The Gravity of Us by Phil Stamper Page B

someone.”
    He lets me go after a firm (almost painful) handshake. Once I finally get outside, the music and the noise of the party all die down and I’m able to breathe, even despite the humidity.
    The moon’s glow lights the backyard, enough for me to see that there’s no one back here. I walk around the yard, taking in the brief respite, wondering when Kat and Leon will join me, when I hear a noise.
    “Cal!” someone says. I turn to find there’s a pathway to the side of the house that I hadn’t noticed before. Their yard is fenced in, which leaves a little nook for a few chairs, a bottle of champagne, and a small shed.
    I walk quickly over, nearly breaking into a run, and stop to smile when I see Leon. He smiles back and gestures to the seat next to him.
    “Good to see you,” I say. “Everyone else is fucking weird here.”
    “You’re including Kat in that?”
    “Your sister put avocado in the deviled eggs. She can’t be trusted.”
    He laughs at that. A soft laugh—more strained than light. The moon illuminates his features, and my brows furrow to match his.
    “Hey, you okay?”
    He makes eye contact with me, briefly. “Oh, hmm. Yeah. Sorry, I guess I just get antisocial at these things.”
    His sullen expression floods into my body, and I considerasking about it, but something stops me and tells me we’re not there yet.
    I don’t know where we are, but I like the journey so far.
    I take the unattended, opened champagne bottle on the ground and bring it to my lips. The tart, fizzy liquid burns my throat as I swallow it down. The taste isn’t great, but I could get used to it.
    “I like this little hidden area,” I say, which makes him laugh. “No, I’m serious! This was the size of my bedroom in Brooklyn. It’s comforting.”
    He looks dramatically from left to right. “This was your room?”
    “Well, it had a ceiling, but yes.”
    We pass the bottle, and the flavor gets better. The burning is less noticeable at least.
    “So, Houston,” I say. “Anything fun to do downtown? Shows or anything?”
    “We don’t get a ton of bands that play here. We’ll get stadium tours sometimes, but those are a little more mainstream—Elton John, Nicki Minaj, Justin Timberlake. People like that.” He smirks. “It’s probably not your scene.”
    “Excuse me? You think I don’t like mainstream music?” I don’t bring up my cassette collection.
    He shrugs. “You’ve got the Brooklyn hipster vibe, what can I say? You’re telling me you don’t go to indie shows?”
    “Well, I never said that. Back home Deb and I saw a ton of indie shows. But the reasons for that are twofold: First, it’s Brooklyn, so indie shows are everywhere. Second, those ticketsare cheap. It’s not like either of us could afford to see shows at Madison Square Garden.”
    I take a swig from the bottle as he starts laughing again.
    “You think you know me so well,” I say, wiping the foam from my lips. “But let me guess—you haven’t been to a concert since you came here. Oh, wait, I know your type. You listen to the radio, because you like a lot of different music, but you don’t really stan for anyone.”
    “Wow, almost none of that was correct.” He pats my back condescendingly. “Really good try, though.”
    “Fine, who do you stan for?”
    “Dear god. I will tell you if you stop saying the word ‘stan.’ ” He keeps my gaze, and the reflection of the porch light makes his eyes shine. “I don’t have a favorite, but I literally couldn’t go to the gym for practice without my K-pop playlist.”
    I hesitate, and he must see the confusion in my face, because he follows it up quickly, tension straining his voice.
    “I mean, I like mainstream music like SZA and Khalid and whatever Calvin Harris song is currently at the top of the Billboard charts too.”
    “No, K-pop is cool, I just never pictured you a fan of it. I haven’t listened much, but I’ve watched a few music videos before. They are super