Love and Vandalism

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “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 tu
rns 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.”

  Chapter Eight

  As we make our way through the rocky labyrinth, Hayes asks me what my mom was like.

  I answer just to prove to him that I can think of her in the past tense. “My mom wasn’t just a regular mom person, you know. She was an amazing artist. Super talented.”

  “So that’s where you get it, obviously.”

  “No. I mean, I do fine, but she could’ve been one of the greats. Actually, I think she could still become one of the greats.”