“Amanda Garrison.” She taps the table top as though trying to place a face to the name. “Yeah, I remember her. She was the captain of the soccer team the year before you were, right?”
“Right.”
“Uh huh. What about her?”
Here we go. “I kind of had a thing with her. It wasn’t, like, love at first sight or anything. I just knew that I liked her and that she liked me, too. We started talking a lot after practice, went out on a couple of dates. Eventually her parents found out about it; I’m still not sure how. They went through her text messages or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, her mom totally flipped out. She dragged Amanda to my house and demanded to talk to my mom. Mom wasn’t home—thank God—but when I told Mrs. Garrison that, she started screaming at me. She kept telling me that her daughter wasn’t gay, and I had better stay away from her. She forbid Amanda from seeing me; she even went as far as making her quit the team. From that day on, Amanda wouldn’t even look at me. It was so brutal.
After that, the thought of coming out to anyone was paralyzing. I pretty much dined on an unhealthy diet of self-loathing and terror. It took me a long time to get comfortable in my own skin—I’m still working on it. But at this point, I’m just too exhausted from keeping it a secret to even bother trying anymore.”
Her revolted expression speaks volumes. It’s enough for me to know what she’s going to do next. She reaches across the booth and takes my hand in her own. “Wow, Payton. That’s monumentally messed up. I’m sorry that happened to you. Some people are just so closed-minded.”
“Some people are, and that’s also part of the reason I’ve been hesitant to tell you. You’re a celebrity now. Your face is already plastered all over the tabloids, and you’re just doing normal teenage crap. What if it got out that some girl you’re always flying cross-country to visit is a big old homo? I’m sure that would start some delightful rumors. Rumors create rifts between people. So you see, I wasn’t scared of you. I was scared I might lose you.”
“The tabloids are going to write what they’re going to write regardless of what the truth is, Payton. I can’t let it bother me. Plus, hello? I live in Hollywood. It would be insane to think that I don’t have any gay friends! And lose me? That will never happen. I’m like a bad case of herpes—just ‘cuz you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not there.”
“Herpes! Eww,” I roll my eyes. “That is a horrible analogy.”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of funny and also very true.”
“So, we’re okay then? We’re cool?”
“Are we cool?” She drags out the “cool,” leans back in her seat, and crosses her arms. “Yeah, dude, everything’s cool. Everything’s smooth.” She’s making fun of me, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
“Sweet, dude. Finish your wrap.”
She brings the last bite to her lips and abruptly stops. “Hold the phone. If you’re into girls, what the hell was with you and Scott Strafford the end of junior year?”
“Let’s chalk it up to a last ditch effort at heterosexuality.”
She stuffs the bread into her mouth. “Yeah, you should’ve picked someone else. If I had to choose between that asshole and lesbianism, I’d go gay all the way. Seriously, I considered asking your mom to have you committed. Only a mental patient could’ve fallen for that jerk.”
“I’m going to write The Inquirer and let them know that one of Hollywood’s It Girls talks with her mouth full.”
“See food.” She sticks out her tuna-covered tongue. “It’s all the rage.”
“Charming,” I lark. “No wonder all the guys find you irresistible.”
“Harhar,” she says and grabs the tray from the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Kendall picks me up at noon on Sunday. We have plans to play pool at the billiard hall, Eights, with our friends, Jared and Sarah, but elect to waste time driving around aimlessly for a while. It’s nice to drive around in October; the trees are luscious shades of fiery orange and crimson. Kendall says she misses real foliage because practically all they have in LA are palm trees. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had the time to visit her out there, which is funny when you think about how flexible my schedule is compared to hers. It’s never a good time for me to visit her when she’s in Los Angeles for any extended period. She is always in between projects when I’m swamped with papers or studying for a ton of exams. “You work too hard,” she always says. I usually retort with witty comments about the pot calling the kettle black.
“Why do you stay at the Marriot every time you come home?” I ponder absentmindedly. “You could stay at your parents’ place.”
“I like having my own space.” She crinkles her nose at the song on her iPod, Original Gabber’s drum and bass tune “I Wanna Be (A Motherfucking Hustler),” and quickly skips to the next one. Her head begins to bob in time with the heavy beats and dissonant shrills cascading through the sound system. It’s a diversion, a subtle indication that she is not interested in having this conversation. Tough shit.
“No, you like not having to see your mom.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my mom has been kind of a nightmare since I fired her as my manager. I mean, it’s been a year already. She is never going to let me live it down that I wasn’t going to let her micro-manage my life and tell me what roles I was or was not allowed to accept.”
“Kendall, did you ever stop to think that maybe it’s hard for her? You’ve found so much success so quickly, and you sort of pushed her away to get it.”
“I had to push her away to get where I am, Payton. She didn’t want to let me grow up. If it were up to her, I’d still be on the goddamn Disney channel! That wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to be a serious actor.”
“Put yourself in her shoes. Can you imagine your life being poked into by random people around town, nobody bothering to ask you how you’re doing and going straight to, ‘Oh my god, what is your insanely talented offspring up to now?’ Would she even know the answer to that question?”
“No, she wouldn’t. Truth be told, I can’t even remember the last time I called her.” She groans. “All right, I get it. I’m the worst daughter ever. Thanks for pointing that out.”
I can see the guilt on her face. She knows it doesn’t matter how many mansions or matching sets of red Mercedes she buys her parents. All the shiny toys in existence can’t make up for neglect. “You’re not the worst daughter ever, but when your friends run into your mom at Quick Check and she asks us how you’re doing, I’d say it’s time to pay your parents some attention.”
She frowns. “You’re right.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Why don’t we stop by?”
She purses her lips together. “I can stand a short visit.”
“Great. I haven’t seen your dad in ages.” Mr. Bettencourt is the coolest old guy ever. He used to play soccer at UNC and taught me how to slide tackle without getting field burn. I think it made him happy to teach me stuff like that. Like me, Kendall doesn’t have any siblings. Unlike me, she was never very interested in sports. One time Mr. Bettencourt told me that I was the next best thing to having a son. It was sort of nice, seeing as he was the closest thing I’d ever had to a father—aside from my grandpa, of course.
“You see him more often than I do,” she says in a begrudging tone that makes me want to remind her whose fault that actually is.
“True,” I mumble.
We park in front of her parents’ driveway, effectively blocking in both of their cars. I feel like we should’ve brought flowers, or wine, or something. My mom always says it’s rude to show up at someone’s doorstep empty-handed. Then again, Kendall bought them their doorstep, so that’s got to be more than enough.
She rings the bell and steps to the side of the alcove, hiding herself from view.
“What are you doing?”
“Surprising them,” she whis
pers. “Act natural, doofus.”
“Okay,” I reply literally two seconds before her mother’s silhouette appears behind the frosted glass door.
“Hello, Payton! It’s lovely to see you.” Mrs. Bettencourt pulls me in for a hug.
I feel out of my depth, like, what the hell am I supposed to do now? “Hi, Mrs. B,” I grin. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you for asking. What brings you to our neck of the woods?” She’s smiling at me, and I’m fairly certain this is the first time I’ve noticed how much Kendall resembles her mom. I can picture Kendall when she’s fifty with slight, graceful creases around her mouth from years of good-natured laughter and inviting smiles.
“I brought you a present.” I reach around the brick nook for Kendall’s arm and tug her toward me.
“Hi, Mom,” she says, rather unenthusiastically.
Mrs. Bettencourt seems about ready to burst into tears. She paws at Kendall, pulls her into a tight embrace. “Goodness, you’re skin and bones!”
“I’m an actress, Mom,” Kendall grumbles. “It’s mandatory that I be skin and bones.”
“Good thing you’re here! You’re right on time for dinner,” Mrs. Bettencourt says, ignoring Kendall’s smart retort. She pushes us through the threshold and hollers up the snaking staircase, “David, come downstairs! Our daughter is here!”
Half an hour or so into a rather silent meal time, Mr. Bettencourt decides it’s time to make small-talk. “So, Pumpkin, you’re filming in Louisiana next?” I notice that, unlike his daughter, he refrains from speaking until his mouth is free of food.
Kendall nods. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’ll be there for a month. I had a substantial break between the press tour for In Heaven’s Arms and this new movie though.”
“Enough time to meet a nice young man?” Mrs. Bettencourt wonders.
“Wow, Mom,” Kendall places her fork down on her dish and deadpans her mother. “That was artfully understated.”
Mr. Bettencourt virtually gags on his salmon. He checks his watch and smiles at Kendall. “Well, at least you got nearly an hour into your visit before she started.”
Mrs. Bettencourt turns to her husband. “Honestly, David! I’m just curious. She really ought to make time for a social life. If I were still in charge of her schedule, you’d better believe she’d have ample time for that. She’s only nineteen, for goodness sake.”
“Exactly, I’m nineteen!” Kendall growls. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions. I’m dedicating my effort to work, not ‘meeting a nice young man.’” She sneers at me and says under her breath, “See, this is why I don’t come home.”
“Why can’t you do both?” Mrs. Bettencourt gestures toward me. “I’m sure Payton has a boyfriend despite being busy at college.”
Kendall lets out a single, reverberant chortle. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about! Payton is gay.”
The instant the words fall from her lips, I am utterly mortified. Time seems to freeze and every sound around us is muted. My throat locks up so tight, I’m convinced I’ll pass out. The horrified look on Kendall’s face is so priceless that if I weren’t so entirely embarrassed I’d burst into raucous laughter. This is the first time I have ever seen Kendall rendered speechless. Her mouth is slightly agape, her gaze clamped on me. I think she is almost as appalled as I am.
Mrs. Bettencourt’s eyes scroll from Kendall, to me, and back. “Oh,” she clears her esophagus with a cough. “Really, Kendall. I just want to make sure you’re taking the time to enjoy your adolescence.”
Kendall peels her gaze off of me and inhales deeply before acknowledging her mother. “I thought you’d be glad that I’m not a boy-crazy fifteen-year-old anymore.”
“I’m glad,” Mr. Bettencourt declares. “You had me worried there for a while, changing boyfriends more often than clothes.”
“Yeah, well. There will be no more of that. I’m going to relax and revel in my freedom for a bit.” She motions at her mother. “So give it a rest, Mom, all right? I have friends. I go to parties. I’m fine.”
“You’d better be going to parties, young lady,” Mr. Bettencourt says with a wink. “I’d expect nothing less from any child of mine.”
❄ ❄ ❄
The resounding silence on the drive to Eights is as unbearable as it is persistent. Kendall doesn’t even bother switching on her iPod. “I am so unbelievably sorry for outing you to my parents,” she says after an eternity. “It was like word vomit or something. I didn’t even comprehend what I was saying and then bam, the words are beating me over the head. Are you pissed at me? You should be pissed at me. I’d be pissed at me. I say the most retarded things sometimes!”
She’s droning on like she usually does when she feels bad about something. I should stop her, but it’s amusing and kind of cute when her feathers are ruffled. I let her continue for a few more seconds before cutting in. “Whoa. All right, chill out,” I say, throwing my hands up dramatically. “I’m not pissed, okay?” I feel my face break into a giant grin against my will. “Better you blabbed about it to your family than mine. If it had been my mom sitting at the table with us, I would’ve gone straight into cardiac arrest.”
“I know!” She sniggers. “I would’ve bitten my tongue off before I allowed that to happen, I swear.” She takes her focus off the road, turns it on me. Suddenly it’s a tangible thing, a lead bullet burying into my temple. I’ve never felt this uncomfortable around Kendall before, and I do not like it at all.
“What?” I’m not convinced I actually want to know what she’s thinking, but I have to escape the lingering strangeness.
“Can I stay at your place tonight?”
The question throws me off completely. It’s not the way we do things. She comes to visit, checks into the hotel, and then drives over to see me once she’s settled.
“I thought maybe you could drop me off at Newark in the morning. Your classes don’t start until the afternoon on Mondays, right?”
Blood rushes to my ears. I’m beginning to feel light-headed. I don’t know why, but it’s really distressing. “I thought you had to drop the BMW back at the airport rental place?”
“Nope. We can go get your car so you can follow me back to the hotel in this baby.” She pats the leather steering wheel. “I’ll leave the Beamer with the concierge, and he’ll take care of it for me. We’ll throw my luggage in your trunk and head to Eights from there.”
I am absolutely positive logic is my enemy because it’s completely evading me right now. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Wicked.” She presses play on her iPod sending Nero’s “Me and You” blasting through the speakers.
❄ ❄ ❄
Eights is packed even though it’s Sunday night. This is the place to be if you’re not of legal drinking age. We’re all sitting at a table, watching people shoot billiards. Kendall has her huge sunglasses on as a stab at flying under the radar. So far it’s working, but it seems like her disguises are generally a crapshoot—sometimes they’re successful, other times they’re not.
“Hey Kendall, you have an extra pair of sunglasses I can borrow? It’s so bright in here,” Jared quips.
“So very bright,” Sarah joins in.
“You two are hilarious.” Kendall slips her glasses up into her hair and throws a crumpled napkin at Jared.
“Dude, I haven’t gotten to bust you about your sorry disguises in months. I have a lot of catching up to do,” he says.
It’s like old times. Besides Kendall, my friends haven’t changed much since we were younger. Jared still acts like a child despite having a “grown-up job” at the Department of Parks and Recreation. Sarah is still the only one of us who can calculate the tip correctly without assistance. I, on the other hand, am feeling strangely out of sorts for reasons entirely unknown to me. Maybe Kendall outing me to her family is a bigger deal than I thought it was? I don’t know.
“Yo, Payton,” Sarah calls. “Where are you?”
On t
he corner of Edgy and Cranky, that’s where. Thanks for asking. “What?”
“You’ve been on another planet all night,” Jared says.
Kendall doesn’t say anything, but seems interested in whatever explanation I may give.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have,” Kendall agrees.
“Holy crap, I know what it is!” Sarah screeches. “You met a guy at school, didn’t you? I bet he’s a drummer!” To Kendall, she asks, “Is he a drummer?”
Kendall shakes her head and elbows me.
“Don’t tell me he plays the violin,” Jared says. “That would be too gay.” Kendall’s hand smacks him square in the chest. “Ouch. What the hell?” He rubs the spot where Kendall hit him.
I really do not want to have the epic “coming out” conversation for the second time in as many days. “Can we drop it, please?”
“Is it someone we know?” Jared persists. “And is he a violinist?” he asks Kendall.
“No, on all possible counts,” Kendall says and signals at me. “Christ, enough with the twenty questions!”
“I haven’t met anyone!” I burst out. “But if I had, the appropriate pronoun wouldn’t be ‘he.’ It would be ‘she.’”
“She,” Jared repeats after a beat. “You mean to tell me I’ve got a hot famous friend and a hot lesbian friend, both of whom are sitting at the same table as me right now? Dude, I am the man!”
Everyone erupts into a cacophony of laughter. I’m chuckling so hard that my ribs ache.
“Wait. Quiet down, you guys,” Jared says in a very serious tenor. “Payday, when’s the last time you got laid?”
Kendall rolls her eyes at him. Sarah whacks his arm and says, “Don’t be crude.”
He scoffs. “Pardon me. When was the last time you had a sexual encounter with a lady-friend?”
The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) Page 2
