The Gravity of Us
Page 10
It’s you.
Graham Russell.
Standing right behind me.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, noting my stare glued to him. “Stop noticing me.”
“Wait, wait! It—” I stood up, and right before I could tell him to hold the door, I listened to it slam shut. “Locks.”
He cocked an eyebrow, processing my words. He yanked on the door then sighed heavily. “You have got to be kidding me.” He yanked again and again, but the door was locked. “It’s locked.”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He patted his slacks pockets and groaned. “And my phone is in my suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of a chair inside.”
“Sorry, I would offer you my phone, but it’s dead.”
“Of course it is,” he said moodily. “Because the day just couldn’t get any worse.”
He pounded on the door for several minutes without any results then started cursing the universe for an extremely sucky life. He walked over to the other side of the gated area and placed his hands behind his neck. He looked completely exhausted over the day’s events.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my voice timid and low. What else could I say? “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He shrugged, uninterested. “People die. It’s a pretty common aspect of life.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier, and for that, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. I was still just amazed to be standing so close to him. I cleared my throat and spoke again because being silent wasn’t something I knew how to do. “That was a beautiful speech.” He turned his head in my direction and gave me a cold hard stare before turning back around. I continued. “You really showcased what a kind, gentle man your father was and how he changed your life and the lives of others. Your speech tonight…it was just such…” I paused, searching my mind for the right words to describe his eulogy.
“Bullshit,” he stated.
I stood up straighter. “What?”
“The eulogy was bullshit. I grabbed it from outside. A stranger wrote it and posted it on the building, someone who’d probably never spent ten minutes in the same room as my father, because if they had, they would’ve known how shitty of a person Kent Russell was.”
“Wait, so you plagiarized a eulogy for your father’s funeral?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds awful,” he replied dryly.
“It probably sounds that way because it kind of is.”
“My father was a cruel man who manipulated situations and people to get the best bang for his buck. He laughed at the fact that you people paid money for his pile of shit inspirational books and lived your lives based on the garbage he wrote about. I mean, his book Thirty Days to a Sober Life? He wrote that book drunk off his ass. I literally had to lift him up out of his own vomit and filth more times than I’m willing to admit. Fifty Ways to Fall in Love? He screwed prostitutes and fired personal assistants for not sleeping with him. He was trash, a joke of a human, and I’m certain he didn’t save anyone’s life, as many have so dramatically stated to me this evening. He used you all to buy himself a boat and a handful of one-night stands.”
My mouth dropped open, stunned. “Wow.” I laughed, kicking around a small stone with my shoe. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He took my challenge and turned slowly around to face me, stepping closer, making my heart race. No man should’ve been as handsomely dark as he was. Graham was a professional at grimacing. I wondered if he knew how to smile at all. “You want to know how I really feel?”
No.
Yes.
Um, maybe?
He didn’t give me a chance to answer before he continued to speak. “I think it’s absurd to sell tickets to a funeral service. I find it ridiculous to profit from a man’s death, turning his final farewell into a three-ring circus. I think it’s terrifying that individuals paid extra to have access to a VIP gathering afterward, but then again, people paid to sit on the same couch Jeffrey Dahmer sat upon. I shouldn’t be surprised by humans at all, but still, each day they tend to shock me with their lack of intelligence.”
“Wow…” I smoothed out my white dress and swayed back and forth. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
His stare dropped to the ground before he looked back up at me. “Not in the least.”
I looked out into the darkness of the night, staring up at the stars. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How one person’s angel could be another’s biggest demon.”
He wasn’t interested in my thoughts, though. He moved back to the door and started banging again.
“Maktub.” I smiled.
“What?”
“Maktub. It means all is written, that everything happens for a reason.” Without much thought, I extended my hand out toward Graham. “I’m Lucy, by the way. Short for Lucille.”
He narrowed his eyes, not amused. “Okay.”
I giggled and stepped in closer, still holding my hand out. “I know sometimes authors can miss out on social cues, but this is the moment when you’re supposed to shake my hand.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Surprisingly, that’s exactly when you’re supposed to shake a person’s hand. “
“Graham Russell,” he said, not taking my hand. “I’m Graham Russell.”
I lowered my hand, a sheepish grin on my lips. “Oh, I know who you are. Not to sound cliché, but I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”
“That’s impossible. There are words I’ve written that have never been published.”
“Perhaps, but if you did, I swear I’d read them.”
“You’ve read The Harvest?”
I wiggled my nose. “Yes…”
He smiled—no, it was just a twitch in his lip. My mistake.
“It’s as bad as I think it is, isn’t it?” he asked.
“No, I just…it’s different than the others.” I chewed my bottom lip. “It’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
“I wrote that one after my grandmother passed away.” He shifted his feet around. “It’s complete shit and should’ve never been published.”
Graham Russell.
Standing right behind me.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped, noting my stare glued to him. “Stop noticing me.”
“Wait, wait! It—” I stood up, and right before I could tell him to hold the door, I listened to it slam shut. “Locks.”
He cocked an eyebrow, processing my words. He yanked on the door then sighed heavily. “You have got to be kidding me.” He yanked again and again, but the door was locked. “It’s locked.”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He patted his slacks pockets and groaned. “And my phone is in my suit jacket, which is hanging on the back of a chair inside.”
“Sorry, I would offer you my phone, but it’s dead.”
“Of course it is,” he said moodily. “Because the day just couldn’t get any worse.”
He pounded on the door for several minutes without any results then started cursing the universe for an extremely sucky life. He walked over to the other side of the gated area and placed his hands behind his neck. He looked completely exhausted over the day’s events.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my voice timid and low. What else could I say? “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He shrugged, uninterested. “People die. It’s a pretty common aspect of life.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier, and for that, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. I was still just amazed to be standing so close to him. I cleared my throat and spoke again because being silent wasn’t something I knew how to do. “That was a beautiful speech.” He turned his head in my direction and gave me a cold hard stare before turning back around. I continued. “You really showcased what a kind, gentle man your father was and how he changed your life and the lives of others. Your speech tonight…it was just such…” I paused, searching my mind for the right words to describe his eulogy.
“Bullshit,” he stated.
I stood up straighter. “What?”
“The eulogy was bullshit. I grabbed it from outside. A stranger wrote it and posted it on the building, someone who’d probably never spent ten minutes in the same room as my father, because if they had, they would’ve known how shitty of a person Kent Russell was.”
“Wait, so you plagiarized a eulogy for your father’s funeral?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds awful,” he replied dryly.
“It probably sounds that way because it kind of is.”
“My father was a cruel man who manipulated situations and people to get the best bang for his buck. He laughed at the fact that you people paid money for his pile of shit inspirational books and lived your lives based on the garbage he wrote about. I mean, his book Thirty Days to a Sober Life? He wrote that book drunk off his ass. I literally had to lift him up out of his own vomit and filth more times than I’m willing to admit. Fifty Ways to Fall in Love? He screwed prostitutes and fired personal assistants for not sleeping with him. He was trash, a joke of a human, and I’m certain he didn’t save anyone’s life, as many have so dramatically stated to me this evening. He used you all to buy himself a boat and a handful of one-night stands.”
My mouth dropped open, stunned. “Wow.” I laughed, kicking around a small stone with my shoe. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He took my challenge and turned slowly around to face me, stepping closer, making my heart race. No man should’ve been as handsomely dark as he was. Graham was a professional at grimacing. I wondered if he knew how to smile at all. “You want to know how I really feel?”
No.
Yes.
Um, maybe?
He didn’t give me a chance to answer before he continued to speak. “I think it’s absurd to sell tickets to a funeral service. I find it ridiculous to profit from a man’s death, turning his final farewell into a three-ring circus. I think it’s terrifying that individuals paid extra to have access to a VIP gathering afterward, but then again, people paid to sit on the same couch Jeffrey Dahmer sat upon. I shouldn’t be surprised by humans at all, but still, each day they tend to shock me with their lack of intelligence.”
“Wow…” I smoothed out my white dress and swayed back and forth. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
His stare dropped to the ground before he looked back up at me. “Not in the least.”
I looked out into the darkness of the night, staring up at the stars. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How one person’s angel could be another’s biggest demon.”
He wasn’t interested in my thoughts, though. He moved back to the door and started banging again.
“Maktub.” I smiled.
“What?”
“Maktub. It means all is written, that everything happens for a reason.” Without much thought, I extended my hand out toward Graham. “I’m Lucy, by the way. Short for Lucille.”
He narrowed his eyes, not amused. “Okay.”
I giggled and stepped in closer, still holding my hand out. “I know sometimes authors can miss out on social cues, but this is the moment when you’re supposed to shake my hand.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Surprisingly, that’s exactly when you’re supposed to shake a person’s hand. “
“Graham Russell,” he said, not taking my hand. “I’m Graham Russell.”
I lowered my hand, a sheepish grin on my lips. “Oh, I know who you are. Not to sound cliché, but I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”
“That’s impossible. There are words I’ve written that have never been published.”
“Perhaps, but if you did, I swear I’d read them.”
“You’ve read The Harvest?”
I wiggled my nose. “Yes…”
He smiled—no, it was just a twitch in his lip. My mistake.
“It’s as bad as I think it is, isn’t it?” he asked.
“No, I just…it’s different than the others.” I chewed my bottom lip. “It’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
“I wrote that one after my grandmother passed away.” He shifted his feet around. “It’s complete shit and should’ve never been published.”
