The Gravity of Us by Phil Stamper Read Free Book Online Page A

thinking.”
    He’s sitting on their couch, the glow of his phone illuminating his face. But he’s looking up at the spectacle of it all, just past the camera. And there’s a brooding there that pulls me in.
    I’m interested in him purely from a journalistic standpoint , I remind myself, even as his narrowed eyes and sharp jaw pierce through my chest. It’s easy to crush on him for being insanely good looking, sure, but what appeals to me the most is his expression.
    There’s a fire that burns behind those eyes, and I cling to hope that maybe he’s a cynic, like me. My breath catches, and my hand reaches out to the picture. I might be imagining it, but I still cling onto the hope that someone in that suburb could actually be my ally.
    Or maybe … maybe something more.

 
    CHAPTER 5
    Praise me, for I have lived through a twenty-four-hour car ride. I have lived through two nights in crappy hotels—believe me, the best hotel in Higginsville, Mississippi, is roughly a negative-three-star hotel by New York standards. I survived staying in the same hotel room as my parents, in tiny rooms with thin walls and two double beds.
    I have lived through figurative hell, and my reward? Arriving in literal hell. Clear Lake, Texas, at ninety-two degrees.
    I step out of the car and survey my new hometown. The heat is wet—the humidity clings to my body, to my lungs, to my eyelids. We’ve pulled into a park to stretch our legs as we wait for our NASA rep to come show us to our new house.
    There’s a swing set, a few of those rocking ponies, and an old metal slide all on a bed of wood chips. I try to imagine the kids of the Mercury astronauts from the early sixties—Astrokids, I think they were called—playing in this same park.I imagine a picture-perfect mom holding an infant in her arm while pushing a toddler in the little swing that looks like a plastic sumo uniform.
    Standing here in this swampy mess of a day, I wonder how much they had to fake it for the cameras. Put on a happy face, retouching their makeup between diaper changes and photo shoots. The astronauts had their jobs—to get us to the moon—but their wives had it even harder. They had to fit in, raise their children, take care of the house, the lawn, the gardens, the cooking, the baking, the parties, all while caking on the makeup.
    The Astrokids must have played their parts just as well—rambunctious when the magazines wanted them to be, calm and pensive at other times. I groan when I think about playing that part now.
    “Cal!” Dad shouts. He’s in good spirits, which is the only positive thing to come from this sweaty nightmare. “The NASA guy is pulling up now.”
    Dad’s smile reminds me again of the absence of fighting between all of us. It’s like we’re back to the pseudonormalcy of our pre-NASA days. Dad has plenty of reasons to be happy, but why is my mom smiling too? Does she not want to shatter his fragile happiness? Is she pushing down her feelings? Her angst about being taken away from Brooklyn, her irritation for the duties that are about to be added on top of the fifty hours a week she spends coding? The spouses aren’t like the astronaut wives of the sixties—prim, perfect, calm, sober—but there’s still an expectation.
    Or is she actually … happy? Hopeful?
    That thought makes me nauseous. She was supposed to be on my side.
    The “NASA guy” gets out of his car, and quickly makes his way to Dad. He’s supremely put together, with his short but styled blond hair, checkered shirt buttoned to the top with no tie, and gray slacks that fade into brown boots. The fact he’s in anything but shorts makes me sweat doubly on his behalf. Are Texans just immune to this?
    He shakes my hand as soon as I get to the group.
    “Brendan,” he says. “You must be Calvin Junior.”
    I offer a faint smile. “That’s Calvin,” I say, pointing to my dad. “Call me Cal.”
    “Got it. Well, do you want to see your new house?” he asks. “Get