“You make the trolls,” I whisper, awed. “The wooden trolls I see in Lindy’s shop, and sometimes The Bone Needle and even Robbie’s place. You made the one that got me here.”
I’m sure that last part doesn’t make any sense to Ramón at all, but he nods and begins to shave out more potato, revealing more of the odd troll inside it. “I whittle. Sometimes. When the mood strikes me.”
“They’re really good,” I tell him, hoping he doesn’t catch the many notes of surprise in that phrase.
He doesn’t acknowledge my compliment, but his voice is softer when he speaks again. “It took a long time to learn. A lot of scars.”
Ramón sets his knife and potato aside and then holds his hands out between us, flipping them palm side up so I can see them clearly in the harsh kitchen lights. His hands, which are knobby and cracked, also have deep gashes in them, old scars that have lost the angry red of wounds and are now silvery pink.
“Are all of those scars from woodworking?” Ramón nods. “But . . . why? Why do it if you cut your hands all the time?”
Ramón picks up his potato and knife. For a moment he doesn’t speak, and I wonder if he’s going to answer me. Then he sets back to carving and says to me, “When I cut myself, I learn. It’s the pain that will make me remember not to do it again. It makes me mindful.”
I think about that, and it leads my thoughts right back to Kara, Meg, and Suze. “I must need more pain then. I do stupid stuff and instead of learning from it, I do it again. You know, I had a fight with my friends before I came out here, then a fight with Suze for almost the same reason. And this guy, my boyfriend, hurt me a lot. He cheated on me and we broke up. And what did I do when I came out here? I spent the last three weeks flirting with Christian the cheater. The pain hasn’t sunk into my thick head yet.”
Ramón hums in agreement. “Sometimes it takes a lot of pain, deep pain, to remember. Sometimes we heal too quickly and we forget. That’s why scars are so useful.”
“Because they remind us of the pain?”
“Yes, but also because they remind us that we went on in spite of it. We healed. We forgave others; we forgave ourselves. We picked up a knife and whittled again.”
There’s a lot buried in that statement, ghosts and old memories, heartache and triumph, and it hangs heavily in the air, refusing to go unacknowledged.
I turn to him and I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time, seeing underneath the hard and distant exterior to the big heart and the melancholy spirit below. Ramón, the surly boss of the tavern, who whittles adorable trolls, who sometimes makes awful stew but whose baking could reduce you to tears, who has scars all over his hands and perhaps a few on his heart as well.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
I don’t dare ask him directly about Magda or any of the other rumors I may have heard, so this is the right thing to say: open-ended enough that he could tell me more if he’s comfortable, or be completely vague if he wanted.
To my surprise, one corner of his mouth curls up. “I’ve done some living, I guess you could say.”
I smile at that but I’m careful to keep my eyes on the potato. “I suppose scars can make a person more interesting.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t trust someone without them.”
I laugh but then sober quickly. Setting down the knife and the potato, I turn my whole body toward him. He lowers the troll potato in his hands, which now has a complete hat, and his eyes meet mine.
“And what if you don’t need to forgive someone, it’s that they need to forgive you?”
Ramón stares at me for a moment, then grunts and begins to work on the troll’s backside. “Then you beg and plead and promise them you won’t hurt them again.”
Beg, plead, promise things. I can do that. I certainly never want to hurt Will or Suze again. There’s just one catch.
“But what if they don’t forgive me?”
“They will.”
“But how can you be sure?”
Ramón shifts on his stool, and I can tell he’s grown a bit irritated at my uncertainty. And probably all of my talking and questions. Regardless, he holds out his hands to me, showing me his scars again.
“Scars here,” he says, using one hand to point at the other, “are not the same as they are here.” He taps on his skinny chest. “Not the same at all. The heart is quick to forget the pain. To forgive. The heart wants to take another chance. Be friends again. Or perhaps,” he adds with a sly smile, “fall in love again.”
“Sounds like the heart is a dirty traitor,” I say, startling a laugh from Ramón.
“Yes, it is a dirty traitor. The dirtiest. But it also tells the truth.”
The truth. My heart has been so broken and bruised, so jealous and unfulfilled. But, I realize, it’s also been honest with me. In spite of what happened with Kyle, and even with Christian, I want to be with someone again, I want to care about someone and hope they care about me. Even though I don’t have a family like Suze’s, even though my parents won’t be supportive of my dreams, I paint anyway. I long for it anyway. I want to spend all my time learning and doing and being an artist. The truth is there, even if the flip side of it hurts.
“You’re right,” I tell Ramón. “I think my heart’s been broken all summer, and yet here I am, still longing, chasing dreams, as if all the pain doesn’t matter. It’s still there, right along with the happiness.”
Ramón nods, then sets back to work on his whittling. He leans close to me and whispers, “Healing takes time. Sometimes a lot of time.”
“So what do I do?” I ask him. “How can I get it back to normal so that I only feel the good stuff?”
“You can’t,” Ramón says. He opens his hand and a completed troll stares up at me with its lopsided mouth and potato-white eyes. It’s cute, and remarkably artistic and detailed for something made out of a vegetable. “Take the chance anyway. Risk the pain.”
Take the chance anyway. I have to try to work things out with Will. And really, Will’s not that big of a gamble as far as my heart is concerned. He’s been here for me all summer, making me laugh, making sure I’m settled in at the faire, sending me troubadours when I feel down, roasting marshmallows for me when I’m all alone at the campfire. And, like Suze, he’s been rooting for me to be an artist. No, my heart would be safe in Will’s hands.
“There’s just one problem,” I say, blowing out a frustrated breath. “In order to take a chance, I’ve got to make a few things right first.”
Ramón nods. “Will’s heart is the same as yours—scarred, but wanting to heal.”
I look at Ramón, impressed and charmed by his intuition. I haven’t mentioned that it’s Will I’m talking about, but somehow, he knew. I’d be willing to bet Ramón knows a lot more about what goes on at this faire than he lets on, sneaky man that he is. And I kind of adore him for it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, overcome for a moment by his kindness, and Ramón lets out a startled noise that borders on a squeak when I drape myself around his shoulders and hug him. He hugs back, taking care to hold the knife far away from my skin.
Before I go, he supplies me with a sticky bun and a giant glass of milk.
“Sugar makes the heart heal faster,” he says with a sparkle in his eye that I’ve not seen before.
I doubt sugar has anything to do with healing a heart, but one of Ramón’s sticky buns can’t hurt. There’s a reason they call it comfort food, after all.
The workers are allowed back into the kitchen and they work around me as I sit and eat, and I formulate a plan amidst the hubbub: I’ll find Will tonight and beg him to talk to me. Maybe he’ll listen, even if he doesn’t particularly want to hear. Hopefully, I can fix this thing with him, and fix myself a little in the process. I just hope Ramón’s right about hearts.
Somehow, I don’t doubt he is.
Dinner that night is worse than I expected. Ramón sees to it that I have an extra helping of mashed potatoes, but he is
the only spot of warmth in the whole thing. Suze sits with Grant, refusing to acknowledge my presence, and there’s no room at Will’s table. He doesn’t try to make room, either, so I ditch my tray and take my plate, planning on eating alone like the pathetic, friend-insulting loser that I am. But as I pass by Will I catch him looking at me, and so I bend next to him and whisper, “Can we talk later?”
He nods.
“Meet me by the menagerie after dinner?”
He nods again and I leave him to eat in peace. I head to the menagerie because I can wait for him there, but also because the goats and the ducks are better company than none at all. I force down most of the mashed potatoes out of gratitude for Ramón, but I can’t stomach the green beans or the sausage. Instead of wasting it, I toss the scraps into the pen and watch as the ducks waddle over and battle for them, quacking and flapping their wings. They kind of remind me of the vendors battling for customers in the village, and the thought makes me giggle.
“Good to see you laughing.” Will’s voice makes me turn around. He’s not inside the ring but is walking from the direction of the kitchen.
“It’s a whole lot better than insulting my friends.” We walk toward each other until we meet in the middle. His whip is looped around his shoulder, and he’s in a shirt that I know I folded yesterday. “I’m really sorry about what I said.”
“I know. And I know you didn’t mean it like it came out.”
I let out a breath that I might have been holding since yesterday. “I didn’t. But still, I’m a crappy friend. I know you and Suze were just trying to help me. I’m just—”
“Scared?”
“Exactly. I mean, what if my parents say no? Or refuse to pay for college? Or worse, what if they’re disappointed? Duncans aren’t artists. Duncans are lawyers and accountants and business owners.”
Will studies me, his face expressionless save for the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “I think Duncans can probably be whatever they want to be. Even face-painting Picassos.”
“I don’t have to be Picasso to face paint,” I say, parroting his words from days ago. “Besides, after I conquer your mustache I have much higher aspirations.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. Your backdrop needs a ton of work.”
Will bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it really does. I think Davis might have painted it himself, actually. It looks like a six-year-old did it.”
I watch him as his laughter dies away to a thoughtful smile. “So,” I begin, “we’re friends?”
“Friends.”
“Is that all you want to be?”
Will’s head jerks up. “What?”
“I know you sent the troubadours.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He shrugs. “You were really upset. I didn’t like seeing you upset.”
“I think maybe it’s more than that. Isn’t it?”
Will doesn’t say anything, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. The ambiguity makes me nervous, throws me for a loop. I expected him to agree with me, or maybe to confess right away the reason why he sent the troubadours, but this particular scenario never played out once in my head.
Determined, I decide maybe it’s best if I show him what I mean. I reach over and tug at the whip over his shoulder, bringing us close together until there’s no space between us at all. Then I take a deep breath, tell myself to take the chance, and lean in.
My lips touch his and this . . . this is so much better than Christian. So much better than Kyle, even. His lips are warm and giving, not impatient, and I feel myself fall into the kiss, spinning headfirst into something inviting and wonderful.
But then it stops, his lips parting from mine too quickly, leaving me cold and bereft.
“No, Ro.”
“What?” It comes out as a whisper, nearly as indecipherable as my thoughts.
Will is shaking his head, and it’s like a dark cloud has passed over his face. “I said no.”
Hearing it a second time is like a punch right to the gut, and I clutch my stomach in response. “So . . . you don’t like me?”
“Are you kidding me?” Will laughs, but it’s tuneless. “Ro, I liked you from the moment I saw you. Heck, that first time you rolled down your car window I wanted to kiss you like this.”
“Then why . . .” I can’t bring myself to ask him why he won’t kiss me now.
“I’ve liked you all summer long,” he says, swallowing thickly. “And I’ve watched you chase after Christian all summer long. I thought maybe it was okay, because every girl seems to like Christian, and I thought you’d see me eventually.”
“I do!” I say. “I see you now.”
“Yeah,” he says, resigned. “Now. Because Christian’s no longer an option.”
I open my mouth to ask how he knows, but it doesn’t matter. I shake my head. “It’s not because of that. I was just confused because we were friends, that’s all. It’s you I want to be with.”
Will nods in understanding, though that doesn’t make him look any less miserable. “Maybe you do want to be with me. But I’ve spent weeks watching you go after him, and moping about your ex and I . . .”
Will closes the distance between us and takes my hands in his. “I’m sorry. I really like you. So much that it scares me a little, but that’s why I don’t want it this way. Because right now I feel like a stand-in. I don’t want to be the stand-in. I want to be your first choice. That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time.”
“But . . .”
“I’m sorry, Ro. Maybe someday, but not now.”
Will squeezes my hands and then lets them go before turning and walking away from me. I watch him, his shoulders drooping, his whip hanging from his arm, until he rounds behind the barn and disappears from sight. I hear the whip cracking, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but it sounds more melancholy than energetic today.
When I get back to my tent, I can tell Suze has been there and was rummaging through her things, but she’s long gone. I want to cry but I can’t. It’s like I’m in shock. So I take out my supplies and start to paint something very abstract, a long streak of brown and then a few of orange and yellow, until I’ve painted a single flame. It’s all alone against a gray sky, burning down to ashes.
17
WEEK 3—WEDNESDAY
“Oh. I thought you’d be at breakfast.”
Suze’s voice wakes me up from the only minutes of sleep I’ve had all night. After I painted, I spent most of the night thinking about Will and what he said, or Suze and what I did, or Ramón’s advice. The result was near-sleeplessness, save for the few minutes right as the sun was coming up when I was too exhausted to think anymore.
I sit up and wipe at my eyes. Suze is bent over her stuff, grabbing at her clothes.
“Suze.”
She reaches for a hairbrush.
“Suze. Please talk to me.”
She tucks the hairbrush under her arm, hugs her clothes close to her, and turns to go. Before her foot can hit the stair, I blurt, “I kissed Will.”
Suze straightens slowly and turns around. “What?”
“I kissed Will but he told me he didn’t think we should be together yet, and I’m really sorry about the other day, Suze. Really sorry.”
Suze steps back in and sinks down on her air mattress. She’s scowling, but I see the curiosity in her eyes. Even mad at me, a story about kissing Will Fuller is too much to resist.
“Will, not Christian, huh?”
“Well, there was some Christian kissing too.”
Suze’s eyes widen so much it’s almost comical, but she quickly trains her face into a blank expression. Almost. There’s still too much curiosity in her eyes.
“Well, I’d certainly like to know how that happened.” She crosses her arms over her chest and pins me with a stare. “But this doesn’t mean I’m not angry anymore. It was a really crappy thing to say.”
“It was, and I didn’t mean it,” I rush to tell her. “I’m just . . . jealous that your paren
ts are so awesome about what you want to do.”
“I know,” Suze says. It’s not exactly an acceptance of my apology, but I remember what Ramón said to me yesterday: Sometimes it takes time. I sit next to Suze and spill my guts, including every last humiliating detail.
“So let me get this straight,” Suze says when I’m finished. “Christian has a girlfriend, and Cassie, and still tried to get with you, then you realized it was Will you should have been with all along—which, by the way, calls for a giant I Told You So—and he didn’t kiss you back and said maybe, but not now?”
“That about sums it up.”
Suze reaches up and rubs at her temples. “This is a mess, Ro.”
“The messiest.” I grin at her. “But it was good to tell you. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Suze says. “It’s been awful not talking to you. And Grant snores, so I haven’t slept much at all.”
I laugh, and it feels good rumbling around in my chest. I haven’t laughed nearly enough these past few days. “Does that mean you forgive me?” I ask her.
“Of course, though if you ever say anything like that again I’m going to turn Mama Mulligan on you, and fairy dollmother or not, she could kick your ass.”
“I have absolutely no doubt about that,” I say, laughing some more.
“Okay, I have to be at the tavern in about fifteen minutes or Ramón will have my head. It’s bar cleaning day.” Suze stands and drops her belongings back onto her air mattresses, signifying the end of her long self-imposed exile. “But why don’t you come by the wagon for dinner tonight? It’s Wednesday, which means meatloaf.”
“I could never say no to Lindy’s cooking,” I say. After she leaves, I hurriedly dress and make my way to the face painting tent, practically skipping with happiness. Will may not have said yes, but he didn’t give me a hard no, either, and now Suze and I are back to normal. Maybe, with those things in mind, Cassie’s mocking smirk won’t be so hard to bear today.
Cassie’s applying lip balm as I walk in, as per usual. She surely has to be running low on that tingly stuff by now.
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