The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  Saturday is the cast’s first full day of rest since day one. I spend most of the day reading and lounging by the indoor pool with the rest of my cast mates. Lauren Atwell—the actress playing Tracy, the bassist—is beyond cool. I met her briefly once at a premier, but this is the first chance I’ve had to really get to know her. She’s twenty. She likes to read and go to concerts. She’s been acting since she was ten, though this is her first major studio production. I get her phone number so we can hang out back in LA. Spencer St. Germaine, our drummer, is the only one of us who can play his instrument for real. He’s sweet, but spends most of his time on the phone with his girlfriend.

  In time, Rebecca joins us. It becomes apparent to everybody that she is hung over when she keeps calling us by our characters’ names.

  “Someone had a rough night,” Lauren says.

  Spencer, finally detached from his cell, says, “Yeah, you look like you lost a match with an MMA fighter.”

  “I feel like I lost a match with an MMA fighter,” Rebecca replies. “Thanks for getting me back to my room last night,” she says to me.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply while checking my phone for any texts I may have missed. It’s late afternoon, and I still haven’t heard anything from Payton. It’s worrying. That’s not at all like her. She usually gets back to me ASAP when she knows I have free time.

  “Waiting for your boyfriend to call?” Spencer asks.

  It’s the most irritating thing that everyone assumes I have a boyfriend, like it’s impossible for me to be happily unattached. “Why does everyone always ask me about the boyfriend I don’t have?” My voice sounds much sharper than I intended it to. They all pick up on it.

  “Sorry,” Spencer nods. “It just seems like you’re waiting for a call.”

  “Is that a sore subject, the boyfriend thing?” Lauren questions.

  “I’m waiting for a friend to get in touch with me. I sent her a text last night, and I’d normally have heard back from her by now.” I shrug. “And no, it’s not a sore subject. I’m just not interested in a relationship right now.”

  Just then, my phone rings. It’s Payton. I hop to my feet, distance myself slightly from everyone so that I can talk to her privately. “Hey. Did you get my text?” I wonder if maybe it got lost across the great, expansive airways of America.

  “Yes, I did. Sorry. I had a study group this morning. I went for coffee with a girl from the group afterward.”

  “Oh.” A spark of jealousy ignites inside me, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like Payton would ever replace me. Would she? “You were on a date?” That isn’t any of your damn business. And shouldn’t you be happy for her if it was a date?

  “Um, sure, if you consider a two-hour conversation about the Nazi occupation of Europe a date. That would be the worst date ever and likely put me off women altogether.”

  I laugh. “You’re right, that would be the worst date ever.”

  We talk for over an hour and set up a video chat session for when I get back to LA. After she hangs up, I rejoin the pack by the pool. Rebecca and Spencer are horsing around in the water. Lauren is smirking at me. “Got that call you were waiting for?”

  I plop into a lounge chair. “Yeah. My friend, Payton.”

  “That’s good. I could tell you were worried.”

  “I haven’t been able to talk to her much lately, since we’ve been so crazy busy with filming.” I decide right then that I will never take another part in a film that’s only in production for thirty-one days. It’s too much, too quickly.

  She furrows her brow. “Afraid she’ll forget about you?”

  “No.” It’s more me forgetting about her, though I know that could never, ever happen. “I just always think I’m missing out on things back home. Even in high school, when I was just doing TV shows and small films—I worked so hard, scooping up as many roles as I could get. People say high school is the greatest four years of their lives. When I actually managed to be there, it was great. Yet I know I missed some of the most important things. I wasn’t there for prom. I wasn’t there for graduation. I wasn’t there for my best friend when she was dealing with what was, in all probability, the hardest thing she’s ever had to deal with.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into when you signed up for fame and fortune.”

  “I wanted to be an actress, strived to be a great one, but I was kind of ill-prepared to be famous. Like, there’s this bizarre new thing that’s been happening to me lately; I keep catching paparazzi hiding in the bushes in front of my apartment building!”

  “Yikes.” She laughs. “I haven’t had to deal with that much absurdity yet.”

  “Want to trade lives with me?” I ask, only half-joking. “Mine’s becoming kind of insane.”

  “No, thanks, I’m good with getting paid for being a tiny blip on the radar. If you think it’s bad now, wait until award season comes around. In Heaven’s Arms was incredible. If you don’t get an Elite Awards nod, there isn’t any hope for the rest of us.”

  “Oh god, that is the last thing I want. I’d be honored and flabbergasted to the point of muteness, but I don’t want to deal with that kind of attention. It’s gotten hard enough already to have anything that’s personal.”

  She nods. “I guess that’s how you know you’ve made it, when privacy becomes a mythical thing.”

  “I guess so. I suppose I’d better take a deep breath and hold on for dear life.”

  She laughs again. “Definitely.”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  Finally, it’s the last day on set. Everyone is beyond ready to wrap at this point. But today is the day I have been dreading—the filming of scene thirty-two. I’ve never enjoyed doing sex scenes, but this one is freaking me out much worse than any I’ve had to do before. It’s a closed set, so only the most necessary cast and crew will be loitering around as it happens. Normally, that makes it easier for me, but this time, it isn’t helping at all.

  As my call-time approaches, I contemplate chugging some vodka or something to help loosen me up. I feel shoddy, like this is the ultimate assessment of my acting abilities and soon everyone will see what an unqualified fraud I am. I can fake playing a girl left dazed and lonely by her sudden shot to stardom because that isn’t such a stretch from the person I really am. I can even fake playing the stupid guitar. But this love scene, the way it’s written… it’s too passionate, too real for me to counterfeit. I’ve never experienced anything like it in real life, so I’ve got very little to draw on. I am going to bomb.

  We’re standing around, waiting for the gaffers to adjust the lighting. I sneak off to the chair where I left my phone. I flip through the contacts and punch the key for “Payton” while wondering if she ever gets tired of talking me through my absurd crises.

  “What’s wrong, Kendall?” She questions as soon as she picks up. She knows me so well, it’s frightening. Suddenly, a shroud of guilt takes hold of me. I start thinking about all the times she must have needed me to be a phone call away, and I wasn’t.

  “Nothing is wrong, per se. I just need a potent shot of reassurance. You were the first person who came to mind.” Nice going. Way to sound like a stage-five clinger. “Remember when I told you I got to kiss that up-and-comer? We’re shooting that scene in, like, five minutes, and the revised version involves much more than kissing.”

  “So, Kendall Bettencourt, the best actress in the business, is nervous. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I can’t act. I can’t do anything. Let’s move on.”

  “Oh, please.” She draws out the ‘ease.’ “Acting is like breathing for you, drama queen. Close your eyes and pretend you’re in your own space, kissing someone you’d kiss if you weren’t acting.” She pauses. “Think of Jared.”

  “Jared?” I let out a boisterous cackle. The crew around me stops what they’re doing to glower at me. Jared. Gross. That car crashed and burned when we were fifteen. Ab
solutely nothing was salvaged from the wreckage. “I would never kiss Jared again, even if he were the last living thing on earth. Seriously, I’d make out with a dead cactus first.”

  “Made you laugh, though,” she says. “It can be anyone, anyone at all. Picture someone you’re comfortable with. Hell, picture that dead cactus if it’s easier than what you have to work with.”

  “Okay.” The assistant director taps my shoulder. This is happening… like imminently. “Thanks, Payton. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Good luck.”

  Sure, I could picture someone I’m comfortable with. The problem is that the first person who pops into my head is the last person I should ever think about kissing.

  Rebecca steps next to me looking über self-assured. “Are you ready to kill it?”

  “Of course,” I smile. More like it’s ready to kill me.

  Action is called. I steady myself before moving closer to her. “You’re wearing that?” I tug at the strings of her sweatshirt, disgusted. “You could at least make an effort.”

  She slaps my hand away. “We’re going to an interview for a magazine, not the Grammys. What am I supposed to wear? Shredded jeans and a dog collar, like you?” She pauses and so does my heart. “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.”

  I wipe at my nose with my palm, sniffle. “Look the part? 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… before you know it, all you’ll be is a has-been.”

  She’s right in my face, now. The heat between us is palpable. Suddenly, they’re not Rebecca’s eyes I’m looking into—they’re Payton’s. I gulp hard. What I’m feeling isn’t comfort; it’s something else entirely.

  Do it! I close my eyes, reach behind her head, and grab her ponytail. The next thing I know, I’m voraciously shoving my lips against hers. She wraps her arms around me. Her hands settle on my back momentarily then abruptly move to the hem of my shirt. Her mouth breaks contact with mine for a split second as she pulls the shirt over my head, exposes my black lace bra to the camera. Then her lips smash into mine again. We move together in unison—still kissing—and fall back onto the bed. I’m on top. She’s writhing against me from below. To everyone watching, I’m acting, but very much to my chagrin, I’m turned on for real. It’s distracting in the worst possible way.

  I force myself to concentrate on the script directions. I’m supposed to speedily unbutton her pants, but it feels totally wrong. To hell with that. Instead of pulling her jeans off in one quick motion, I slow it down. I slide the waistband down around her thighs, making a point to touch her skin in the process. I tug at the bottom cuff of each leg—first the right and then the left. I crumple the jeans into a ball and throw them to the floor. I slither up her body to look into her eyes once more. She bites her lip and curls her hand behind my neck. We meet half way and kiss again. She glides her tongue into my mouth, making this guttural moaning sound that reverberates deep in the hollows of my chest.

  “Cut!” resounds from behind the camera. I have to force myself to stop. “That was perfect, ladies. It’s a wrap, people!”

  Everyone cheers except me and Rebecca. She grabs her pants from the floor. I pick up my shirt. We sit back down on the bed, avoiding each other’s gaze as we dress.

  She looks at me when we’re both fully clothed. “That was…”

  “Intense,” we say in unison.

  “I was thinking about Tom the whole time and getting thrown off. You know, due to the lack of stubble.” She rubs her chin and giggles.

  “Yeah, I bet.” I don’t want to tell her who I was thinking about. “So, wrap party?”

  “Hell yes.”

  ❄ ❄ ❄

  I receive a wake-up call from the front desk at nine. Having left the post-wrap party a mere four hours earlier, nine in the morning seems like such an ungodly hour. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late, and I definitely shouldn’t have downed so much wine, but I really had to get out of my own obnoxious brain. Predictably, the brain I had to get out of so badly is currently paying me back by hammering incredibly hard against the sides of my skull.

  Ricky arrives at 9:45 to drive me to the airport. I say hello to him and try to help him load my luggage into the car. He doesn’t allow it. “Have yet to play this keyboard, huh?” He taps the large box as he places it in the trunk. I made a pact with myself that the first time I’d take the keyboard out of its packaging would be the start of my first official lesson with Payton. Payton. Her birthday is this Friday. I haven’t been around to celebrate her birthday with her in years.

  “I haven’t had much time.”

  He opens the door. I scoot into the backseat.

  “Are you ready to head on home?” he asks once he’s in the driver’s seat.

  Home. Yes, I’m ready to go home. I grab my Blackberry from my handbag, scroll through the contacts, and press the call button.

  “Wilhelm and Bettencourt Architectural,” my father’s secretary answers.

  “Sandra? Hi, it’s Kendall.” Sandra is great. She’s always so up-beat and makes a big deal when anyone calls the office, not just me. “Is my dad around?”

  “Oh, hi honey! Glad to hear from you! Hold on a second. I’ll patch you through to his office.”

  The line rings and rings and rings.

  “Hey Pumpkin,” my dad answers cheerfully. No matter how old I get or how long it’s been since I’ve seen or talked to him, I’ll always be his Pumpkin. “You were all over The Inquirer a few weeks ago. Way to go.” He laughs.

  My dad. I miss him so much. And my real friends. And air that isn’t so smoggy. And the view of New York City from across the Hudson. The list of things I miss goes on and on. “Yeah, I thought you’d be glad to see I was having ever so much fun on location.”

  “I was glad. Naturally, your mother was in shambles over it.”

  It’s my turn to laugh before getting very quiet. “Daddy, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I was wondering…” I feel peculiar, and it’s completely unreasonable. This is the man I still call daddy, I’m talking to. “I was wondering if I could come stay with you and Mom for a while? Two weeks, tops. Maybe until a couple of days after Thanksgiving?” The only downside to this plan is that I’ll have to spend more time with my mother than I’d like, but it’ll be worth it if I get to hang out with my dad and my friends.

  He’s silent for a second. “Kendall, you don’t ever have to ask to stay with us. It’s your home, too. Is everything all right?”

  I want to ramble off the list of things I miss, tell him that I feel unbelievably lonely even though the entirety of humankind seems to be fixated on me. “Everything’s fine. I just need to get away for a while.”

  “I don’t know why you’d want to get away to Clifton when you could go to Cancun, but we would love to have you with us for a while, especially for Thanksgiving.”

  “Awesome.” I’m beyond thankful. “Okay, I’m headed to the airport now. I have to change my flight. I should be home later tonight.”

  “Okie doke. We’ll see you when you get here.” I can hear the smile in his voice and in my own as we say our goodbyes.

  Once the call ends, I open the phone’s picture folder and scroll through the photos: tons of me and the Idol cast clowning around, nearly as many of me and my Hollywood friends at parties and premiers, a few of me and my parents, a few of me, Jared, and Sarah, and one of Payton. One. She has always hated posing for pictures, but I managed to snap one w
hen she wasn’t paying attention at Sarah’s Fourth of July barbeque last summer. She’s sitting in a lawn chair with an acoustic guitar in her lap. She’s facing the camera but looking at something out of frame. The sun is setting to the left of her, shining an ethereal glow across her face. Beautiful.

  “Change of plans?” The sound of Ricky’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

  “Yep,” I nod. “I’m going home.”

  I catch him smiling in the rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Payton

  I’m sitting at my usual spot in the student center café, reading through my World War II textbook and wondering why I have to bother taking all the standard academic courses. I wanted to go to Berklee to major in Film Scoring. I should’ve gone to Berklee, considering Montclair doesn’t offer a single Film Scoring–concentrated class. In the end, it all came down to money. MSU offered me a much larger scholarship. And, I’ll never admit to this if anyone were to ask, I was kind of scared at the prospect of being so far away from home. I wasn’t ready for that back then. I’m not sure I’d be ready for it now, either.

  I’m this close to finishing my last assigned chapter when a bothersome commotion erupts in the hallway, ripping my focus away from the page. I glance through the interior windows to see what the hell all the ruckus is about. There’s a sizeable crowd gathered in front of the vending machines, but I can’t catch a glimpse of what’s got everyone so riled up. I slam my book closed, deciding to head to the practice rooms in the John J. building for some peace and quiet.

  I’m about to pass the vending machines when I feel a hand grab my elbow and stop me dead in my tracks. “What the hell do you think you’re–?” I start, ready to throw a fist. Before I can finish my sentence, I’m glowering into a pair of huge sunglasses.

  My breath catches in my throat when I recognize who I’m staring at. “Kendall? Oh my god!” Instantly, I’m in her arms, hugging her tightly. I’m not even worried about whether or not touching her will make me feel all edgy inside. “What are you doing here?”