Óskar’s shoes fit.
I had breakfast out in the sunlight. Toast, tea, and a boiled egg. Óskar wasn’t at the front desk, but there was a dark-haired concierge. I checked his name tag—ATLI—then thanked him for the jeans. He gave me a fist bump. “Looking good!”
I felt a little less self-conscious about my black eyes.
I asked him where to shop for more clothes, and he showed me a few places on a map. “Clothing is expensive here. Don’t look at the total. Just close your eyes and swipe,” he said, mimicking a debit card swipe.
I handed him my prepaid card and had him load another two-hundred-ish dollars. Then I took the bus downtown and found a couple shops. I browsed for a bit, but as a guy who usually dresses in the effortless whatever’s-on-the-clearance-rack-at-Hot-Topic style, I didn’t know what to buy.
It was a big moment for me. Starting from scratch. I could actually reinvent myself. But I didn’t know where to begin.
Eventually, I left my style choices to a shop girl with a lotus tattoo on her shoulder and aquamarine hair. I asked for two pairs of pants and a few more shirts. “Casual,” I said, “but nice.”
Business was slow, so she had plenty of time to shove me into the dressing room every two minutes, then give me a thorough inspection and commentary. Every so often, she glanced at my injuries, but she didn’t ask about them, and I was glad.
“These,” she said, handing me a nice pair of dress slacks. “You won’t get laid Friday night unless you wear something a little fancy.”
In the end, we decided on the dress pants and a pair of distressed (but not over-the-top) jeans. I also took her advice on shirts: button-ups, one red checkered flannel and a solid slate gray. She pointed out a striped sweatshirt and suggested I layer it over the flannel. I’d never have thought to mix patterns like that, but it worked.
I eyed a couple more things—a red velvet blazer and a pair of suspenders—but couldn’t picture myself being comfortable wearing them back home.
“This, too.” She picked out a slouchy gray beanie, which conceals enough of my messy hair to make it look decent.
I left the store with an armload of artfully wrapped packages and barely enough money left on my card for lunch. I had a salad (“no chicken, please”) at a café and rode back to the hotel.
I planned to just dash back to my room and start sorting through my loot, but Óskar was at the front desk.
“Halló.”
“Hey.”
“Everything go well for you today?”
“Yeah. Got some new clothes.” I held up my armload of shopping bags.
He nodded and glanced down at the borrowed Chucks on my feet.
“Shit,” I said. “I forgot to look for shoes.”
“Not a problem. You can keep them for a few more days.” He waved his hand, gesturing for me to come to the desk. “Come here.”
The Jenga tower on his desk was freshly stacked and untouched. I slid a side piece out and plunked it down on top while Óskar grabbed a free city map from a pile next to his computer monitor. He unfolded it, circled an address, and pushed it across the desk to me.
“I know,” I said, reading the name of the building he’d marked. It was the hostel where the French girls were staying.
“What do you know?” He chose a center block and pushed it through the Jenga tower. It landed with a thunk next to an artificial flower arrangement.
“That’s where the French girls are.”
Óskar looked like he wanted to strangle me. I took a step back.
“I spent all afternoon calling arrroundht to find this out for you,” he growled, tapping his fingers on the map. “And, you know, this is the sort of information you should have passed on TO THE POLICE.”
“I didn’t ask for a cop, or for you to call around for me, did I?” I pulled another Jenga block.
“Silly me. I thought you might want your shit back.” He flicked another piece from the tower.
“But you helped me replace most of it already.”
Then he asked me if there was anything that couldn’t be replaced. It was eerie the way he said it, like he knew how important your boots were, even though I hadn’t really mentioned them to the cop. But how could he know?
Unless my theory about him gossiping with Mamochka is right.
And, well, damn. How am I going to explain to her and Mom that I lost your boots?
I stared at Óskar, and he stared back. We continued playing the most passive-aggressive game of Jenga in Icelandic/American history.
Óskar won, of course.
“My roommate speaks French,” he said, sweeping spilled blocks into a smaller pile with his palms.
“So?”
“Do you want our help? Or should I just call the police and give them this address?”
“Are those my only two choices?”
He nodded.
“Fine, whatever. I hope your roommate is burly and twice as unsettling as you.”
He blinked. “She can hold her own.”
I sighed and gathered my shopping bags.
Óskar asked if I still had his spare elevator key. I said I did (thankfully, I’d tossed it on my nightstand before I went to the Laundromat). He told me to meet him on the roof tonight after he gets off work.
I’m so not looking forward to getting my ass kicked all over again.
Chapter Eleven
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 10 1:03 AM
Óskar was waiting for me in the creepy concrete stairwell with his roommate, who is this almost-six-foot-tall Megan Fox clone. She had that asymmetrical bob haircut, a black lace dress, and red, red lips. Surely this girl is some sort of Icelandic goddess and/or the end result of a couple thousand years of virgin-to-volcano sacrifice.
And, apparently, she was there to deliver me some weed.
“Oh, no, man. I can’t.” I busied myself with unlocking the door, then quickly shoved my hands back in my pockets so she couldn’t hand the stash over to me. “I don’t do that shit.” Christ. I swear I don’t know how I get myself into these situations.
Óskar looked annoyed. “But you asked me . . .”
“Yeah! Because of your constantly ringing phone, not because I was jonesin’ or whatever.”
“Fine, then.” Óskar shoved the door to the roof open with his hip and threw an arm around his beautiful roommate. “We will have it without you.”
I peered through the door, and again I was blinded by the sunlight flooding the stairwell. That rooftop is probably my favorite place in Iceland so far. So, I was really happy when Björk grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me along behind her.
Yes, Björk. That’s her name. She hesitated when I asked, but Óskar just blurted it out.
She elbowed him in the chest. “Óskar! You told him my name!”
“Why can’t I know your name?”
“Because,” she said, plopping dramatically onto the lounger, “when I tell foreigners my name, I then have to have a long, boring conversation about the other Icelandic Björk. It’s taxing. I tried going by my initials, BJ, for a while, but Óskar teased me. He’s such a dirty old man.”
“I hate when you call me that,” Óskar said with a scowl. “I’m only two months older than you.”
“Still a pervert,” Björk whispered to me. She patted the space next to her, waving me over with her other hand. I grinned and sat next to her. She grabbed my left arm and started examining my matryoshka tattoos. “Beautiful.”
I told her about how one of my moms was from Russia, so the three dolls were her, Mom, and me. Then we talked for a second about the fact that I have two moms, but it wasn’t annoying. I kind of got lost, actually, in a moment that felt very intimate and sincere. Björk is just one of those people who know how to hold a conversation. She’s like you.
She’s the buffer. The perfect translator between Awkward Óskar and Miserable Miles. I liked her instantly.
While Björk and I were chatting, Óskar was getti
ng comfy. He stripped off his tie and work shirt, and untucked the T-shirt he had on underneath. Óskar in that T-shirt amused the hell out of me, but I didn’t say anything. It was pale green, with a picture of an angry-looking ice cream cone, and it said DON’T MAKE ME LOSE MY SPRINKLES.
Óskar sat on the other side of Björk and dug the plastic bag of weed out of her purse. “It’s been a while since we have done this, yeah?”
“Years,” Björk said, squinting at him.
But judging by the fact that neither of them seemed to know how to roll a joint, I was pretty sure they hadn’t done it at all.
“Give me that,” I said. I started with a fresh paper and fixed them up. Then I talked Óskar through the complex art of toking up.
He coughed out his first drag. “I thought you didn’t do this shit.”
“I don’t. I hung out with the stoners in high school, but never had the balls to really be one of them. Too afraid of disappointing my Mamochka. You know how she is . . .” I said, hoping he was distracted enough to forget to lie.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He passed the joint to Björk, who took a puff and held it for a second before dissolving into a dainty little cough. The two of them acclimated quickly, though, and before long I was rolling them another from what little green stuff was left in the bag.
“Hey.” Björk turned to me and put her hand on the back of my head. She took a drag and pulled me toward her, pressing her open mouth against mine. It wasn’t a kiss. She exhaled.
And I couldn’t help myself. I breathed her in.
And then one of us laughed. Probably me. Then we were both laughing and coughing, and the sexiness of the moment was gone.
“Do it again,” I said, looking into her eyes. And she did, but we laughed again.
Björk gave Óskar the joint and crawled off the lounger. She spun away from us, all black lace and legs. I watched her peek out over the edge of the building and didn’t worry one bit about whether or not she might try to jump off.
And I thought, Whose life is this?
Beside me, Óskar sucked down a lungful of smoke. And then we accidentally made eye contact, and I could tell we were both thinking the same thing—about me shotgunning the smoke from Björk and whether or not it’d be acceptable to do that with him. He raised an eyebrow, almost like an invitation, like a dare. I didn’t move. I still can’t read him yet, not enough to know when he’s joking. Just because a person’s dad calls him a faggot doesn’t mean it’s true.
But I honestly can’t say I didn’t feel a little bit of electricity between us.
Static cling, hopefully. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I actually have a crush on Óskar.
And then Óskar laughed, a little “ha!” with no smile to it as he sighed out the smoke.
“Feeling brave?” he asked me later. “Ready to go face your enemies?”
I’d been hoping the pot would make him forget about that.
We took the bus downtown because, thankfully, Óskar knew he was too stoned to drive.
And there I was in my usual role as Only Guy Stupid Enough to Stay Sober.
“How were you born? Were you adopted?” Björk asked on the bus, patting my knee.
“Nooo,” I said. “Were you named after THE Björk?”
She smiled and pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Icelanders use the same few thousand names over and over again, so there are many, many Björks.”
“Are there many, many Óskars?” I asked.
“There is only one Óskar,” His Royal Blondness said somberly. He was standing in front of our seats, keeping his balance with the bus pole in the crook of his elbow.
“I believe that,” I said, and Óskar glanced away from me.
“I was conceived by two loving parents,” I told Björk, “and a turkey baster.”
She cackled. “People actually do that?”
I shrugged. “Dunno. I never asked for all the gory details. It’s icky enough knowing that my uncle is also my dad. I mean, different side of the family. I may be from Missouri, but I’m not inbred.”
Björk smiled and asked me—in Russian—if I spoke any Russian.
I shook my head, feeling like a bad son. “I know a few curse words. Some lullabies.”
“Do you know how to say ‘I love you’?” Óskar asked.
“Ya lyublyu tebya.”
“Then that is all you need,” he said.
When we got off the bus, Óskar and I looked left, toward the hostel, but Björk turned right toward a sushi place. “Can we eat first?”
“This one only eats plant matter,” Óskar said, nodding toward me.
“Yeah. Not a fan of sushi. There’s only, like, three kinds of sushi I can eat, and it all tastes like salt and oceanic decay.”
“You don’t like sushi?” Björk asked.
“Or coffee,” I said.
Óskar cut Björk off before she could comment on that. “No food. We eat after we finish this task.” Then he marched off toward the hostel.
The panic hit me like Frankie’s brick as soon as we walked into the lobby. My bad day played over in my mind, and all I could think about was blood and pain, the stench of that changing-room floor. I veered into a side hallway and leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Björk saw me flip out and followed me, but Óskar remained oblivious. I could hear him prattling on in Icelandic to the clerk at the desk while I pressed my forehead against the cool tile wall.
“Let’s go outside.” Björk looped her arm through mine and walked me back into the sunlight and fresh air. Somehow we ended up in a little garden. There were coral-colored poppies and twisty little bonsai trees. Bees and butterflies. Björk held my hand and showed me around, listing off all the plant names for me in Icelandic. Eventually I was breathing again.
“Thanks,” I said, and we sat together on a concrete bench.
“Everything is a game to Óskar,” she said. “It is best, sometimes, not to play along.”
After a few minutes, Björk’s phone rang. “We’re in the garden around the corner,” she said.
Óskar showed up empty-handed. “The French women have gone. They checked out this afternoon.”
I nodded, thinking about your boots dangling from Frankie’s fingers. Gone. Gone for good.
“I’m going back to the hotel,” I told them, digging my bus pass out of my pocket. “Bye.”
I thought Óskar and Björk might follow me, but neither of them did. I closed my eyes on the bus ride, and except for the robotic voice spouting out unfamiliar street names, I felt like I was back in my own miserable life again.
I thought about what Björk had said about Óskar treating everything like it was a game. That straight face of his . . . I always wonder if he’s messing with me, but I can never tell for sure. I’m starting to feel like one of his Jenga towers. Picked apart piece by piece. Waiting to crumble and fall.
Back in my room, all my new clothes were piled up on my bed. I started sorting through them, and I swear I got chills suddenly, almost as if someone were watching me. I get chills, in fact, thinking about it now. I looked up from my stack of new clothes, and there on the windowsill, like they’d just been there all along, was a pair of oxblood Doc Marten boots.
Not some brand-new replacement. Your. Boots. I could see the little dimple in the left toe from when I’d stepped on your foot the day after I bought them for you. You were so pissed that that little dent never came out.
YOUR BOOTS, V. Your fucking boots. Still tied together by the laces. I tiptoed over to them like they might skitter away from me again if I got too close. I touched the part of the sole that juts away from the toe. Lightly. Just a fingertip. Outside the window, the sky was all sunny and blue, and the light was filtering in just right. It looked like a painting, your red boots framed in blue curtains and sky. I grabbed the DSLR Mamochka had convinced me to pack and snapped a photo. It just seemed like a moment worthy of megapixels. Something I could try to capture, but still enjoy
.
I breathed, and I could almost feel some of the horror slipping away. Your boots were back from wherever they’d been, only a little worse for the wear. Just a little black volcanic mud smudged on the sole.
And then, like some weirdo with a shoe fetish, I grabbed your boots and hugged them against my chest. I cried. For an incredibly long time.
Chapter Twelve
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 10 7:19 PM
I woke up this morning full of wants. No, desires. I was full of longing for things beyond my usual morning ritual of shower, self-stimulation, and breakfast buffet. It’s funny how need works, isn’t it? You’re full and empty all at once. Full of this aching, itching, longing—and empty in a way that can only be remedied by forward motion.
My black eye is healing. It’s gone from violet to a hideous sickly yellow color. Ugly, but less noticeable from a distance. The gash is nicely scabbed up and is mostly concealed by my hair. Despite my messy face, the new clothes are doing wonders for my self-esteem. I couldn’t wait to put them on. Today I went with the jeans, the beanie, the red flannel shirt. I tucked my pants legs into your boots and rolled up my sleeves. The reds and yellows and blues of my tattoos sync up nicely with the primary colors in the shirt. I messed with my hair and stared at myself in the mirror for a bit.
It’s incredible how resilient the body is. After all I’ve been through—what a wreck I am on the inside—I somehow manage to look halfway decent. Some might say that, except for the black eye, I look better than before. I wonder what you’d say about me now, skinny and expertly dressed?
Aside from the desire to look nice, the thing that I want most that I haven’t even been able to fully acknowledge until today, is to get my hands dirty. It’s the sex I’m not having, yeah, but also the art I’m not making and the music I’m not listening to and photos I’m not taking and this beautiful country that I haven’t even been looking at. A year and a half ago when my heart splattered on the floor, all this good shit fell out, and I haven’t bothered putting it back in yet.
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