The Art of Gravity

TOBIAS MITCHELL

He saw.

I clutch my mother's thin frame closer to me, her face hidden in my chest while I stare at the man with the crooked smile.

Noah saw the one thing that I didn't want him to. He's not dumb. He'd figure it out. I tried to protect him. And maybe... myself too. I needed to prepare myself for when he left, when I could no longer feel those eyes on me.

Christopher smirks at me, while my eyes glare hard at him. He was worse this week, I take note, glancing around at the empty beer bottles around the house.

"How much?" I ask him, like I do every time when Ma and me couldn't handle the pain anymore.

"For how long?" He asks in amusement, eyes twinkling like this was a game. If so, he was damn well winning.

I glance down at my mother's pale arm, coated with black and blue. I flick my eyes back up to him in anger. I'd kill him one day. One day, I'd fucking murder him and I'll laugh in his face as he suffers like we did.

"A week." I decide, my face twitching as he smiled that disgusting smile.

"Two — hundred." He says, bringing the bottle of beer in his hand to his lips.

I bit my lip. That was too much. I had enough, but I didn't want to waste potential moving money on scum like him. But, taking at look at my mother's state again, I nod.

"Two — hundred. You leave right now, and you don't come back 'till Thursday." I clarify, eyeing him.

"Give me the money, kid."

I give him the money, and he grabs his coat, leaving out the front door.

I pull my mother's sleeping body closer to me, breathing deep so that I wouldn't scream.

I'd kill him.

•. •. •.

A knock sounds on the door, and for a moment I think it's him. I set the knife down on the cutting board, wiping my hands on the shirt tied around my waist accompanied by the snug t-shirt that was covering my chest.

I walked towards the door slowly, peeking out through the window. Seeing Noah outside my house was just as scary as seeing Christopher.

I breathe out my nose as I open the door.

His hands are tucked in the pocket of his jeans, his head looking down at the old door mat no one bothered to change since we first got it. He looked like a lost puppy.

"What do you want?" I ask him, and his head pops up, curls bouncing as he takes in my bare arms. Various scars and burns were exposed and I resisted the urge to cover myself. I didn't want to admit that his stare made me uncomfortable, though I should be used to his eyes on me by now. His eyes make their way to my own, his cheeks turning that unforgettable shade of red.

"I wanted to ask how your mother was doing." He says, his eyes not meeting mine now. He knows he's prying, still he ventures farther in.

"Noah—"

"I can help," he says, eyes on my shirt that was covered with various grease spots, "I can help with dinner."

I nibble on my bottom lip, eying him.

"You keep pushing. No matter what I tell you. You'll keep pushing."

"You let me." He whispers, wrapping his arms around himself, his voice barely audible. Though, I can still hear it somehow.

A few minutes tick by with no response from me. What do you say to something that's true? I wouldn't believe my own self if I denied it.

I tap my fingertips on the door frame, "Come inside."

He looks up at me, a frown set on his face, "Okay."

I back away, and he starts to walk ahead of me as I shut the door behind us.

I watch him while he takes in the house, his eyes on the vase his mother had given me for my tenth birthday.

"Everything looks exactly the same. Nothing's changed at all," he says, his eyes still on the vase. I stare at him hard, eyes calculating and trying to comprehend that Noah Andrews is standing in my living room and I'm the one who let him in.

"Yes," I respond, eyes still on him. I wondered if he remembered that day. Years ago, when we were kids and I'd invited him to my birthday party. His mother had handed me that as a birthday present, along with other things ten — year old boys thought they needed to survive. My mother had kept the vase, and I thought nothing of it. There was only one gift I remembered that day. It wasn't even a gift, really, but I thought it was the best thing I'd ever received. Just before he left, Noah wrapped his arms around me, and I just stood there, wondering why there was so many electric tingles flowing through my body.

I know why now.

"You were different back then." Noah says, and he turns around to look at me.

My eyes quickly flick to his, capturing the blue orbs, "People change, Noah."

He backs down like he's supposed to, and gives a short nod.

"Where's the kitchen?" He asks, not looking me in the eye now.

"Same place it's always been."

He blushed again, nodding, and I start to think that maybe my favorite color should be red instead of blue. Or maybe, it should be both. Blue for Noah's eyes, red for his blush.

Or maybe... just Noah.

It seemed stupid, but...

I think my favorite color is Noah.

Just him. Everything and nothing at the same time.

He was the color of euphoria.