away. “What am I supposed to wear? Shredded jeans and a dog collar, like you?” She pauses. “Goddamn it, Katie! You used to be a musician. Now you’re just some desperate rock star. Always gotta look the part. Always gotta be high on something.”

  That was good, very smooth. “Look the part?” I sniffle, per the directions. “I am the part! I’ve spent every waking hour trying to get exactly where I am right now! I crawled through the shit, played in every dive and gutter to get here. I worked my ass off. Now that I’ve made it, I’m enjoying it! What’s the problem?”

  “You think you were alone in those dives? Sam and Tracy and I were right there with you the whole time! The problem is you’re the only one who’s changed! I used to be so in love with your talent and with you. But you turned into a junky and before you know it, all you’ll be is a has-been.”

  I’m supposed to push her onto the bed while kissing her passionately. But I can’t. I’m frozen in place. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. I’m just me now; Katie has left the building. “That was great. I just like to save the actual physical part for when they call ‘action.’ It feels more genuine that way.”

  “Oh yeah, good thinking,” she replies. “We’re going to rock this scene.”

  “For sure,” I concur. But I’m not so sure. There’s an enormous lump in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow.

  “Hey, I’m starving,” she takes the focus off the giant elephant in the room that apparently only I can see. “You want to head down to the bar across the street and try some of the black crawfish I’ve been hearing about?”

  “Crawfish?” I am entirely grossed out at the idea of chomping on something that looks like a crossbreed between a scorpion and a lobster, but Rebecca seems fun and adventurous. I could use a bit of fun and adventure. “There isn’t anything I’d like to try more!”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  It turns out Rebecca is exactly what I expected her to be. She’s loud, rowdy, and quite a partier. I learn her entire life story while watching her inhale tequila shots. She’s twenty-two, originally from Iowa, and has been living in Los Angeles for four years. She has a boyfrien
d named Tom, a dog named Chutney, and a father who never believed she’d amount to anything. I tell her that I’m single, that I don’t have a dog, and that my mom is the epitome of a pushy “stage mom.” Thanks to the Internet, she already knows all about where I’m from and how I got my start. It’s strange to think that anyone who wants to can consult the web and magically know all about me.

  It’s after two in the morning when I decide I need to leave.

  “I’m gon’ stay n’ make some new friends,” she slurs. No one in the crowded bar is paying much attention to us, but I don’t think I should leave a pretty, drunken girl by herself at a pub in the French Quarter. That screams disaster to me.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I slam some cash on the bar, stand up, and sling her arm around my shoulders. The second we try to leave, I see people pulling out their cell phones to capture us on video. Wonderful. I’m underage, carrying an inebriated girl from a bar in the dead of night, and some crappy rag mag will have photo evidence of the whole event by the time the sun rises. I’m tempted to deadpan a camera and say “Hi, Ma. Aren’t you proud?” but that would almost certainly be the dumbest thing I could do in this situation. Lawrence is already going to shit a brick and beat me with it. I needn’t say anything to fuel the fire.

  By the time we stumble into Rebecca’s room, I am thoroughly exhausted. She passes out almost as soon as her head hits the pillow. I roll my eyes and leave her to her own devices. When I reach my room, I fall into bed without bothering to change into pajamas. I’m finding sleep elusive, though. The way the night ended is bugging me. I try to avoid nights like these. I kind of like my budding reputation as Hollywood’s “good girl.” I like to present myself as fun-loving, yet dignified. There are too many people in this business who strive to make themselves seem much “cooler” than anyone needs to be. Besides, if getting so sloshed that you need to be carried home is the public’s idea of cool, I’d much rather be thought of as lame.

  I click a text to Payton, although I know she won’t be awake to answer it. “Sorry I haven’t texted in a while. Things are insane here. Tonight was my first break from filming in forever, and my co-star got wasted. Pick up a gossip mag on Monday if you need a laugh. Have the day off tomorrow! Hope to talk to you. XOXO Kendall.”