Gravity

Every day for three straight weeks, we got into the studio early and left late. After the writing and recording process, the actual band was only needed when we finished a song. That being said, it wasn’t uncommon for Jen and I to be the last people in the building.

That particular night was one of those times. It had been raining all day and we were trying to finish at least half of the songs before Christmas; there was one song that had given us more trouble than the rest, and we vowed not to leave that night until it was finished. It gave us the opportunity to not only grow as colleges, but as sort of friends too, even if the only thing we talked about were our careers.

“It was really refreshing to write music for someone else,” she mentioned as she turned up the bass.

The second her fingers moved, I turned it down, “I know. That way if it’s bad, we don’t have to take all the blame.”

She rolled her eyes. From the ground, a muffled vibration sounded. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, picking up her purse and digging through it. She retrieved her cell phone, looking at the screen. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, resting my elbows on the soundboard and my chin in my palms. I played with the song a little more, mostly messing around as I waited for Jen’s return.

I could hear her talking, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I half wondered who it was, but I noticed that she’d received a lot of business calls; I happened to know that it was around one in the afternoon in Los Angeles. However, it didn’t sound like a business call.

Suddenly, the door rushed open and Jen entered, throwing her phone forcefully beside her purse. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad—either way, she was very upset. “Everything okay?” I asked, turning a little in my chair. Her eyes were red and glassy.

“Everything’s fine,” she said, giving me a quick and unconvincing smile.

“Who was that?”

She swallowed, “Um, just a friend of mine.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but I knew that she thought talking about her personal life was “unprofessional.” She took a deep breath, “Let’s just finish this song so we can leave. I’m really tired.”

A few minutes of thick silence fell between us. I watched her from the corner of my eye and noticed her lip quiver. She rubbed her cheek before abruptly standing up as tears spilled from her eyes, “Excuse me,” she croaked.

Curious, I quickly saved and packed up everything. Picking up her purse and other belongings, I left the room to find myself alone in the long hallway. “Jen?” I asked after a second. My hand traveled up underneath my glasses to rub my eyes. “Jen?” I asked again, taking a few steps this time.

I walked in the direction of the bathrooms, Jen’s cries piercing the silence. I knocked on the door, “Jen, are you okay? It’s me.”

She gasped, “Brendon?”

I knocked again, wiggling the handle and leaning my ear against the door, “Are you okay? Come on, let me in.”

“I—No. It’s fine. I—I’ll just be a minute.”

“Well, fine,” I told her. “But I’m not going anywhere until I see your beautiful smiling face,” I said, taking a seat against the doorframe. Although I’d been sitting most of the day, I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time.

Jen was very stubborn—she was all business all the time and didn’t give herself the opportunity to have fun like she should. I pulled out my phone and checked my Twitter while I waited, eventually stumbling upon Jen’s account to follow her—apparently, she had beat me to it, as my little icon was in her “following” list; she had even mentioned how we were in London together. Her username was @NotJenAniston, which was clever considering Jennifer Addison had shown little evidence of a sense of humor; I could see how the name confusion would get irritating. I noticed a tweet directed to the both of us, reading, It’s @NotJenAniston’s birthday. @brendonuriesays, get some.

It was Jen’s birthday?

On the other side of the door, the faucet turned on, drowning out any noise. I groaned to myself, putting away my phone and shutting my eyes. Whoever made her cry like this on her birthday was the biggest asshole on the planet.

The next thing I knew, I was falling. My eyes shot open, focusing on a pair of high heeled shoes. I scurried to get to my feet, coming face to face with a furious Jen: her eyes were coated with black circles—which I assumed was from running makeup—her face and eyes were red, and her bottom lip had been bitten to the point where it bled. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“I just told you everything,” she said. “I would never, ever normally tell someone the things I just told you, and you were sleeping.”

To be honest, I hadn’t heard anything she’d supposedly told me, but I was hoping she’d come around to repeating it. “Well, I’m honored,” I told her. “I just hope next time it doesn’t bore me to tears.” She looked offended, so I was quick to add, “Look, you can tell me again, and this time I’ll be more attentive. Let’s start off with this…” slowly, my hand rose to her face. My thumb wiped the blood on her lip away before she slapped my arm away.

“Don’t touch me,” she seethed.

I ignored her anger, wiping my thumb on my pants. “Listen, keeping anger bottled up isn’t healthy. I mean, you can either tell one of these people—” I gestured around the empty hallway, “—or me, who you’ve spent every day with for the last three weeks. It’s your choice.”

She took a deep breath. “That was my boyfriend,” she said. She meant on the phone. She looked at the ground and sounded like she was trying not to cry. “He called to let me know that…” a tear fell on her cheek, which she was quick to remove. “He met someone else.” The words hung in the air a moment before she began to cry again.

“Hey, it’s okay…” I said, placing my hand awkwardly on her shoulder, “He looked like a dick anyway.” She laughed a little, and I took the open opportunity to place my hand on her cheek and wipe way the wetness.

She placed her hand on mine and wrapped my arm around her. I pulled her into my chest, squeezing her small body. It was the first time we’d had any sort of physical contact, other than an occasional and accidental brush every now and then, and it was nice. There was no fussing, and I needed a good holding anyway; I was lucky that someone as pretty and nice-smelling as Jen was the other person.

After a few minutes, she was finally stable again and we broke apart. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to put that on you. I promise, I won’t let something like that happen again.”

I grinned at her, “It’s fine. Hey, listen. Let’s go out and get something to eat—you can tell me about what happened, and I can listen and maybe give you a lesson or two on romance.”

She shrugged herself into her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck, “Sure. But do you mind if we go to like a bakery or something?”

I was positive that all every girl needed after a bad breakup was something sugary and dense to numb the feelings. I held the door open for her as we entered the freezing darkness, “Lead the way.”

There wasn’t much open at 10:30 in London three days before Christmas. However, we found a small bakery situated neatly next to Jen’s apartment building that was open and without business. We walked in and Jen immediately turned to me, “I look like hell. Get a table and I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing to the bathroom.

I sighed and rolled my eyes: women.

Taking a seat at a booth, I caught the attention of the pimply teenage waiter. “Hey, man,” I said in hushed tones in case Jen came out. I stared at the bathroom door. “Look, the girl I’m here with is having a bit of bad luck and it’s her birthday. Think you can get dim the lights and bring out a candle or something to surprise her?”

He nodded, high with the buzz of new customers at that hour. “Yeah, man,” he said. “You wanna just shoot me a nod when you’re ready?”

“Yeah,” I agreed as the bathroom door opened. The waiter returned to the counter where I could easily make eye contact with him.

Jen, who looked much more put-together, slid across from me. “I think I’d like to start eating before I tell you my life story, if you don’t mind,” she said, calling the waiter over with her hand.

“Hi, welcome to Charlie’s, I’m Daniel and I’ll be your server. Can I get you something to drink?”

She looked up at him, “You wouldn’t happen to have any wine or anything, would you?” I was shocked. Jen, who refused to drink in front everyone before, was now no longer afraid to “become really open about everything” like she’d feared earlier.

“Do you want red or white?” Daniel asked nonchalantly, scrawling something on a notepad.

“Oh, white, definitely,” she said. I guessed that the conversation with her boyfriend had gone worse than I assumed.

Daniel turned to me, asking what I wanted to drink. “Um, a Coke is fine,” I said, still eying Jen. He left to go fetch our beverages and I spoke, “I thought you got drunk easily,” I said.

It wasn’t a question, but she answered like it was, “I do. But I figure that I’ll need as much charisma as possible when I tell you these things. For now, I would like to apologize for the great prospect of my going into intimate details.”

I smirked as Daniel set our drinks down in front of us. We ordered slices of cake and I sent Daniel a subtle nod, who winked back at me. Jen took a sip of her white wine, “Well, let’s see…

“Taylor and I have been dating for three years. I really thought we had a future together—he was so good to me, and when we moved in together, I felt like the only thing left to do was get married. So I waited and waited for the question to come, but it never did; not Christmas or my birthday or Valentine’s day—you know, those prime times to propose. So, I said to myself, ‘Jen, going to London will show him how much he loves and misses you. The second you get back, he’ll have already picked out a ring.’ It was always me making the moves in our relationship—I had to be the one to hold his hand or ask for the kiss, you know. But it never bothered me.

“I never realized he was unhappy with me. I guess I should have known when life in the bedroom was less than spectacular—excuse me when I say, but he was one of those men that got himself off without giving his partner a second thought; don’t get me wrong, I understand, but he seriously did not even care if it was good for me. He never asked me what I do and do not like—”

I cut her off, taking a sip of my Coke, “What do you like?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

She shook a finger at me, “I am not drunk enough for that. But, if you must know…” she downed the rest of her wine, “I really like a guy who’s good with his mouth.”

I laughed, fidgeting a little in my seat; I hadn’t expected her to be that open.

“Anyways, when Taylor called me, he said, ‘I wish I could tell you this in person, but I’ve met someone else.’ I was terribly confused and started asking him all of these questions—who, when, where. He just told me that he was moving in with her and not to worry about the house—our neighbor was going to keep an eye on things and he’d be gone by the time I got back. He didn’t even mention my birthday—”

It occurred to me that Jen was one of those people who didn't fuss about their birthday—she had plenty of opportunities to mention to me, but she still kept it to herself. “It’s your birthday?” I asked with fake shock.

Her finger traced the rim of her glass. “Yeah, kinda,” she said with a small smile.

Just then, the lights cut. Jen looked up while I couldn’t peel my eyes from her. A smile was plastered on my face as her cake and candle were set in front of her. “Happy birthday, Jen,” I said softly. “Make a wish.”

Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “Did you plan this? How did you know...?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her with a smile.

She hesitated for a minute before blowing out the single candle in front of her.

By our second slices of cake, I had her consumed in my own story: “My girlfriend and I were together four years. I wrote songs for her and gave her all of my attention and everything she could ever want. We had such a life together—I mean, a dog, an apartment, everything. She was my entire world—all I wanted to do was marry her and have kids and grow old together. So, I proposed. I mean, did I propose. I had roses and wine and music—the whole shebang. I got down on one knee and looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘Sarah, I truly believe that you are my soulmate. My future is you. Will you marry me?’ Well, of course she was emotional, crying and everything, but she accepted and I slid that ring onto her dainty hand. We made love for hours that night. And the next day, I got up to go to work as I do every day, only this time I was an engaged man and everything was different. I told everyone I saw—we were going to tell our parents as soon as I got back from London and all I could think about was that Sarah was officially mine.

“When I got home that night, the house was empty. The only things there were all mine—even my dog looked lonely. I ran into the bedroom, where everything was bare and clean—there was a rose from the night before and the ring around it. There was a business card on the pillows next to it, and all it said was, ‘I’m sorry.’ I called everyone, but nobody had seen her. The next day, I got on a plane and flew to London. Three weeks later, I’m sitting in a bakery with a woman whose story is strikingly similar to my own, when in reality, she deserves the world, not the douche bag boyfriend she had.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. Her second glass of wine was empty and our plates hadn’t been touched in several minutes. “Soulmate, huh?”

I nodded, “You too?”

“Something like that.” She paused, “The worst part about this whole thing is that I always hope to see Taylor in my flat or something,” she said. “It’s silly, but I keep dreaming that he’s running after me. No man has ever done that for me.”

“Me neither,” I complained. “Where did chivalry go?”

She laughed before looking at the time. “We should go.”

I agreed and we made the short walk from the bakery to Jen’s flat. The elevator ride was silent and comfortable until we came to a stop in front of her door. I felt like I should have done something—a hug, maybe even a kiss on the forehead, anything to let her know that I appreciated the talk we had.

She looked like she was waiting for something too—she stood there facing me, her bag under her arm and key in hand, staring at me.

Stupidly, I stated back. She breathed in quickly, “Well, thank you for the cake. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I guess so,” I said. And then I let her open the door and disappear behind it.

I was so angry with myself. Where did chivalry go?