Chapter Seven

I agree to pick Hayes up at his aunt’s house the next morning, since she’s working and he still can’t drive legally. She lives just outside of town in a very snazzy A-frame log cabin that has huge windows with mountain views.

“This place is awesome,” I say as I walk into the combination living room/kitchen with wood beam ceilings that rise cathedral high. A long tabby immediately weaves herself around my legs. I bend down to give her a pat. “What does your aunt do?”

He points out the window toward the Shawangunk Ridge. “She’s a massage therapist up at Mohonk.”

“Nice.” I look out to the tower, visible on top of the mountain from where we’re standing. “I know someone who used to work in the kitchen up there. Would you believe that the light at the top of that tower is just a regular sixty-watt bulb?”

Hayes bends down to catch the cat who hasn’t stopped tracing an endless infinity symbol around my legs. “That’s nuts,” he says. “It looks so bright every night from here.”

“He took me up there and showed me himself. It’s just a regular lightbulb, like one you’d put in a lamp.” I mask my memory of making out with the guy up on top of that tower.

If Hayes suspects, he doesn’t show it. Dropping the cat so it lands on all fours, he moves over to the center island, picks up a purple tumbler, and hands it to me. “Organic blend. Light and sweet.”

I smile and point to the Mud Puddle’s logo on the side of the tumbler. “Did you lose your Starbucks club card or something?”

The cat has already made her way back to me and resumes making her obsessive-compulsive figure eights.

“Go ahead. Try it,” he says. “I promise I’m not trying to roofie you.”

“See, I didn’t think you were trying to roofie me until you just now said that.”

“Sorry. Very bad joke.”

“Not that you’d do anything to me anyway,” I say.

“I don’t know. Watching you sleep sounds—”

“Creepy as hell?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I guess it kinda does. Better to leave the hallucinogens out of our discussion.”

“So no narcotics whatsoever?”

He gives me a look that says the two of us will never be getting stoned together. “Just try your drink,” he says. “I made it special for you.”

“Thanks.” I take a sip. This coffee is about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I feel my pupils widen. “I mean, thanks!”

“Caffeine is my one remaining drug, so I’m a little particular about my coffee. I use a French press and grind the beans myself.”

“You seriously need help.” I greedily take another sip. “But this is fantastic.”

Hayes is eager to get going to the ice caves, but I need to see what type of sweetener (cane sugar with a dollop of honey) and cream (fresh whole milk from the farmer’s market) he used. With some pressing, he also admits to adding a pinch of cinnamon to the grounds. By the time we head out, I’m already halfway through my delicious beverage and am completely covered in cat hair.

As we climb into my car, he pauses a moment and looks out toward the tower. “That’s pretty amazing, you know.”

“What?” I take another sip from the tumbler.

“That something as ordinary as a household lightbulb can be seen from this far away.” He turns his eyes on me. “It shines so brightly in the night sky.”

Gazing at the tower that juts up from the ridge, I say, “Well, it doesn’t do shit right now. It’s actually turned on during the day, but you can’t tell even up close.”

He laughs. “So much for getting all philosophical with you.”

“Nice try.” I roll my eyes and slide what’s left of my coffee into my car’s drink holder. He buckles himself into the passenger side as I start the engine.

Without meaning to, I kick up gravel with my tires pulling out and the two of us laugh. Hayes hums the theme song to an old TV show that featured at least three car chases per episode.

The windows are down, and I make the music loud, and I’m not sure if it’s a premonition or if it’s just all the caffeine I’ve recently ingested, but it feels like it’s going to be a really good day.

The two of us don’t talk as I take the back way out of town, toward Ellenville and the ice caves. The road is long and winding and lined with thick forest on either side.

A hawk swings by overhead, searching for small animals to devour, but they are all too busy scurrying for food to care about the danger.

A good song comes on, and Hayes is using every available surface inside the car to play percussion.

He’s busy mimicking the beat of the tune on his chest when I look over at him scornfully. His thumping slows, and he drops his hands into his lap. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

The chorus starts up, and I snatch my coffee tumbler out of the drink holder, hold it up, and belt into it like it’s a microphone.

He laughs and the two of us shout out the lyrics together, passing the “mic” back and forth.

When the song ends he tells me, “We killed it!” and I have to smile in agreement.

I don’t want to ask because it feels like revealing that I need him too much, but I’ve bitten my tongue for as long as I can. I slow down and lower the radio.

“Have you thought more about helping me paint over the ad on the water tower?”

He makes me wait for his answer, continuing to tap a hand on his knee as he looks out the window.

Finally, he shifts in his seat to face me. “I talked it over with Roger.”

I swerve slightly. “Are you freaking crazy?”

“Not specific details or anything, just the basics. The fact that there could be legal consequences.”

“I swear I won’t get you in trouble. If anything goes down, I’ll take the fall. Honestly.”

My dad may hate me, but I grew up knowing most of the other officers, and I feel sure I could protect Hayes from a parole violation even if we did get caught. Plus, we won’t get caught.

“Listen, Rory, I really want to help you. And I can see just how much that water tower needs one of your lions on it. Roaring down over the town. Just like, roar!” He holds up his hands like claws.

I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. He’s actually going to help me. I say, “That thing is going to wake everybody up.”

He holds up a hand as if to stop my big grin. “What my sponsor helped me decide is that I honestly want to help you, but I need to know why.”

“Why what? Why the lion? You just said it: that water tower needs this.” I wrinkle my nose and imitate his roar, but a glance at his face says he’s not buying it. I drop my hand that’s making “claws.”

“I know what the lion would represent for me,” he says. “I could look up and always see Aslan from Narnia watching over us and reminding me that I have a higher power who is kind yet absolutely fierce. It would be an uneasy image, but one with deep meaning.”

“That’s perfect,” I say. “Let’s go with your Narnia thing. This lion will be, like, up there, roaring at all of us, warning everyone to shape up and act right.”

“That’s not at all what Aslan’s about. You clearly need to go back and rewatch the movie or, better yet, read the book.”

I nod enthusiastically, keeping my eyes on the road. I’ll read whatever he wants if he’ll just help me paint.

He says, “But what I really need to know is what these lions mean to you. Besides the name thing, what drove you to make the first one?”

My mind tries to land on memories, but each one is too sharp.

“I guess you could say I’ve been going through some stuff this past year or so.” I shrug casually, but my knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel with both hands.

“I’m sorry.” Hayes puts a palm on my shoulder and I stop at the T in the road.

I flick on my left turn signal and look out the window. “Yeah, well. Shit happens.”

“You mean shit happens for a reason,” he says, but I don’t respond because something has just caught my eye.

In the parking lot of the German restaurant on the corner, a police cruiser is parked with all the other cars. Like a goose hanging out in a crowd of ducks, thinking it will just blend in. But it does not blend in.

I’m vaguely aware of Hayes watching me, but I can’t unfreeze my stare as I slowly remove my sunglasses.

The cruiser is one of the D.A.R.E. ones, complete with a picture of the condescending cartoon dog in uniform on the side. Just like the police car my dad drives. The puzzle pieces fall into place.

That semicolon marking this morning in his calendar.

The unpopular restaurant. The perfect distance outside of town.

He’s here. With her. I’m certain of it.

Of course, I don’t remember my dad ever eating German food before, let alone for breakfast. I’m probably wrong about all of this.

Except that I know that I’m not.

Impulsively, I pull into the parking lot. There are plenty of spaces open, but I drive directly up to the front door and park diagonally on the painted yellow X’s marking the entryway.

Hayes’s exclamations of, “What’s happening?” and, “Rory, are you okay?” are faint background noise behind the long and steady high note playing in my head.

I am not in control of my actions as I jump out of the car and rip open the heavy front door and charge into the space beyond. I’m plunged into dark-wood-paneled politeness, and I freeze for a moment, allowing my pupils to adjust.

It takes long enough that Hayes moves in behind me and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “You left the car running. Is everything okay?”

I shake him off as I spot them.

Over by the window. A private little table for two. How romantic.

Without a plan, I march directly to where they sit. A handsome middle-aged woman with a dreamy smile on her face.

And across from her: my dad.

I shout, “What the actual fuck?”

Dad looks surprised for a moment, and then covers his forehead with one hand. To the woman, he says, “I’m so sorry, Linda.”

“So, that’s her name? Huh?” I stick my face directly in front of hers. “Hello, Linda. Who the hell do you think you are?”

She stammers at me while twisting the cloth napkin on her lap with both hands. Looking back and forth between my dad and me, she seems about to cry. But that’s not my fault. It’s his.

I swing around on him. “I knew it too. You called me by accident last week, and I could hear you out on a date with this, this, this…hobag.”

“Rory!” My dad’s face is red as he rises and the little-kid part of my brain is saying holy shit because he hardly ever loses it and it’s scary when he does, but I don’t back down.

The two of us stand nose to nose, and my teeth are clenched so tight I can feel my heart beating in my jaw. Hayes gently touches my arm and I realize I have my right hand balled into a fist. I release it.

“Hey, there, Hayes,” I say sarcastically over my shoulder. “This is my dad, the cheating cheater who cheats on my mom.” My voice rises with each word, drawing stares from around the sparsely filled room.

Dad glances to Hayes for a moment before fixing his eyes back on me. “You know that’s not true, Rory.”

“Are you seriously going to tell me this isn’t a date?” I laugh and gesture to the cozy table for two in front of us. “What is this, Dad?”

His face is still flushed, but his voice is controlled. “This is breakfast between two people who met at their grief counseling group. Two widowed adults who are trying to move on with their lives. Linda here lost her husband two years ago.”

Linda is still sitting, and her voice is weak as she tells me, “I’m so sorry about your mom.”

I swing my hand all the way back and before Dad or Hayes can stop me, I slap the plate of eggs off the table in front of her. She folds up like a flower, ducking down in her seat as the plate bounces off the paneled wall, sending eggs and home fries flying.

“Now we’re both sorry,” I say and turn on my heel.

“Rory!” my dad yells as Hayes bends down to pick the plate up off the ground.

I stride back through the restaurant, pausing at the neat little hostess stand and shoving the glass bowl of mints onto the floor. The dish makes a satisfying crash against the tile floor as the mints scatter in a panic.

When I get outside, the brightness is blinding. I jump into the driver’s seat, grab my sunglasses from the dashboard, and…

There’s no key in the ignition.

Hayes flies out through the restaurant’s front door with a look of dread on his face. His expression relaxes when he sees me sitting in my car.

“Come on.” He gestures for me to get out of the car.

“No way am I going back in there. Where are my keys?”

He dangles the keys in front of me. “I’ll drive.”

“You don’t even have a license.”

“So I’ll be careful.”

I sit, staring out the front window for what feels like forever as my mind chants, I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

Finally, my dad opens the door of the restaurant and bellows, “RORY!”

I give him the finger as I slide over to the passenger seat.

Hayes turns to look at him, and I scream, “Let’s go!”

He tells my dad, “I’ll take care of her,” with such calm assurance it pisses me off to no end. But at least he climbs into the car, puts the key in the ignition, and starts it.

Dad comes over to the window, looking more deflated than angry now. “Rory, we need to deal with this. You practically assaulted my girlfriend and that is not okay. I’m tempted to arrest you right now.”

“Oh, so now she’s your girlfriend?” I am seething with rage.

“Yes. Your mom has been gone for over a year now. I still miss her, but I need to have a life. You can’t just continue this fantasy that she’s still with us and nothing happened.”

I command Hayes, “Hit the gas, right now.”

Hayes looks sheepishly at my dad. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I think it’s best if she maybe cools off before you two try sorting this out.”

Dad holds his hands up in the air in surrender as Hayes slowly lets the car roll forward.

“This is not what I call hitting the gas.” I press down on Hayes’s right knee with both my hands, trying to force him to go faster. But after an initial jump forward, we continue crawling slowly.

I can still see Dad framed in the driver’s side window. “I should go check on Linda anyway.” To me he snaps, “You scared the hell out of her.”

“Good!” I say, and Hayes finally pulls away.

I watch as Dad drags the door to the restaurant open. With one last look in our direction, he heads back inside.

“Which way?” Hayes asks once we reach the parking lot exit.

“Left, I guess.” My arms are crossed, and my foot is tapping, and I feel like I’m bouncing around the inside of the car like a bouncy ball. “Although the ice caves don’t sound like such a hot idea anymore.”

“They sound like a perfect place for you to cool off.”

“I really need to paint.”

He looks over at me. “No need to explain why anymore.”

Hayes drives in silence for a time. His voice is so low it’s nearly a whisper when he says, “I’m so sorry about your mom.”

I slump farther down in my seat and fold my arms even tighter. Then cover my face with my hands.

“How did she die?” he croaks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say and turn the radio up before the thoughts can get their claws into my mind.

“I’m not going to help you rest in denial.” Hayes turns the radio back down and looks over at me. “Would you prefer I take you back to your dad right now?”

I sit up. “No, don’t. Just…give me a few minutes.” I never want to see my dad again. “We’re almost there. Make the next right and I’ll tell you everything as we hike to the caves.”

Hayes nods and turns the music back up. I’m glad he’s driving slowly because I’m not looking forward to answering his questions.

Or to finding out how he’ll treat me after he knows my whole story.

• • •

We’re silent as we walk up the path toward the reservoir and the caves beyond. Finally, Hayes tries to open a dialogue by asking about what appear to be outhouses poking from the overgrown blueberry bushes at random intervals.

I know that they were single-room huts built for migrant berry pickers nearly a century ago, but I just shrug in response. This isn’t some fifth-grade informative-ass field trip.

The pickers used to start fires to encourage bigger harvests and the blueberries still grow abundantly here, but it’s too early in the season to eat them now.

This does not stop Hayes from picking a small handful and popping them into his mouth. He immediately spits the sour berries out onto the ground and pulls a face that makes me smile in spite of everything.

“Maybe I should’ve warned you they’re still tart this time of year.”

He wipes his tongue with his palm and gives a muffled, “D’ya think?”

“Well, the greenish hue should’ve maybe been a tip-off.”

“Oh, is that right?” He pinches another premature berry off the bush and tosses it at me. It glances off my shoulder. But instead of engaging in a berry battle, I turn back to stone.

“Nice try.” I continue along the path, and he follows in silence until we eventually emerge into the clearing that surrounds the reservoir.

The still water reflects the sky, and the scene is so beautiful, if it were a landscape oil painting, it would be cheesy as hell. I want to wreck it. Grabbing a handful of smooth stones, I pick out a flat one and skip it expertly across the water.

It skips four times before sinking below the surface.

“Not bad.” Hayes moves beside me as I select another skipping rock and let it fly.

Six skips this time and a low whistle from Hayes.

Leaning over, he carefully scans the ground and selects a rock. He blows it off, winds up, and lets it loose with a huge kerplunk.

“If you were trying to make the biggest splash, you win.” I release another stone, and it skims perfectly across the surface.

“I live closer to the ocean than any lakes,” he says. “There’s no way to skip rocks into the ocean’s waves. They never stop.”

With a sigh, I pick up a perfect, flat skipping stone and put it in Hayes’s hand. Guiding his fingers around it so that his pointer finger is hooked along the thin edge, I turn his wrist on its side and position his arm so he’s ready to throw.

I stand behind him to guide his throwing hand, and he jokes, “You’re not putting me into another headlock, are you?”

I don’t smile, but when he twists and looks down into my face, our closeness forms a hairline crack inside me.

“Keep your forearm level with the ground and snap your wrist,” I say. “Aim for just above the water. You want the flat part of the rock to skim across the surface.”

We wind up in sync, and with my hand guiding him, he manages to toss his stone evenly across the lake.

Skip-skip-skip-splash!

“Three skips!” He’s as excited as a little kid. “That was awesome.”

He puts a hand on each of my shoulders and kisses me quickly on the lips.

Judging by the look on his face, he’s as startled as I am by his burst of affection.

I tell him, “You could still use some practice.”

His mouth falls open and his face goes red.

I cover my laugh with my hand. “With the skipping. Not the kissing.” Under my breath I add, “Your kissing just about kills me.”

He turns away, searching for more flat rocks, and I can’t tell if he heard that last part or not.

• • •

Hayes doesn’t ask me to explain the scene in the restaurant with my dad until we nearly reach the caves.

Rather than tiptoe around it with prodding questions and the dance of never-ending sympathies, he simply asks his same question from the car, “How did your mom die?”

We walk silently side by side for a time, but he doesn’t repeat the question again.

Finally, I stop walking and turn to him. “Remember that story I told you about me getting lost at the zoo as a little kid and ending up at the Lion House?”

“Yes.” He says it quietly, as if he doesn’t want to spook me from opening up.

“At the time, I thought L-I-O-N was how you spelled lying, like it was the lyin’ house and that’s where I would find my mom. She’d always do things like tell me, ‘One more minute,’ and emerge hours later, wild-eyed from working, to find I’d made dinner for myself. She’d constantly tell half truths out of convenience or lie for no apparent reason at all.”

I angle my body sideways, and after a few painful breaths, I go on. “My mother always had her secrets. I knew it before I knew how to spell lying the right way.” I feel each word as I say it. “And fifteen months ago, she came up with an elaborate plan to kill herself.”

Under his breath, Hayes says, “Shit.”

I start walking again, and when I reach the thick, wooden ladder that leads to the ice caves below, I grasp the sides and start climbing down. When I get to the bottom, I look up for the first time.

Hayes is still standing at the top with his hands on his hips and his head bowed as he watches me.

“Don’t you dare give me that look,” I call up.

He nods and clears his expression before starting down the ladder after me. I hate this. The fact that he knows now changes everything.

Now a mindless fling can never happen between us.

And I could really use a mindless fling with a warm body right about now.

• • •

Hayes follows me along the rock scramble toward the caves.

He’s silent, but I can feel him wanting to reach out and fix me, and it’s starting to piss me off.

It’s always like this after people find out what happened. They start thinking of me as some sort of broken doll in need of repair.

I haul myself quickly over the rocks, trying to prove to Hayes that I’m not fragile.

I’m working to outpace him, using my knowledge of the route to my advantage, but he stays close behind.

When we reach the first wall of rock that’s covered in ice crystals, Hayes runs his hand across it. “This is amazing,” he says. “It must be eighty-five degrees today, but this wall is completely frozen.”

I point to the small pile of frost in a corner. “There’s your Narnia. Always winter here.”

I step closer, and he instinctively puts a hand on my back, forgetting that it’s still freezing cold from the wall. I squeal in surprise.

“You didn’t just do that.” I place both palms flat against the smooth sheet of ice and hold them there as he backs away, his hands raised in surrender.

“No, no, no,” he says. “That was honestly an accident.”

“Yeah? Well, so is this.” I lunge for him, grabbing his shoulder with one hand and wrapping the other around the back of his neck. I expect him to flinch and wiggle free, but instead, he takes his punishment and relaxes, pressing his neck into my palm.

His hands slide around my waist, and I can see that despite our horsing around, he’s still thinking of my dead mom.

His gaze holds more caring concern and less lust now.

With a grunt I pull away and continue on the path beside the ice walls, moving more slowly now, like the power of gravity has just doubled.

After a moment, Hayes follows. “This place really is like Narnia.”

I don’t respond as I walk, trailing a finger along the wall’s icy surface.

“It feels like we’ve entered a place that is ‘other.’” His voice is strained, and when I turn back, he’s not looking at the icicles hanging above our heads. He’s looking directly at me.

The air is cool as I suck in my breath.

He crosses his arms and leans against the wall without breaking eye contact. He flinches at the cold but then continues leaning and watching me.

Finally, he says, “Rory, I really want to be here for you.”

I roll my eyes. “What does that even mean?”

He laughs. “I don’t know. I just… I’ve never hung out with a girl while totally present and sober.”

“So am I making you want to drink now?” There’s a tease in my voice, but I can sense that if the answer is yes, he’s done hanging out with me. Like he’s a carnival ride with a warning sign: “You may only be this fucked up to hang out with the cute boy who’s in AA.”

“Everything makes me want to drink, Rory. I’m an alcoholic.” He stands upright and briskly rubs his shoulder. “Brrr. Frosty.” He hugs himself, calling way too much attention to his biceps.

I slide my hands around myself so we’re both essentially wearing invisible straitjackets as we face each other.

I ask, “Are you afraid I’m bad for you? For your sobriety? Because I think I might be.”

He gives a sad smile. “I’m more afraid for you.”

“I hate when people worry about me.”

“Makes sense. That’s why you pretend everything’s normal.”

“Everything is normal.”

“Normal is just a setting on the dryer.”

“That sounds like something abnormal people say to feel better about being abnormal.”

“That haunting thing I could see in your lions? I know what it is now. It’s grief. You’ve buried your feelings so you can stay in denial about your mom’s…suicide.”

That fucking word. I uncross my arms and make a half turn away from him. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know that your dad is willing to risk loving again, and that’s not a terrible thing. Going out with Linda is like saying that despite all the pain it caused him, loving your mother was worth it.”

“Or maybe it just means he didn’t love my mom at all and was happy to move on after she was finally gone.” I cross my arms again.

Hayes rubs his chin. “I guess that’s possible too. I never knew your mom. But either way, your job isn’t to judge your dad for how he grieves.” I look at my feet and he adds, “And you can’t accuse a man of cheating when he’s a widow.”

Just then, a family with two tween girls comes around the bend and files past us. The younger girl looks up at Hayes and me and gives a giggle as she turns to watch her sister’s reaction to noticing us.

I hold up a hand in greeting. I want to tell her this is not what it looks like at all because she obviously thinks we’re a sweet couple with zero problems who are out on a hike and also deeply in love.

She has no way of seeing how wrong and broken and weird and complex and freaking abnormal everything is with us.

When the family is gone, Hayes says, “I get that you hate pity, Rory, but how can I help if you won’t open up?”

“I want to… I don’t know.” I want a tranquilizer gun to make all the lions behave, but when I look at Hayes, the dark ache inside begins to churn.

He knows about her now, and he wants to know more. I long for a can of spray paint in my hand to control what I’m feeling.

Instead, the truth leaps from my mouth. “I’m afraid I’m exactly like her. I’m afraid I’ll turn into my mother.”

The confession is like an explosive pssshttt that surprises me with its forceful release.

“Exactly like her in what way?”

“My dad is terrified of me turning into her. It’s the reason why he’s banned me from making art.” I pick up a stick and start tracing the grooves of the rock face, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing right now.

“Is that why you secretly paint your graffiti lions?”

“The lions are just what comes out when I paint. They’re how my art expresses itself.”

“As repressed rage?”

“Yes, I like that—repressed rage. But that rage can’t technically be considered repressed if I’m putting it out there for everyone to see, can it?” My stick breaks, but I continue tracing with the piece that’s left.

“But you’re not actually connected to your lions.”

I laugh. “I’m more connected to them than you can know.” I drop my stick. “Besides, this is better. I avoid the pitfall of negative feedback. You see, my mom’s a perfectionist. She can’t deal with criticism…”

He tilts his head. “Pretending she’s alive isn’t healthy, Rory. You can’t heal while living in denial.”

I cross my arms. “This from a guy who can’t handle drinking a single beer.”

“You’re right. I can’t handle drinking. Even one beer can set me off. That’s why I’m getting help. There’s no shame in admitting you’re powerless. The first step in AA is admitting we’re powerless over drinking.”

“I’m not powerless over anything.” I start walking away.

Hayes follows me. “Aren’t there five stages of grief? I think anger is pretty early on, no? Isn’t it the very first stage?”

I don’t look back as I growl at him, “No. The first stage is denial.”