The Gravity Between Us
Chapter 3: Strawberry Cream Pie and Lies…
Loss changes you. Sometimes it changes the world, too.
One day, my husband was beside me. The next he was gone. Not just missing, but forgotten by everyone. Everyone but me. Grief cracked something open. Now the world around me is shifting. Light bends. Time falls. Shadows watch. But I still remember him. I don’t know what I’m stepping into. But I know one thing. I’ll find him, or I’ll tear the seams of reality trying.
The Gravity Between Us is a modern fantasy romance about the kind of love that holds on even when memories fade and the world falls apart.
Special Note: Read the footnotes for extra commentary and notes from the main character London. You’ll find extra notes and insight into her character and other details that may enhance the reading experience throughout the story.
October 17th — time undetermined …
My husband is missing. This dessert is not helping.
Paris is right about one thing. My body doesn’t run on caffeine and stubbornness alone. Apparently, it also needs food. And probably sunlight. And maybe therapy, but that’s not on the menu today.
Everything feels too still. What used to be our cozy starter home for two (with vague Pinterest board plans for one more), now feels… haunted by IKEA furniture and emotional avoidance. What used to feel like our soft little bubble now echoes. The silence has teeth. Maybe suppressing my feelings isn’t working as well as I thought. Maybe grief doesn’t like being ghosted.
The clock above the sink ticks backwards. Casually, like that’s a normal Monday thing.
I stare. Blink. It fixes itself.
OK, cool.
Totally fine.
Just your average time loop hallucination brought to you by dehydration and denial.
I shake my head, close my eyes, snap them open to stare at the clock again. It’s not moving backwards anymore. At least, not totally. The minute hand slides forward, casual as ever, while the hour hand spins twice as fast in the opposite direction. It’s a little like the gears in my mind as I try to untangle whatever mess I woke up to.
I decide to control what I can.
Shower.
Dress for comfort (elastic waistbands and oversized tees, my ride or dies).
Fresh air and quiet indulgence at my favorite cafe in town.
Paris insists on joining me, and because the universe is in a mocking mood, she brings Mom. Mom wears maroon joggers, pearls and a ponytail like country club casual Barbie, and Paris has on her tailored suit, clutching her phone like a weapon. She only sheathes it when she sees me.
“You’re not answering your phone,” she says.
Mom pats my cheek. “I told your sister we should surprise you with that strawberry 1dessert you like so much. Something to celebrate the occasion.”
“Celebrate what?” I ask, suspicious.
Paris links her arm with mine. “Lunch first. Existential crisis later.”
The cafe smells like sweet, mouthwatering sugar, but my stomach aches. Maybe it’s the acid reflux from too much coffee on an empty stomach or too much licorice. It could, of course be due to the fact that they’re playing Kieran’s favorite song on the retro jukebox. Our song. The one we danced to last night. My throat tightens, but I smile because pretending feels easier.
We sit in the booth by the window.
Our booth.
I brace myself for normalcy. It doesn’t come.
“Order something,” Paris says, “ You’re so dramatic when you’re hungry.”
“I’m dramatic because my life’s on fire,” I mutter, but fine. I reach for the menu.
Before I can order, Katie (our waitress, saint of caffeine) slides a plate in front of me. Turkey bacon club. A side of guac . BBQ sauce . My usual. Only, I didn’t order it.
“Here’s another cup. It’s fresh and strong,” Katie promises.
But I don’t remember drinking the first cup of coffee. I could have sworn we just sat down…
“Spain will be such an adventure,” Mom says, like that’s a normal sentence to throw into the void.
“Spain?” I echo.
Paris doesn’t look up from dressing her chicken avocado salad. “Madrid. The art residency? The big-deal art gallery? Ten grand for that painting you did in college?”
“What painting?”
“The portrait,” Paris says, “ Of that guy from sophomore year. Your Prince Charming.”
I stare at her. “ You mean, my husband?”
Silence. Forks stop midair.
Mom and Paris exchange looks.
Mom shuffles uncomfortably. “Who?”
The world tilts. My stomach drops through the floor. I laugh, the kind of laugh that sounds like a cry in disguise. “You’re kidding, right? Kieran. Dark hair. Dreamy eyes. Allergic to laundry? My husband?”
I don’t know if I want to laugh, cry, scream or just politely combust. “Where is he? What’s he up to? This is another one of his little pranks, right?”
Because that’s what he does. He’s mastered the art of pleasant surprises wrapped in chaos. My husband is charming, but he’s no Prince Charming. He’s bashful but undeniably brilliant. Clumsy, lactose intolerant, perpetually breaking something, but always fixing things too.
Our shed is a museum of unfinished projects. He’s the unofficial handyman for our block’s retirees and the go-to science fair consultant for all the local kids.
But mostly? He’s a prankster. Good-natured, occasionally illegal, but never cruel.
He once installed fairy lights across the town square without permission because “The stars deserved competition .”
Another time, he organized a scavenger hunt that led to tiny, handmade gadgets and bad puns taped under benches. And who could forget the flash mob he orchestrated for Mr. Sean, the janitor at the elementary school where I teach. Confetti cannons and off-key singing.
That’s Kieran.
Happy chaos. Good trouble.
He’s the kind of person who makes ordinary life feel enchanted just by existing in it. Everyone loves him. And I love him the most.
“And he loves me,” I whisper. “So where is he?”
The panic melts into something softer, something almost giddy. It’s a dangerous, hopeful kind. Because, if this is another one of his stunts, it’s elaborate even for him. Which means… Maybe it’s a surprise. Something big.
Katie appears beside the booth with a plate crowned in strawberries and an irresponsible amount of whipped cream. My comfort dessert. My “today’s been a lot” strawberry cream pie.
“Seriously,” I say, accepting it like a peace offering. I scoop up a huge bite, creamy, sweet and grounding. “ Where is he? What’s he planning?”
Mom frowns. “What’s going on with you today? And where are your manners? Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite. “ OK, first there is a separation agreement sitting on my kitchen table. Then the house starts acting like a glitch in the Matrix. Now you two are acting like you don’t even know who Kieran is. Even though I apparently sold his portrait for $10,0002…and I’m flying to Spain for an art gala3?” I throw up my hands. “ I haven’t painted anything in six months! Not even a sad fruit bowl!”
The words hang in the air, too loud, too raw.
Silence.
Then Paris leans in, careful and slow like she’s approaching a wild animal. “London… You’ve never been married.”
I laugh because what else do you do when the world turns inside out? “ Very funny.”
I hold up my hand, wiggling my ring finger. “ What’s this, then? Costume jewelry?”4
Mom’s expression is soft with something that looks too much like pity. “ Sweetheart… You bought that ring yourself. You said it was to keep people from hitting on you.”
For a second, the world just…stalls.
Sound thins out.
Colors drain.
“No. This isn’t right.”
The pie in front of me suddenly looks like evidence from a crime scene. My mouth goes dry, then hot. My heartbeat slams in my ears like a broken drum line. My skin buzzes. It feels staticky and numb. Hollow.
“This can’t be happening.”
I push my way out of the booth and shoulder past Katie, hoping to make it to the bathroom—anywhere private enough to fall apart. The floor tilts. The ceiling bends. Then everything folds in on itself and the world goes silent and dark.
The numbing void doesn’t last long. I blink and the world snaps back into focus. But everything is still wrong. Eveything is still broken, but everyone looks at me like I’m the problem, a lot like they did before I met Kieran. I’m the odd one, the puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit right in the family’s picture of what’s acceptable. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Not sophisticated enough. Not graceful enough. Clumsy. Messy. Disappointing. Embarrassing…
“…fainted!”
“Is she okay?”
“London, get up. You’re making a scene,” Mom’s voice snaps me fully back into the present, a present that’s too much like the past.
The world comes back in shards of light and sound, and then I see him.
“Kieran?”
Strawberries are my favorite fruit.
I need that portrait back! I painted Kieran back in college. It’s how I worked up the courage to talk to him. It’s how we fell in love. I haven’t painted in months, but maybe I’ll paint him from memory to keep myself busy while I figure out how to make sense of everything…
Checked my email. There is a receipt and confirmation for a scheduled flight. I would have marked this as junk mail , if they hadn’t mentioned it. I’m still not sure it’s not a scam.
My wedding ring is definitely not costume jewelry. It’s vintage. It was Kieran’s mother’s wedding ring. A family heirloom. At least it hasn’t disappeared…