Chapter Three

I hear the fence behind me give a distinct rattle.

Deep-fried crap balls.

I stop spraying midstroke and spin around. I’m trapped like an animal, and I half expect my dad to be standing there in full uniform with his gun drawn and aimed at my head.

Instead, it’s that damn cologne-ad model again. He looks at me with his eyes so wide I can see the whites all around. “You’re the one painting those lions?”

Pushing a dreadlock off my face, I calmly make my way to the fence where he’s standing. Ignoring him is suddenly much less of an option.

I say, “I don’t know what you’ve been doing here all afternoon, but camping inside the state park isn’t allowed.”

“Oh, like you’re not breaking any laws.” His eyes are locked onto my lion. “And besides, do I look like a camper to you?”

“No.” I resist the urge to ask what hiking catalog he just stepped out of. “But you do seem to be occupying the woods pretty hard. Are you staying up at Mohonk or something?”

Mohonk is the expensive resort that sits at the top of the adjacent mountain. We get a lot of their guests “slumming it” here on the public-state-park side.

This guy’s face is pressed against the fence, and the way he’s staring at my lion is making me nervous. “I can’t believe you’re the actual artist.” He finally looks at me.

I hold my paint-stained palms up. I was supposed to be in planning mode all day today, so I didn’t grab rubber gloves.

I say, “Guilty. You caught me red-handed. And orange handed and purple handed…” I let my voice fade and rub my palms together, hating the fact that I need him to be cool about all this.

His eyes sparkle. “Running into you must be fate.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t exactly believe in fate. I believe in shit happens.”

“‘Shit happens’ is fate.” He grins at me. “Well, maybe more ‘shit happens for a reason.’”

“I see. So you’ve recently converted to some religion or cult or whatever, and now you’ve decided New Paltz is your new mecca. Of course.” The town naturally draws spiritual seekers, along with its fair share of wackadoos.

“I’m staying here with my aunt for the summer,” he says. “Getting away from Long Island to figure a few things out with my life.”

I laugh. “Why do people always think they need to leave home to find themselves?”

He ignores my comment. “I’ve been studying these lions of yours around town, and they’re saying something. They’re not just roaring. These guys are raging.” He tilts his head as he studies my work. “Is this one bigger than the others?”

I turn away and start collecting my supplies. “Listen, I just need you to be chill about this. Getting busted would be pretty messy for me.”

“I know what that’s like,” he says. “Are you on probation too?”

“No.” My turned back hides my surprise. He doesn’t strike me as the “on probation too” type, a.k.a. my type. “I have a family member in law enforcement and let’s just say things could get very bad very quickly.”

I turn at the rattling sound of the fence and see he’s climbing over to my side.

“By all means, do join me,” I say sarcastically as he moves in front of my face.

“I’m Hayes.” He reaches out to shake my hand like we’re here for a formal business meeting in some sort of outdoor conference room.

“Hello, Hayes.” I ignore his hand. “Welcome to the lion’s den.” I try to look menacing, but he just responds with another easy grin. I notice his lips are the tiniest bit lopsided in a way that tries to draw me in. I look away.

He moves closer to the lion’s face, and I will the thing to spring to life and swallow him up.

“This fellow seems especially angry.” Hayes turns to me. “Where is all this rage coming from?”

I laugh. “Maybe I’m just a good artist.”

“You’re an amazing artist.” His intensity makes me blush. “But this anguish can’t come from nothing.”

I consider the lion’s drawn snarl. He’s right. Pain and rage shade every groove.

I angle my body away from him. “Listen, I just need you to not tell anyone about this. About me. Okay?”

He watches me silently, as if deciding something. My heart beats harder and harder until I turn around and start shoving spray cans into my backpack.

I was an idiot to pick a spot where I couldn’t make a fast escape. I’ve always been so careful, but I let my anger toward Dad interfere with my judgment.

Finally, Hayes says, “I’ll make you a deal. Let me take you out to lunch. I want to talk with you about your lions.”

“I never talk about my lions. Ever.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “And I do not go on dates with guys from Lawng Eyeland.”

The grin is back. “So it’s not a date then. Let’s just think of it as an exchange. I’ll keep silent about your identity if you shed a little light on the meaning of your lions. Also, I’m starving, so we should maybe get a bite to eat while we talk.”

“You’re seriously going to blackmail me into going out with you?”

“Don’t make it sound so creepy.” He moves to climb back over the chain-link fence. “I just want to take you to a casual lunch. And in exchange, I won’t alert the authorities to your identity.”

He has to be bluffing. “You have no idea who I am.” I crane my neck to look at him since he’s already reached the top of the fence.

He grabs the bar with one flexed arm, pulls himself up, and flings a leg over before peering down at me.

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good sense of who you are.” He jumps to the ground. “And I know what you drive. And I know where you work.”

Shit. “Guess you found your true self here in New Paltz after all,” I call out. “You’re a creepy stalker blackmailer!”

Laughing, he says, “I’ll wait for you out by the park entrance.” He doesn’t even look back as he adjusts his pack and walks away. He’s the one in control now.

Impulsively, I pick up a nearly empty spray can, and with a few quick flips of my wrist, my lion’s eyes go red with fury.

• • •

Sitting at my favorite place to eat, the Main Street Bistro, has never felt so confining. My leg shakes with impatience as Hayes pores over the menu. I say, “Just order the Fifty-Nine Main Express breakfast burrito. Unless you’re a vegetarian.” It’s an accusation. “Then get the Veggie X.”

He gives an easy grin as he closes his menu. “Fifty-Nine Main Express burrito it is. You know, trusting a stranger can feel really good sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me, but I’m a little too busy being blackmailed to focus on trust at the moment.”

“Ice water?” he asks pleasantly, and picks up the sweaty pitcher sitting between us. My buddy John is our waiter, so instead of plastic cups, we have nice glass steins with lemon slices perched on the rims. I hold mine toward Hayes.

As he pours, one of the ice cubes leaps onto the table. Scooping it up neatly, he pops it in his mouth. The bistro often has a line of people out the door, but it’s the middle of the week and most of the college students are tucked away in their assorted hometowns for the summer, so the place is semiquiet.

Hayes slides our waters to the side along with the pitcher, so there’s nothing between us. When he leans forward, I grab the handle of my glass and quickly toss back an icy-cold gulp.

He looks at me as he slides the lump of ice back and forth in his mouth. Finally, he crushes it between his molars with a loud crunch. When he’s finished chewing, he asks, “Do you believe in signs?”

My water glass clinks down in front of me. “Yeah, sure. The big red ones that say stop are my favorite.”

“Very funny.” His forehead pulls up as if drawn by elastic. “I’m talking about the divine, meaningful sort. The kind that give guidance.”

There it is. “No, I do not. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned I’m not a flake. And I’m not really interested in learning about Allah or Buddha or accepting Jesus-as-my-personal-lord-and-savior-thanks.” I reach over and pat his arm. “But you’ve come to the right place. New Paltz should offer its own welcome packet and walking tour for people on spiritual pilgrimages.”

Hayes laughs and we’re interrupted by John asking if we’re ready to order. We each get the Fifty-Nine Main Express and John gives me a knowing wink as if he can see what this is.

Except even I don’t know what the hell this is.

Hayes says, “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had this thing for lions.”

I pick up my fork and press the tines into my thumb. “Yeah, well, with the name Rory, I guess I could say the same thing.”

“Makes sense,” he says with a grin.

I cringe inwardly at my oversharing. Now he has my name too.

“Lions aren’t just my favorite animal. It’s like I’m drawn to them,” he says. “Every time I see one, it feels like a message for me to pay attention.”

“So lions are your spirit animal?” I mock.

“Funny.” He doesn’t laugh.

Hayes is a fast talker and launches into a story about how, a few years ago, he saw a whole pride of lions in the wild while on safari in Africa. Apparently, going on safari in Africa isn’t a big deal to his family because Hayes mentions it like it was a road trip to Pittsburgh or something.

But when he describes seeing those lions, he makes it sound like a holy experience.

“One of them looked directly at me, and even though I knew we were relatively safe in our tour jeep, I’ve never felt more scared in my life.” His eyes shine. “But it was an uplifting sort of terror. Like, the lion probably wanted to attack me, but being seen by him was worth the danger.”

Before deciding to, I tell him about the time my mother took me to the Bronx Zoo when I was seven years old and I got lost. I’d followed the signs leading to the Lion House, and when she found me an hour later, I was standing in front of the glass, having a staring contest with a young lion.

“She still repeats the story that the poor thing seemed to be losing his confidence under my glare,” I say, “like he couldn’t decide if I was the prey or if he was supposed to be the prey. I’m pretty sure he was thinking I’d make a nice snack, but I have to confess, I vaguely remember feeling thrilled as I looked into those big amber eyes.”

I realize Hayes has been listening to me with an unnerving amount of focus, and I look down at my still-stained hands, wondering what got me babbling on.

He holds up his water glass and declares a toast. “To the mighty lion, king of the beasts.”

His lopsided grin draws me in and the moment feels heavy. I lift my glass, and before I can stop myself, I countertoast, “To being seen.”

Hayes and I stare at each other. His voice is rough as he repeats my toast. “To being seen.” He clinks his glass to mine.

We watch each other drink and place our glasses back on the table between us without breaking eye contact.

Finally, I look down and mumble, “Or something corny like that.”

“Sorry to interrupt you two, but here you go.” It’s John bringing us our food.

We thank him, and after Hayes bows his head silently for a moment, he digs in. He displays an appropriate level of awe over the utter deliciousness of the Fifty-Nine X.

“Now, this is what I’m talking about,” he says between bites. “It might have taken me a month to try this if we never met. Or I could’ve missed out altogether.”

“Glad to be your resident burrito guru,” I say. “Now you can head back to Long Island utterly fulfilled.”

“Oh, no. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure I am. I mean, I’ll let you pay for my meal and all because you seem sort of rich.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “But I don’t actually believe you would turn me in for vandalism.” I dig a forkful of potatoes from my burrito.

“Not reporting you makes me an obstructer of the law. And I’ve recently become more conscious of respecting each and every facet of our fine legal system.”

“Yeah, well, being on probation can do that to a person.”

“Tell me about it.” He starts to give me the story of how he ended up getting busted for drunk driving back in Queens. Twice.

I eat slowly as he talks quickly, describing the first time he snuck a drink from his parent’s liquor cabinet. He liked the dizzy feeling it gave him. He was twelve. “It wasn’t long before I was sneaking whatever alcohol I could find. My parents keep a fully stocked bar for social occasions. Well, I mean, they used to.”

He tells me how his drinking escalated until one year when he showed up drunk to his mother’s formal spring tea. He tried to hide how blitzed he was, but his loud talking gave him away and his mother was mortified.

“I felt terrible and tried to stop drinking after that.” He looks down at his hands. “But quitting was harder than I thought it would be.”

“And you were how old?”

“I was fourteen by then, but it was like I’d been missing this puzzle piece all my life and the alcohol fit perfectly in that empty hole. Or at least, it nearly fit. And gradually, it started taking more and more liquor to get the same feeling of wholeness.”

“You must’ve been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff to need to escape that bad.” I chew a bite of my burrito slowly.

He puts down his fork and knife. “Actually, I grew up in a loving family in a stable home in a really good neighborhood. My turmoil was all internal.”

I’m ashamed to realize Hayes has been growing more appealing to me as he’s shared the shitstorm he made of his once-perfect life. My dad would hate the idea of me being with this guy. Maybe I wrote him off too quickly.

“Staying here with my aunt for the summer is my final big shot for a do-over,” Hayes says. “I’m lucky to get a third chance, and now I’m paying closer attention to everything.”

“So you need me to show you where all the hot parties are?”

“Very funny. I’ve been sober three months now.”

“You mean, like, with AA?”

He blushes. “That second A is supposed to stand for anonymous. But it’s been good. The meetings here seem…deeper than the ones I was going to back home.”

“New Paltz certainly has her charms—the views, the trails, our recovering alcoholics.”

“So, what about you?”

“Do I party?”

“No, I mean…what about you? What’s with all the angry lions? When did you start painting them?”

I hold up my steak knife as if I can physically slice the memory that tries to rush toward me. “You could say it all started with something I like to call none of your damn business.”

Hayes laughs and swallows the bite he’s chewing. “This is going to sound a bit out there, but it can’t be a coincidence that I caught you painting. I feel like your lions led me right to you.” I look around with alarm and he lowers his voice. “How many other people know you’re the artist?”

I squeeze the handle of my knife as I saw a large hunk off my burrito. “Nobody,” I admit and continue cutting the bite into smaller and smaller bits.

“I was hoping you’d at least give me a tour of the town. Sort of an insider’s view. Those places only the locals know about. My aunt is cool, but she works a lot, and she’s not real big on hiking or exploring.”

“I’m sorry, but my obligation begins and ends with these fabulous burritos.” I stab what’s left of mine and leave the knife sticking straight up. “You seem nice enough. And I’m glad you appreciate my lions, but I’m not the sort of tour guide you’re looking for.”

“But I believe fate brought us together.”

“And now, my undying free will shall be splitting us apart.”

Hayes laughs as if I’m joking. “Are you honestly going to try to tell me you’re not dealing with something pretty intense right now? That you have no idea what I’m talking about when I tell you that I see rage in your work?”

I just stare at him for a moment before mumbling something about needing to use the ladies’ room. As I stand up from the table, I add, “And then I really need to get going.”

Who the hell talks like this with someone they’ve just met?

Once the bathroom door is locked, I run the water until it’s liquid ice that I splash on the blotches rising up my neck.

When I close my eyes, the memories try to muscle their way into my head. Pure-white tiles. The bathwater. All that blood.

Stop it, Rory!

Yanking a strip of paper towel from the roll, I dry my neck and face, avoiding eye contact with the mirror.

When I get back to the table, Hayes has already paid the bill, plus he’s apparently made friends with my buddy John. The two of them are talking by the register counter where shelves of baked goods peer out from behind the glass.

When I walk up, Hayes pulls a giant peanut butter cookie wrapped in plastic out of the paper bag he’s holding. I don’t want to ask if he just magically guessed my favorite or if John told him.

I take the cookie. “Well, thank you. This has been…different.” I want to turn and walk away, but something keeps me standing there.

John tells Hayes, “Good luck,” and says to me, “See you, Rory,” as he turns back to the coffee machines.

Hayes crosses his arms and bumps me with one elbow. “So listen. I’ve been wrestling with this whole one day at a time sobriety challenge and can really use some sort of release.”

“I’m not getting drunk with you,” I say. “And from your story, it sounds to me like you really shouldn’t be going out drinking.”

He laughs. “That’s not what I’m saying. I was just asking John about things the locals like to do around here and he mentioned a place called Stony Kill Falls?”

I throw a glare at John, but it is deflected off his back. I say, “Yeah, it’s a secluded waterfall that we try to keep private. We don’t need a bunch of out-of-towners knowing about it.”

“So, I was thinking, maybe if you weren’t doing anything special tomorrow, we could head up there. You could show me around.”

I shake my head. “I’m working my other job tomorrow.”

“What time do you start? I can do early morning.”

I look out the window as my mind cranks its gears. If I get out of the house first thing, I’ll avoid seeing my dad. But is it really a good idea to connect with Hayes again? I don’t like how exposed this guy makes me feel.

Unwrapping a corner of my cookie, I take a bite and chew slowly as I turn toward the door.

Hayes lunges to hold it open for me.

“Thanks,” I say. Once we’re out on the sidewalk together, I hold my cookie toward him. He breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth. After a beat, he pretends he’s about to pass out from ecstasy.

“Mmm,” he says. “Come on. This is delicious! The Fifty-Nine Express was delicious. You have to help me find more local hidden gems. One lion lover to another?”

His face is so open and innocent, I can almost picture him as that twelve-year-old boy taking his first drink and liking the fuzzy feeling it gave him.

Finally, I say, “Meet me in front of the Mud Puddle on Water Street at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

He snags another piece of my cookie and gives me a lopsided grin.

“Don’t give me that cocky grin. I’m showing you the falls and then we’re done.” I turn and walk away, resisting the urge to check if he’s watching me go.