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  Some images are clearer than others; I can almost still hear the sympathetic voices of the social workers and doctors as they explained to me that life as I knew it was over. The all-consuming despair I’d felt at the loss of my mother had never really gone away.

  After the incident, I know I didn’t speak to anyone for several months. The foster mother I’d been placed with made sure that I ate and dressed each day. A psychologist stopped by several times each week to chart my progress in her small state-issued notebook, assuring me that everything would be okay. But really, what else could she say?

  Nothing was okay. I was a six year old ward of the state who’d witnessed the violent murder of the only source of love I’d ever known. I would never be “okay” again, despite the shrink’s reassurances.

  Throughout the years, I’d seen a never-ending parade of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists, all equally eager to get a glimpse inside my twisted adolescent mind. These consultations invariably proceeded the same way – with them prompting me to speak about my “childhood trauma,” and me sitting on a slightly uncomfortable leather chair, staring at the clock in brooding silence. After the first few sessions of unrelenting taciturnity, my shrink-of-the-week would inevitably become frustrated, accuse me of burying my feelings, and claim that I would remain “spiritually lost” or “damaged” until I battled some bullshit inner emotional war.

  What I didn’t say, during all those weeks of silence, was that no amount of soul searching would fix my past. There was no magical Band-Aid I could stick on my heart, no special glue I could use to make myself whole again. I had shattered to pieces like a fragile vase on concrete; some fragments could be roughly cobbled back together, but many of my vital parts had simply turned to dust, pulverized and scattered by the first gust of wind.

  Leaning back on my hands, I closed my eyes and pulled a deep breath in through my nose. The summer night air smelled of fresh-cut grass and a faint hint of the coming autumn. There was a slight chill in the breeze, rustling the leaves of the maple tree nearest the house and sending goosebumps skittering up my arms. I rubbed them absentmindedly, my eyes scanning from the maple’s graceful sloping branches down to the quiet street below.

  Shit! What the hell is that? Correction - who the hell is that?

  My pulse immediately began to pound in my veins as my eyes confirmed that there was, in fact, someone standing in the dimly lit street.

  Watching me.

  My muscles tensed up and I froze like a deer in headlights – a naive prey trapped neatly in a predator’s lair.

  It was definitely a man. Though I could only make out a silhouette, as the nearest working street lamp was a half block away, the shoulders were too broad, the build too tall, to be anything but male.

  Or, it was possibly one of the steroid-abusing female swimmers from China’s Olympic team, I thought to myself, nearly snorting aloud at the thought. Yeah, Brooklyn, that’s totally probable.

  My brief moment of levity died and an irrational sense of dread commandeered my senses. I remained frozen, unsure whether I should move back inside. Could he see me? Was he watching me? Surely it was too dark for the stranger to notice a relatively small girl perched on a rooftop in the dark.

  I could see the small glowing cherry of his cigarette flare brighter whenever he brought it up to take a drag. The rest of the street remained empty yet the man continued to lean against his motorcycle, a Harley from the looks of it, seemingly waiting for someone or something.

  Clearly, he was not waiting for me or watching me, I reasoned. I’d never seen him before in my life. Though I couldn't see his face in the darkness, I knew simply by his build, his choice of transportation, and the smoke billowing in his lungs that we didn’t exactly run in the same social circles.

  Still, I wasn’t about to sit outside alone in the middle of the night, dressed only in the skimpy tank top and cotton shorts I’d slept in, when there was a random man lurking in front of my house. It was time to go back inside, preferably without drawing any undue attention to myself.

  Channeling my inner Sydney Bristow, I slid my hands back until my fingertips grazed the edge of the windowsill. Very slowly, I moved my body backwards, keeping my eyes trained on the shadowed man. When he had no reaction to my covert movements, I felt the sense of leaden panic ease from my chest. He hadn’t noticed me; he wasn’t even looking at me.

  Bond, Brooklyn Bond.

  More confidently, I pivoted my legs and slid them inside the window, my knees sinking into my plush down comforter. I glanced down once more at the man in the street as I began to shift my torso inside, my hands braced against the windowsill.

  Through the darkness, I felt our eyes meet. It wasn’t as if I could physically see his eyes, but somehow I knew they were staring directly into mine.

  So much for my theory that he couldn’t see me.

  I watched as he took a final drag on his cigarette, moved his hand to his forehead, and sent me a mocking salute, as if to acknowledge my departure from the roof. My eyes tracked the movement of his hand, unmistakably identified by the dim glow of his cigarette, and I hastily moved the rest of my body inside, locking the window shut behind me.

  What a creep.

  Back in the safety of my bedroom, my fear quickly faded. Whoever he was, he was clearly pleased with the fact that he’d managed to make me so uncomfortable simply by loitering. It was probably just some stupid fraternity brother, waiting for his sorority counterpart to stumble outside for a late-night hookup. It didn’t have anything to do with me.

  At least, that’s what I told myself when I glanced out the window a minute later and saw that the motorcycle had vanished completely.

  ***

  A few hours later, I perched on one of our kitchen island barstools and sipped my coffee greedily. Ah, caffeine. Sweet nectar of the gods. The weak morning sunshine trickled in through an overhead skylight, illuminating our paint-chipped cabinets and mismatched furniture. My fingers absently moved across the marred countertop, tracing a collection of scratches gouged out by the last decade of tenants.

  Lexi shuffled into the kitchen, her red hair still mussed from sleep and her feet stuffed into a pair of hideous green frog slippers.

  “Coffee,” she muttered.

  Lexi was not exactly what you’d call a morning person.

  “Already brewed,” I reported, hiding a smile behind my coffee mug as I took in the sight of her disheveled bed-head and rumpled pajamas.

  “You’re a saint,” she said, pouring herself a steaming cup and inhaling deeply as the aroma reached her nose.

  “I thought we decided to burn those slippers after seventh grade along with your collection of Beanie Babies and N’ Sync posters,” I observed sarcastically. Lexi simply glared over at me, unwilling to be baited into a response.

  “How are you already dressed and perfect? I still have to shower before class at eight. What time is it anyway?” she asked.

  “To answer your first question – I’ve been up all night and had plenty of time to get dressed. And as for the second,” I glanced at the digital microwave clock, “It’s 6:57.”

  Lexi grimaced in sympathy at the thought of my sleepless night. Then again, that girl could sleep fifteen hours a day and it probably still wouldn’t be enough for her. Her bed was quite possibly her favorite place in the world.

  “Wait! Shit! It’s already seven?” Lexi exclaimed, jumping up from her barstool and nearly upending her coffee in the process. “I’ll never be ready in time! Perfection doesn’t just happen, it takes time, Brooklyn. I guess I’ll be late for my first class. Shit!” she cursed again, racing out of the kitchen.

  “The professor will probably just go over the syllabus anyway! Nothing crucial,” I called down the hall after her.

  Not that it mattered; whether she had five minutes or forty, Lexi could pull together a polished look most of us could only achieve with the help of trained makeover specialists. Somehow, she even made bed-head look attra
ctive. Hell, if Lexi went to class wearing those damn frog slippers, half of the female student body would be rocking them within the week.

  It seemed ironic that, thanks to my sleepless nights, I had hours to get ready when I rarely needed more than ten minutes to do my hair and makeup. As for picking clothes, I’d never been one to meticulously plan or accessorize my outfits. I usually just threw on my standard combo of jeans, a tank top, and flip flops. As for the rest, after concealing my dark under-eye shadows, dabbing on a touch of mascara and lip-gloss, and letting my dark waves tumble freely, I was ready to go.

  I didn’t understand what could possibly take Lexi so long. Throughout the years, she’d frequently been frustrated by my utter lack of interest in clothes, makeup, and shopping. As per my best friend duties, I’d served as her dressing-room sounding board for many years as she tirelessly weighed the pros and cons of a particular dress or pair of heels. I drew the line, however, at letting her pick out clothes for me. As a fashion-merchandising major, she was constantly trying to get me to deviate from my boring girl-next-door look, but I didn’t see the point. My clothes were just fine, even if they lacked designer labels or avant-garde flair.

  I considered pouring myself another cup of coffee, but decided against it. Two cups was my limit – any more and I’d be shaky and on-edge for the rest of the day. Wandering back into my bedroom, I double-checked that I had some empty notebooks and a copy of my class schedule tucked neatly into my backpack.

  I’d have three classes today: Criminal Justice, Sociology, and Public Speaking. Joy. The university’s Pre-Law degree track encompassed a widely varied array of courses, most of which were supremely boring and full of brown-nosing, argumentative lawyers-to-be.

  Can’t wait. I rolled my eyes. Sophomore year, here I come.

  ***

  Lexi offered a running fashion commentary as we walked the three blocks from our apartment to campus. Mostly I just listened and tried to keep a straight face.

  “What is that girl wearing? That’s a plaid skirt!” Lexi whispered, clearly outraged as she unsubtly pointed at the girl walking a few steps in front of us. “It’s like Rory stepped right off the set of Gilmore Girls!” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “You’ve been watching reruns on ABC Family again, haven’t you?” I accused.

  “Psh, Brooke. Who are you kidding? I own the box set.”

  “You have so many issues.”

  “I know, but that’s why you looove me!” she sang, throwing one arm around my shoulders and propelling me faster down the sidewalk.

  “Um, Lex, your legs are each at least six inches longer than mine,” I complained, struggling to match her increased pace.

  “I know, but I think I see Finn up ahead,” she said, peering over Rory’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of whatever boy had caught her eye.

  Evidently unsatisfied with the view, she tugged me around the plaid-wearing Gilmore and nearly headfirst into a stop sign, refusing to slow down even when I squealed in protest and tried to wrench myself from her grip. She didn’t even bother to acknowledge my struggles and, after several more unsuccessful escape attempts, I stopped fighting. Allowing myself to be dragged along, I heaved a martyred sigh and resigned myself to my fate.

  “And who, may I ask, is Finn?”

  That caught her attention. Her head whipped around so fast I was instantly reminded of The Exorcist head-spinning scene.

  “What do you mean who is he? Do you ever listen when I talk? Wait, no, don’t answer that,” she glared down at me, still walking at a breakneck pace. “He’s only the most attractive specimen of manhood on this campus! The star of every sorostitute’s fantasies!”

  “Sorostitute?”

  “Think sorority plus prostitute. Kinda catchy right?” Lexi smiled for a brief second before slipping back on her sternest, most disapproving frown. “Jeeze, Brookie. I know you have zero interest in gossip, but at the very least you need to recognize the drool-inducing men on this campus! They’re few and far between.”

  “Sorry. Please, continue describing said specimen of manhood,” I requested with considerable sarcasm.

  “Well, he’s beautiful. And completely unattainable, of course. I mean, he sleeps around, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t stick around. It’s a hit-it-and-quit-it deal, from what I hear,” she gushed. “He’s a senior, he transferred here last year.”

  Lexi continued to scan the sidewalk ahead of us, hoping to keep her elusive target within sight. Apparently, we were stalkers now. No wonder this boy didn’t stick around; if Lexi was any indication, the girls at this school really did not understand boundaries.

  “That’s definitely him, straight ahead,” she squealed, her voice at least three octaves higher than normal.

  I couldn't see over the heads of the three girls walking directly ahead of us, and thus was denied a glimpse at Lexi’s new obsession.

  “What are you going to do if you even catch up to him, genius?” I panted, slightly out of breath.

  In lieu of answering, Lexi yanked me sideways, successfully passing the cluster of girls and whipping me into the direct path of an unseen fire hydrant. I pulled back, digging in my heels and trying desperately to slow my pace, but Lexi’s momentum made it impossible to avoid the oncoming collision.

  Crashing into the hydrant at full speed, the wind was knocked from my lungs and I sailed into the air. I only had enough time to throw my hands in front of my face and squeeze my eyes shut before the pavement rushed up to meet me.

  Chapter Two

  Karma Points

  There was something wet trickling into my eyes and down the side of my face. It was dark. My eyes felt heavy, like they’d been glued shut. I tried to take a deep breath, wincing in pain as air filled my sore lungs.

  “Take small breaths, for now. That was a pretty nasty spill you took,” a deep voice said quietly, close to my ear.

  That’s definitely not Lexi.

  Experimentally, I took a small breath in through my nose and held it inside my lungs, relieved that there was no sharp burning sensation this time. Releasing the breath, I slowly began to gather my senses. I was still lying on the pavement, judging by the cold hard surface beneath me, but my head was cradled by something soft.

  “Can you open your eyes?” the voice asked, huskily imploring me to try.

  I slowly pried my eyelids open, allowing a slitted view of the sky to come into focus. Reaching up to brush the damp hair away from my face, I was surprised when my fingers came away covered in blood.

  “There’s a cut on your temple. It doesn’t look too deep; even superficial head wounds bleed a lot. You’ll be fine,” the voice assured me. “That’ll be an impressive goose egg, though.”

  I tried to sit up, immediately regretting my decision as the world began to spin around me. Hands clamped onto my upper arms, forcing me slowly back down to rest against the broad chest of my rescuer.

  “Don’t try to sit up. You could have a concussion. You need to stay still until the ambulance gets here.”

  “Ambulance?!” I croaked, my voice scratchy with panic.

  “Your friend, the redhead, is calling for one right now.”

  “Tell her to stop,” I pleaded. “Please, I just need to go to the Student Health center. I don’t need an ambulance.” I turned my head up, finally meeting the dark eyes of my rescuer. “Please,” I repeated, my green eyes staring into the darkest set of blue irises I’d ever seen. They were the deepest shade of cobalt, barely distinguishable from his black pupils. Unusual eyes.

  “I don’t do well with…hospitals,” I admitted, looking away from his penetrating stare.

  “Fine. Whatever you say,” he agreed somewhat uncertainly, frowning as he cradled my shoulders with one arm. Shrugging out of his black leather jacket, he wadded it into a ball, gently shifted my head off his chest, and laid me down on the makeshift cushion.

  I shifted my eyes to follow as he got up, walked over to Lexi, and took the phone from her hand. He
spoke rapidly into it, glancing back in my direction several times before hanging up. In my semi-dazed state, I only registered his tall frame and dark hair before letting my eyes flutter closed once more.

  “Hey, you still alive down there?” his deep voice chuckled.

  I moaned noncommittally in response.

  “I’m going to pick you up and carry you to Student Health. It’s only a few buildings down from here. Okay?” he asked, not waiting for an answer as he gently hooked his arms beneath my knees and scooped me up like a child. “At least you picked a convenient place to wipe out.” I felt his laughter rumble through his body as he carried me along, seemingly unaffected by my weight.

  Cradled against his chest, I opened my eyes again to look for Lexi. She was walking directly beside us, her eyes trained on my face. As soon as she saw that my eyes were open the apologies began flowing from her in a torrent, causing my already-aching head to pound.

  “Oh my god, Brooklyn, are you okay? I am so, so, so, so sorry. I owe you big time. Please don’t die. I’ll buy you endless Starbucks for a month, as many venti chai tea lattes as you can handle. I promise, I didn’t mean to! That hydrant came out of nowhere. And you just went flying! Oh my god, I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. And you have a cut on your head! Don’t worry, it’s by your hairline. You can totally cover it with your bangs…Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I swear she never even took a breath. It might’ve been impressive if I wasn’t bleeding from the head and very possibly concussed.

  “I’m sure she’ll be better once you stop yammering at her,” the guy’s voice scolded from above me.

  “Oh…right,” Lexi whispered, looking suddenly chagrined. “I’m so sorry, Brookie. I’ll be quiet now I promise.”

  “I’m fine, Lex,” I mumbled, turning my face away from the bright sunlight and into my savior’s shoulder. When I inhaled I got a whiff of his cologne or aftershave, a heady scent of autumn leaves and crisp apples. He smelled like fall, my favorite season. I giggled aloud at the thought, recognizing almost immediately that I was delirious and, in all likelihood, suffering from a concussion.