Chapter Sixteen

Opening night is insanely busy at the Ulster County Fair. My mother hated the fair, considered it “crass and common,” but it’s the sort of thing that everyone has to do each year, whether they’re into it or not.

There’s something so universally cheap and flashy and mildly depressing about the place that I can never get enough of it.

Last summer was the first time in my life I skipped coming.

The fair is blazing with so many lights, the twilight looks like midday when Scott and I walk through the front gate together with gloppy, green stamps on our hands stating we can ride ALL THE RIDES.

I inhale the airborne sugar, breathing the scent of things cooking in grease. You can find any treat imaginable here at the Ulster County Fair, most of them fried and covered in powdered sugar, from pickles to cheesecake to butter to dough. Everything’s better after a quick dip in the fryer.

The sounds of games dinging and hucksters shouting harmonize with the distant screams of people on the rickety and roaring rides. The whole place is tacky, and I love it.

A rusty memory pings in my chest. I was about ten, and Dad and I had been to the fair twice in one week before finally begging Mom so much we convinced her to come along for a quick visit.

It had rained earlier that day, and so the three of us stepped carefully, trying to stick to the places where hay covered the gooey mud.

We didn’t need to discuss where we were headed. We all knew. To the teacups.

When it was just Dad and I, we went on the most daring rides. The more ridiculous the better. Things that swung us around and slingshot us into the air. We’d spin until we could barely stand and our shared theory was there are worse ways to die than on a cheap ride at the fair.

But Mom would only ride the merry-go-round and the teacups, and they didn’t have the teacups here every year.

Dad and I had already scoped them out and knew right where to go. There was a short line, and Dad put an arm around Mom while I pretended not to notice.

When it was our turn to ride, Mom selected a pink-and-yellow teacup, and Dad and I piled in on either side of her, protecting her from the exit.

I close my eyes for a moment and picture the way the three of us grabbed the silver wheel in the center. We spun and spun around until the rest of the world was a blur, and there was only the three of us, laughing and squealing and together.

I open my eyes, hugging the still-warm memory close for a beat like something fresh from the dryer.

I turn to Scott. “Okay, buddy. We’d better get our butts on some rides before you make good on that fried food promise. Riding after eating is no good; fried dough tastes way worse on its way back up.”

Scott laughs and follows me as I stride past the barking invitations from the gaming alley.

“Step right up and beat the Guesser.” “Try your hand at dunking Artie the Clown.” And my favorite invitation: “Hey, that’s a fine lady you’ve got there, young man. Toss the rings and win your girl a prize.”

We walk over to the huckster, and Scott starts reaching for his wallet. I block him with my body as I pull out two singles. “I’ve got this round.”

A few warm-up tries later, I manage to get a ring to stick and win a small plastic baggie holding a very sleepy goldfish.

Smugly, I turn and hand my glimmering reward to the small, dejected-looking boy who’s been watching me.

His face brightens and I warn, “Don’t get too attached. These things have a very short lifespan.”

He announces, “I’m naming him Heaven,” and runs away with his eyes glued to his new pet.

“Good,” I call after him, “because that’s where he’ll be heading soon.”

Scott smiles after the boy and I slap his arm.

“You know that was actually cruel of me, right? That fish won’t live a week.”

“I know,” he says. “But that’s how I got started with my first fish tank. My folks bought a small setup the day after the fair, and then the fish died a day later. They obviously had to buy me a few replacement fish, and now I’ve built up to a fifty-five-gallon tank.”

As the two of us walk around the outer edges of the fair, I catch Scott checking his watch.

“What is this big surprise of yours, anyway?”

He grins. “You’ll see.”

I point from him to myself. “You have absorbed the fact that nothing is going to happen between us, right?”

He guides us toward the rickety scream rides. “Of course.” He grins. “You can be my wingman tonight.”

For the next hour, we go on ride after ride and laugh our asses off. “Time for me to wingman up,” I say as we wait in line for a spinny ride with an arachnid theme. Only six of the ride’s eight “arms” are working, and the other two are wrapped in red caution tape.

I spot a cluster of three girls looking around to see if anyone is noticing their cute outfits. They’re half talking to each other as their eyes dart back and forth through the crowd. I recognize those looks. These ladies are carousing.

I turn and lean close to Scott’s ear. “Okay, so, directly behind me, about twenty feet away, there are three girls standing by the fried dough stand.”

He looks over my shoulder and nods.

“They’re exactly what you’re looking for,” I say. “Odd number. Perfect combination of clean and classy but with a little touch of looking for excitement.”

Scott squints at them. “How the hell can you tell all that from twenty feet away?”

“See the way they’re barely listening to each other talk? And watch. I’ll bet there will be at least one hair flip in five, four, three, two—”

“Ha! How did you do that?”

I shrug. “I speak fluent flirt.”

“You never act that way.”

“I’m a little more subtle.” I look him in the eye. “But these girls seem perfect for you.”

“How can you possibly know any of them are my type?”

I glance back over my shoulder at them. “Because they’re pretty and you’re a guy.”

“That’s a little insulting.”

“Yeah, well, save your outrage. Do you want me to be your wingman or what?”

“Not if you’re going to be this aggressive about it.” Scott blushes. “I told you I’m looking for more than a fling.”

“That’s fine. But ‘more than a fling’ has to start someplace, right?” I grin at him. “Come on. Relax and have some fun.”

“Can’t I just relax and have fun with you?” I glare at him, and he quickly adds, “Not that sort of fun.” He checks the time again.

“Listen, Scott, if the surprise you have for me is a way to try winning me over, you should know it’s just not going to happen.”

He widens his eyes with innocence. “I just want us to get to know each other better as friends, Rory. We’ve been working together all summer, and you want me to help you with this big illegal project, and I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

I wink and hold up my stamped hand. “Toxic-sludge green.”

“Nice.” Scott grins. “Mine’s green too, but more of a pine shade.”

“Shocking,” I say because it’s not. In fact, Scott spends so much time with the trees it’s no wonder he’s not seeing anyone.

The spinning spider ride we’re waiting to board slows down.

I tell him, “I’ll feel better if you’ll at least try talking to those girls. I’m not saying you should ditch me and get someone pregnant tonight, just maybe get a few seeds germinating, see what sprouts up.”

“I guess you have a point.” He looks at me for a beat and sighs. “You should think about writing a wingman guidebook.”

I laugh. “The Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Guy Friends Girls. I like it.”

The ride stops and the passengers unload with the sound of safety bars creaking open and excited chattering. Scott promises, “I’ll talk to them right after we spin around until we want to puke.”

As I slide into one of the ride’s black cars, I look out to the crowd and see the three girls making their way toward the kiddie-ride section. Scott doesn’t notice. He’s too busy buckling the ride’s thick, black safety belt around both our waists.

The ride genuinely does scramble our guts, and when we get off, the two of us can’t seem to walk in a straight line. I’m laughing and Scott is clinging to my arm as we push through the swinging exit gate, and I look out across the midway and… Hayes. I stop short.

He and I spot each other at exactly the same moment and his expression mirrors the shock of electricity I feel at seeing him here. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a tight black V-neck T-shirt, and I’m rendered speechless.

Scott is oblivious as he continues laughing and almost falling down.

Hayes’s eyes shoot to Scott and I see his jaw clench twice before he turns away. He says something to an older guy with long, thinning hair in a ponytail who’s standing with their group of mismatched people displaying vastly varying ages and styles. I realize these must be his AA friends.

The guy Hayes is talking to sweeps his eyes around the crowd. They land on me and I resist the urge to shove Scott headfirst into the cotton candy stand we’re passing.

Scott gives another drunken stumble, and I help him get quickly back on his feet, but I know how this looks. Shit.

I hate that the guy with the ponytail sets his lips into a line before putting a consoling hand on Hayes’s shoulder. And I hate how mournful my lions feel right now.

I can’t read lips, but if I could, I’m pretty sure I’d read his saying, “Forget about her, buddy. She’s not worth the trouble.”

Scott has regained his balance and finally notices I’m distracted. Following my stare, he stiffens up when he sees Hayes.

“Oh crap.” Scott lets go of my arm. “Do you think he saw us?”

I turn away. “Oh yes. He saw us, all right. Come on. Let’s get on the spider again. My guts aren’t quite scrambled enough.”

Scott knows I’m upset and tries to cheer me up by telling me a horror story about a puking incident he once witnessed on the Gravitron, but I’m so nonresponsive he finally gives up and we wait in the line together in silence.

I continue stealing glances at Hayes and his gang of rowdy friends, but he refuses to make eye contact again.

Finally, their squawking abates as they migrate down the row toward the Ferris wheel.

I look around desperately and finally spot the long-haired trio of girls just getting off the merry-go-round.

“How long do we have before this surprise of yours starts?” I ask Scott.

He looks at his watch. “Another half hour or so. Why?”

I grab his hand. “Come on.” I pull him out of the line.

He doesn’t protest as I weave us quickly through the crowd. When we reach the three girls, I put an arm around his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I say to them. “This is my good friend Scott, and he’s recently had his heart broken. Would you girls mind taking him for some ice cream? His treat.”

One of the brunettes flips her hair back and gives Scott a look of disdain, but the other brunette raises an eyebrow and the blond tilts her head at him and smiles.

I whisper in his ear, “Stop staring at me and go for the blond. I’ll find you in a half hour.”

He whispers back, “Fine. I’ll be over between the pigs and the rabbits.” He points toward the farm-animal area. “Don’t be late.”

I nod and, to the girls, I say, “He’s in a tender place. Please take good care of him.” I pat his chest.

The friendlier-seeming brunette turns to ask him his name, and I think, You’re welcome, Scott, as I move toward the Ferris wheel.

I may not be able to transform my relationship with Hayes into something beautiful, but I cannot just leave it unfinished.

I have to at least try to rework this unique section of the terrifyingly out-of-control art piece known as My Life.

• • •

“Ready to take fate into your own hands?”

Hayes swings around to stare at me, and I point to the giant Ferris wheel he and his friends are waiting to board. One of the legs jerks violently with each turn of the wheel, as if the ride is having muscle spasms. I’ve jumped the line for the ride and can feel the glares on my back from the other people waiting.

With a sigh, Hayes gestures to the older guy with the ponytail standing beside him. “Roger, this is Rory.” Roger is busy glaring at me as if line jumping is the least of my offenses. Hayes adds, “Roger’s my sponsor.”

He shakes my hand formerly, but Roger’s voice is cold as he says, “Hayes has told me a lot about you.”

The rest of their crew is staring at me in silence, and I resist the urge to turn and run into the arms of the fried dough man.

I wink at Roger. “Well, I hope he hasn’t told you everything.” My laugh morphs into an uncomfortable cough and I stand there, looking at my hands.

“Hey, I know you,” a middle-aged mom-type says. “You work at Danny’s.”

I smile at her gratefully. “You come in for ink pads and stamps all the time.”

She laughs. “Creative outlet, right, Rose?” The older woman beside her nods, and she adds, “Scrapbooking is my new drug of choice.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I smile and nod and go back to looking at my hands. The line jumps forward and Hayes finally breaks the awkwardness by saying, “I guess you can ride with me.”

Roger opens his mouth to say something, but Hayes holds up a hand. “It’s cool. I’ve got this.”

I aim my smile up at him, but he doesn’t look at me. We don’t say anything more until we’re safely locked side by side on the decrepit ride.

Clutching the bar tightly, I turn to him. “Your friends seem…um…nice. And I’m really happy for you finishing your ninth step.”

“Yeah. Working on that step brought up a lot of stuff for me.”

The ride lurches forward, and with a grunt, he quickly grabs the safety bar.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” I ask.

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Because you’re on this antique ride that is definitely not up to code. With me.” He looks at me and then glances toward the car behind us. Like I’m abducting him in a Ferris wheel.

“I’m fine.” He sighs. “Roger wasn’t exactly onboard.”

“I could tell. Do you keep him after you’re done with all your steps?” Please say no.

“Of course. Roger’s great. He lost his marriage and family due to his drinking. I was lucky I hit my bottom so fast and so young.”

“I, personally, prefer my bottoms fast and young.”

“Very funny.” Hayes doesn’t laugh.

We’re quiet as our car climbs to the top of the wheel and stops. Together we watch the squealing park blanketed in blinking neon lights below. It feels like we’re looking at a scene that we’re not actually a part of.

The ride lurches forward again, and I give a small squeal. We both grab the bar and then laugh at our overreaction as our car begins to free-fall down the front of the wheel. I give another squeal as we swoop backward along the bottom.

Our car begins to climb up the back of the wheel again and I look over at Hayes. He’s watching me.

My stomach and chest trade places.

Our eyes stay locked on each other as we drop and we rise. Finally, I whisper, “What does finishing your ninth step mean? For us.”

“About us…” Hayes runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the perfectly slicked-back top.

I resist the urge to reach over and smooth back his hair. I’m not sure I could stop myself from kissing him if I did.

He takes a deep breath, thinks for a full rotation, and starts again. “In AA, we finish every meeting by saying the Serenity Prayer.”

Hayes recites a prayer about accepting things that he’s not able to change and about having enough courage to change what he can.

“That’s nice,” I say, confused.

“The last part of the prayer is about figuring out what I can change and what I can’t. That’s the part that matters. Letting go of the things I can’t control is the only way to truly achieve serenity.”

I feel a sickening feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the ride gliding around the top right now.

Hayes shuffles his feet against the metal floor of our car. “Rory, I can’t change you.”

A tremor of anger runs through me. I want to lash out, but I just calmly say, “So you need to ditch me.”

“I mean, come on, Rory. You’re here at the fair with your lifeguard partner.” He says it like an accusation.

“Yeah, Scott and I are friends.” I hate being treated like this. “I’m sorry for how things looked, but nothing happened between Scott and me. Well, I mean, not nothing, but you know—”

“Actually, Rory, I don’t know. And I don’t even need to know. The two of you are here together now.” He shifts away from me.

“But it doesn’t mean anything.”

He looks angry. “And that’s the problem. You don’t think it means anything but everything means something.”

“I’m just trying to explain that Scott and I are friends.”

“It didn’t look that way the other day in the rain.”

“I understand what it looked like.” I’m getting frustrated. “But I’m telling you how it was.”

“And I’m supposed to, what? Just believe you?”

My inner lions stir. “You’re not being fair,” I say. “And besides, you said things between us were over and then you didn’t respond to my texts.”

“I was writing my response in the book,” he says. “But you probably thought my inscription was just corny anyway.”

“I didn’t know if I was ever going to hear from you again.” My voice rises. “And your note was actually the perfect degree of corniness.” Thinking of his words soothes my lions, and I add more calmly, “Hayes, I do want to delve beneath the surface with you.”

He looks me in the eye. “That wasn’t meant as an offer for us to drown together.”

I gasp with surprise that morphs directly into rage. My lions pounce. “Are you serious?” I practically roar. “So you have basically hunted me down and pried me open and made me trust you so you could just abandon me?”

“Rory, I didn’t—”

“You weren’t kidding about that selfish program of yours.” I poke him in the chest, and he glances over the side as if one of his AA friends will swoop in from another car to help him.

But I have him cornered and alone.

“Is that really what you anonymous alcoholics do?” I growl in his face. “As soon as things get too real or hard or out of control, you run away?”

He looks frightened, and I think, That’s right. I’m not the prey here. YOU’RE the prey.

He opens and closes his mouth. “I just… I can’t… Rory, I can’t change you.”

“I never asked you to change me!” I’m bursting with rage. “So go ahead and hide in your safe, little, selfishness circle and shit your creamy, smooth serenity out your butt because I don’t need you.”

He stammers as if my jaws are on his throat, but I release before the kill. I lean against the side of the car. Away from him.

I can feel him watching me as we go weightless again and again, free-falling under the swinging shadows.

I’ve caught my breath by the time the wheel starts to slow down.

We slide into a rough landing at the bottom of the ride and the bar is ripped out of his hands.

Hayes doesn’t move, and so I leave the car first, stepping down and refusing the help of the red-haired guy working the ride.

The ramp gives a metallic rattle under my feet as I stride toward the exit gate, and I can hear Hayes step onto the ramp behind me but don’t glance back until I’m all the way in front of the Zipper.

He’s shaking his head as he rejoins his alcoholic friends. They greet him with open arms, seeming relieved to have him back. As if they were all afraid I’d get him drunk during the ride or something.

Roger reaches up to put an arm around Hayes and turns to give me a long, sad look.

I have no idea how much Hayes has told Roger about me, but I can tell one thing. I know that look. He knows about my dead mom.

With a deep breath, I lift my head and stride away from the group that is clearly busy pitying me. The group that thinks I’m incapable of changing.

Too late, I think. I already have changed. But if Hayes won’t give me the chance to prove it, he doesn’t deserve me.

It feels as if my scrambled guts are being scooped out with each stride, and I suddenly want to go home and wash away the filth of the fair.

I pass the rabbit barn, looking for Scott, and wonder if he’s made a connection with one of the girls I set him up with. And if he’ll be giving my surprise to her instead of me.

I’m fine with that, to be honest.

The rabbits’ cages are stacked from the floor to eye level, and I bend down to look at a big, black, lop-eared bunny wiggling his nose at me from his cage. I lean in close to get a better view of his adorable, fuzzy face.

A snuggly pet bunny would be perfect right about now. But then I think of Kelly and realize that nothing good in my life will ever be safe from the risk of bloody carnage.

As I walk away from the bunnies, I hear the loud whirr of a chainsaw coming from the direction of the pig barn. The chainsaw’s motor revs a few times and then cuts off. I notice a crowd gathering around a sectioned-off space between two barns. The whole area is as bright as daytime, and as I draw closer, I notice the strong smell of cedar chips.

In the center of the clearing stands a guy wearing a sleeveless flannel and holding up a chainsaw as he gestures to a thick, five-foot-tall log beside him.

The guy’s arms are oiled to emphasize his muscles, and he’s wearing sunglasses, large headphones, and an orange baseball cap. He’s shouting something to the audience, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

I draw closer and get to the very edge of the crowd before I realize, It’s Scott.

He’s clearly about to perform some feat of power-tool wonder, and this audience is eating it up. I say a quick prayer that he’s not about to start juggling chainsaws because (a) I care about him and, by extension, his extremities and (b) I seriously need his help on that water tower.

God, do I ever need to paint that lion now.

Scott calls out, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” and an old rock song blasts out from the gnarled overhead speakers. He restarts his chainsaw, and after a few revs of the engine, he launches himself at the log, holding the spinning blade at odd angles so he can carve rounded chunks off the top.

A cloud of sawdust rises up, and the music blares, and Scott grimaces as he works on the log.

It’s hard to tell just what he’s carving, but it doesn’t appear to be one of the eagles or bears standing in random positions around the clearing. Leave it to the Ulster County Fair to introduce folks to the fine art of chainsaw sculpting.

I’ve always thought of Scott as purely a nature guy and am surprised to see him carving wood with a chainsaw. I never realized he did any form of art.

Mom once pulled me away from a guy on the sidewalk in the city who was making quickie paintings that featured dolphins flipping through space. I can still hear her scolding me that it was not “real” art, and it’s easy to imagine her turning her nose up at this performance.

But I’m fascinated by unconventional forms, and right now I’m mesmerized by Scott’s emerging sculpture. This takes some serious skill.

Making something in front of an audience is basically the opposite of what I do.

It isn’t until he’s been working quickly for a good fifteen minutes that I realize what Scott’s carving. A lion.

I wonder if his surprise to me is the fact that he’s doing the lion special after hearing about my graffiti lions or if the big surprise is the fact that he’s a freaking chainsaw sculptor. I’m thinking it’s a bit of both.

As the rough lion-ish shape begins to take a sharpened focus, I work my way up closer to the safety ropes. By the time the music stops and Scott turns off his saw, I’m directly front and center in the crowd.

Scott pulls his sunglasses off and looks around. The lower half of his face is covered in sawdust, and it breaks into a smile when he spots me. I wave and he gives me a thumbs-up.

It is like he’s a different person in front of this audience. One who probably doesn’t need me to be his wingman after all.

Searching the crowd, I notice that the girls I tried setting him up with are nowhere to be found.

He’s using a long-bristled brush to dust the sawdust off the lion’s head, and I wonder how his skills are going to translate to spray-painting a giant lion onto the front of a water tower.

Scott calls out, “Thanks for watching, folks. This sculpture will be auctioned off tomorrow night during the Ulster County Fair closing judging ceremonies, and the proceeds will be donated to help fund arts education.”

I mentally tell my mother, See that? Arts education. Take your snobby attitude toward quickie chainsaw sculpting and shove it up your… I stop the thought since I maybe don’t want to start talking back to my dead mother in my mind.

When Scott has finished absorbing his applause, he hands off his saw and gear to a girl wearing cut-off jean shortie shorts. She holds up a hose, and he rinses the sawdust off his arms before he gestures for me to meet him at the ropes.

He walks up while drying off with a towel, and I say, “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this crazy talent.” I gesture to the banner that reads “Masters of the Chainsaw” with three cartoon lumberjacks wielding chainsaws and logs in various states of being carved.

“This wasn’t actually the surprise,” he says. “I usually wow the crowd with a classic bear design. I’m sort of known for it.” He gestures to the lion and imitates the wide-open mouth.

“So you did the lion just for me?”

“You and arts education, of course.” He grins.

“Thanks, really. It’s pretty amazing.” I look back up at the banner. “What got you started with all this?”

“Working up on the mountain, I got pretty handy with the chainsaw. Turns out, I have an eye for picking out the right pieces of wood, seeing the animal inside and setting it free.”

“That explains why you like going out walking the trails so much.”

“I do find a lot of great logs at work, but I also just love those woods.”

“I hear that.” I smile for a beat too long and redirect our conversation. “Hey, what happened with those girls?”

He holds up his empty palms. “No common interests with the only girl who seemed interested.”

I reach across the ropes to give him a light punch. “Being interested is a common interest, stupid.” He shrugs and I wrinkle my nose at him. “If I would have been there, I could’ve made something happen. Sorry I failed you as wingman.”

“It wasn’t you. It was me.”

“Ha. Most famous breakup line ever. Thanks a bunch.”

He laughs and slides under the rope to my side of the barrier. “What happened to the guy you ditched me for? Not looking to make a commitment?”

I shrug. “Let’s just say it did not go well.”

Scott puts an arm over my shoulder. “Can I interest you in a sack of fried fritters to help you forget your heartbreak and sorrows?”

“Everything’s better when it’s fried.”

“No arguments here,” Scott says. “Let’s go.”

He guides me toward the crackling sound of hot grease. I don’t bother moving his hand off my shoulder, even though I’m pretty sure Hayes is still here, walking around the park with his friends.

I touch a finger to my lip and think of how much I hoped for one final kiss from him on that Ferris wheel.

“Extra powdered sugar,” I tell Scott quietly as we step up to the line side by side.

I wonder if tossing my heart in the fryer would make it any better.