Chasing Days

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  The basement light is still on when we creep in. I put my finger to my lips for Grady to be quiet. He nips it and then playfully tries to wrestle me. I hush his laughter and my growing arousal.

  “My parents,” I whisper.

  Then as if reminded he was on babysitting duty again, he says, “Oh shit. I hope Augie got home okay.”

  “Zoey and Ziggy are looking after him.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s been around the clock with him. I just wanna sleep.” I think he says with you, but he lets out a loud belch. Ew.

  Despite the Westing's ban on sleepovers, my parents will understand if they find a boy on the couch. But that’s not where Grady wants to be. He’s stumbling and tugging at his clothing and mine as he scrabbles past the living room.

  “I thought you wanted to sleep,” I say.

  “With you.” This time there is no mistaking his words. My breath turns shallow and choice parts of my body are definitely hot as he runs his lips along my neck, not kissing, just there, breathing me in. He tips backward as if he's passing out on his feet.

  “Not tonight, Grady,” I answer, grabbing his sweatshirt to keep him from careening into a bookshelf.

  He somehow falls up the stairs, and I think he gets the point.

  I send him to the bathroom and figure after I freshen up I’ll take the futon sofa, preempting my parents from totally freaking out if they find a stranger on the couch.

  After knocking into the frames on the wall in the hallway, he plops onto my bed. “Willa.” He pulls me close. “Willa,” he repeats. His voice is a whisper.

  “I’ll be right back.” I run from this moment, the one I literally thought about for years, when I couldn’t sleep, when I was riding my skateboard, folding laundry, or eating lunch. The fantasy was always of him in my room, mostly because I didn’t know what his looked like. Now, he’s there, but this isn’t how I wanted it to go. I’d rather rewind to us, pinkies linked, under the stars on the beach. My stomach tightens and sinks while I brush my teeth.

  When I get back to my room, Grady’s breathing deeply, fast asleep with one arm sprawled across the bed where I’d be if his arm were around me.

  I slip downstairs to the couch. A large figure snores quietly. Uncle Guzzi. I didn’t notice his bike in the driveway and he didn’t startle when we passed through, but I was making sure Grady didn’t trip and my mother's brother has been known to sleep through anything, including his newborn baby niece, crying.

  I go back upstairs, nestle in next to Grady, and he pulls me close, muttering nonsensically. Then I am asleep.

  ☾

  In the blur of the late return last night, I forgot to close my curtains so when I wake, it’s to cloud muted light. I’m glad the sun gives us a break. I roll over, remembering Grady next to me, but the bed is empty, and there's sand on the still-warm sheets.

  My parents aren’t typical and they’re definitely not the Westings, but we haven’t gone over protocol for this before. Thankfully, I’m still in yesterday's clothes. I go to the bathroom to shower, but someone is already in there. Then I remember Uncle Guzzi’s appearance. His real name is Arlo, but his intense fascination with the Italian motorcycle company when he was a teenager landed him with the nickname Guzzi, short for Moto Guzzi, his ride of choice. Downstairs, the bass notes of his voice tell a story. Then Grady replies and they both laugh.

  “Oh dear.”

  The bathroom door opens. My mom stands there with steam billowing out from behind her. “What was that, honey?”

  Every seventeen-year-old cell in my body prepares itself for her righteous anger and I prepare a defense. She looks at me funny then says, “Did you hear, Guzzi’s back! I woke up and found him on the futon this morning.” She shakes her head in wonderment.

  He doesn't usually announce his arrival, just visits when the wind blows him in our direction, but it may as well be Christmas morning. There are only two men in the world my mother loves. One is my father. The other her brother. Luckily, my father loves him too. “He and your friend are getting along great.”

  “Oh. Uh…”

  “It was smart of you not to let him drive. For the record, I do not condone underage drinking…”

  My face is slack.

  "You know the rules, Willa."

  Guzzi's deep-barreled laugh finds its way upstairs.

  “I better get off my soapbox and get dressed. I’m missing a year’s worth of stories.” She goes to her room.

  I exhale and then she pops her head out her bedroom door.

  “I’m also glad you’re still wearing your clothes from yesterday.” Her eyes canvas me sharply, but then she smiles.

  I can’t bear for Grady to see my rosy cheeks just yet, even though nothing happened between us. Relieved my mom knows that, I get in the shower and hope he’ll leave before I’m done.

  Twenty-minutes later, Guzzi has Grady, my mom, and dad spellbound. I should have known better, no one escapes when Guzzi gets going with a story. His beard is about six inches longer than the last time he appeared unannounced and his hair reaches his shoulders. I catch the tail end of a story about a bounty hunter and a hired gun, Wyoming and a duel.

  “You’re one heck of a cowboy,” my dad says.

  “My iron horse gets me where I want to go.” Uncle Guzzi does a double take and jumps to his feet, tugging the knit cap off his head. “My favorite niece in the whole world.” He pulls me into a grizzly hug.

  “I’m your only niece.”

  “You’re still the best.” He steps back and looks at me. “I’m going to spare you the whole, ‘look how much you’ve grown' line, but shit...it's true. Met your friend here. We’re going to check out his car in a few. Need nourishment first.”

  I glance at Grady, seated in Teddy's spot at the table, as if he belongs here. Freshly showered, Grady looks like he slept well. If he grew up as a Wohlbreuk, I doubt he’d still be planning to study finance. He’d switch to something creative like architecture or graphic design or like me, not know what he’s going to do.

  My mom and dad get to their feet, ready to prepare breakfast.

  “I’m on it,” I say, excusing them from having to leave the table so I don’t have to confront the fact that Grady spent the night.

  “You gonna make egg sandwiches?” Uncle Guzzi asks, reminding me of one of my special talents.

  Grady wears a private smile as he watches me root through the pantry. It might not be safe for me to fry eggs over an open flame.

  “I’ll run down the street and get the bagels,” my dad says, grabbing the car keys.

  “Sure,” I answer. "Sounds good."

  “Shower for me, kids,” my uncle says.

  “Guzzi, bring in your kit first. I’ll wash your clothes.” My mom gives him another hug.

  “It feels good to come home, you know that?” Guzzi says as he and my mom wander outside, leaving Grady and me alone.

  With my back to him, I crack eggs.

  Then he's behind me, with his hands on either side of the counter and then he rests his chin on my shoulder. Through the window above the sink, we watch my mom and her brother laughing in the soft morning light.

  “It does feel like home, here,” he says. “I hope it’s okay that I stayed.” I feel his cheeks stretch into a smile. “I had every intention of quietly sneaking out at six this morning, but a Sasquatch blocked my path and dragged me into a very involved story. I couldn’t break away.”

  “He sure does have that ability and don’t let him hear you say Sasquatch.”

  “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to offend. He could probably break me and my car in half.”

  I laugh. “No, it’s not that, he’ll get in your ear about these guys down in Massachusetts—back when they were teenagers—who were searching for big foot. Guzzi and his pals would leave all these false clues…”

  “Sounds like him and Augie would get along great.” Grady spins to lean on the counter next to me while I flip the eggs. “I hav
e to be at Live Free or Pie at eleven, but I get out at seven.” The private smile playing on his face turns wicked. “Then I have to go to work.”

  “Huh? I thought you said you had to work from—”

  “Do you want to hang out again?”

  “While you’re at work? Wait do you have two jobs? Three? I thought you worked at the Clam Shack.”

  He shakes his head. “They fired me. I, uh, was sneaking beer while on the clock. I started slinging pizzas instead, the hours are better.” He shrugs as if it’s no big thing. “But the job this weekend is unpaid: we have thousands of balloons to fill.”

  “Muck-Up, another one? Are you guys behind all of them?”

  He beams with pride. “You’re too kind. No, we're just behind the good ones. This one is tame though. We’re creating a giant ball or rather, balloon pit, in the school. Static, popping, good clean fun. It's a tribute to Cordelia,” he says, referring to the youngest in the Parker family who passed away before she made it to elementary school.

  “Sure.”

  “Also, Asher has an in at the hockey rink. They close it down for a week every year for maintenance. We’re going to get started with the balloons there, transport them in a box truck and then, tomorrow night, finish up at Puckett. There’s no way we could pull it off if we blew them all up at the school. Someone would call the cops for trespassing.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yup. And lots and lots of helium.”

  After egg sandwiches, enough coffee to float us out to sea, Grady, Guzzi, and I walk toward the shore where we left the Mustang last night. I have the sudden worry that someone might have egged it, or worse.

  But when we get there, it sits unmarred facing the ocean like a blue seagull. The guys do the requisite admiring and after another story, Grady excuses himself to work.

  Guzzi and I walk past the remains of the bonfire. I still see myself dancing like a wild thing the night before.

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I miss this place,” Guzzi says when we reach the shoreline. “The funny thing is nothing’s changed. I mean, you all have. And some buildings and houses are a bit more battered and others stand where there used to be empty lots. But the ocean is timeless. I forget that while spending so much time on paved roads. Though I did make it to the Pacific this time. She sends her regards.”

  I laugh, recalling our conversations when I was much younger, him saying which states and places he’d visited like they were old friends.

  “Are you going to stay a while?” I ask.

  “Are you?” he counters like it isn't a rhetorical question and he'd genuinely like to know. “Your mom mentioned you’re undecided." He pauses. "And damn it all if that isn't okay. It’s been about fifteen years, and I still don’t know what the heck I’m doing, but I’ve met some wonderful people, some real screw-ups, have had some grand adventures, and lots of time to think and figure out how I fit into this crazy world. So I don’t blame you if your answer is, ‘I don’t know.’ In fact, I think more people should admit that and save themselves a whole lot of trouble.”

  It takes a few seconds, but I allow the truth to arrive on my tongue. “I don’t know.” The words flit from my mouth like dandelion seeds, sticky yet free.

  His eyes are older than when I last looked, but every bit as sparkling, like he’s in on the greatest secret of all time. “The good thing about not knowing is it gives you the opportunity to figure it out, that's where the fun is. I suppose knowing is fine for some. But this way, the possibilities are as endless as the horizon.”

  We both look and look and look.

  “You know, I came back here to tell your mom and dad something. But I want to tell you first." A smile widens across his whiskers. "I’m getting married at the end of the summer. Fiona is her name. Damn if I’m not the luckiest man alive. She’s from England. We met, well, it’s a long story.”

  “It’s always a long story,” I say.

  “You can say that again. We’re having a ceremony here and then going to London. She’s in Seattle, finishing a project for her company. After that, we’ll be traveling around Europe. I think this continent has had enough of me for a while.”

  “Congratulations.”

  His smile is so wide that his dimples are almost visible. I only know they’re there because of the photo on the fridge of him pre-beard.

  “Now, tell me about you,” he says generously.

  “Well…”

  “Don’t worry if it’s a long story. I’ve told you enough of them. You owe me one.”

  I launch into how I have no idea what I want to do next year, the polygon of feelings that is my friendship with Teddy, and the budding somethings with Joss and Grady.

  Guzzi’s the toughest guy I know, but I'm safe with him, pushing the boundaries of what I haven’t even been able to tell my parents or Teddy. He laughs when I quote my grandpa, his father, and tell him about my plan to immerse myself.

  “Up until recently, I liked being ordinary, a contrast to my parents with their glitter guns set to eleven.”

  “They’re definitely not your typical mom and dad. But they love you.”

  “I know.”

  “Me too,” he says, encouraging me to go on.

  “But now, with all of these feelings crowding inside, I feel anything but ordinary. It’s like everyone, especially Grady and Joss, sees the truth, as if they have X-ray vision. There’s no sending these feelings back to where they came from. I can’t lose them, like a pair of sunglasses or a set of keys. Until I make them ordinary, then I'm going to be about as far from normal as I am from Amsterdam.”

  “When I get there, I’ll let you know how Amsterdam is doing. In the meantime, first, what you’re feeling is normal. It’s part of growing into yourself. It wasn’t easy for me to pick up and take off on my bike, but that’s what life was calling me to do. I’d always been surrounded by people and this place.” He gestures around him. “I needed to be on my own a while. The form may be different for you, but the spirit of it is the same. Maybe expectations, or the lack of, landed you where you are and the only way to know who you are is to follow through, chase lust, fall in love, make mistakes, be ordinary, be extraordinary.” My uncle's words have wings.

  A seagull swoops by on the breeze as if hauling away the remaining tension I carried. I could almost take flight.

  “If you decide you want to skateboard across the country into someone’s arms, even your own, I’ll be sure to send you a list of welcoming valleys and a map of which canyons to avoid. I also plan to leave my bike in the garage, so if you want to hit the open road, just remember to keep the shiny side up.” He pulls me into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of my head. “You’re alright, kiddo. You're alright”

  And maybe I am.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ☾

  Saturday

  While my parents get ready to take Guzzi out to dinner to celebrate his announcement, I explain the balloon caper. Then they spend the next ten-minutes in the driveway reminiscing about their senior year and all the Muck-Ups before my mom gasps and says, “Our reservations!”

  They take a collective five steps closer to the car. “See, your mom runs on her own schedule too,” Guzzi says quietly to me. He eyes the VW as if he’s entered an alternate universe and would rather ride his motorcycle, but commences stuffing himself into the back.

  “You sure we can’t entice you to come?” my dad asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Fine, but make sure you come home while it’s still Saturday,” he says, his first and belated comment on the subject. “And next time ask first about house guests. Grady O’Testosterone, under my roof,” he mutters, shaking his head as if Grady's fictional machismo is a travesty.

  My mom taps his arm to calm him and then they’re backing out of the driveway.

  I have almost an hour before Grady said he’d pick me up. I’m about to go inside and shower, when the Grapesicle catches my eye. It's shiny and clean in the
driveway opposite. Either Mr. Westing withheld the auto insurance payment until Teddy agreed to wash it or Theo doesn't want to get his trousers dirty. I guarantee he's still mad. He maintains the title for the person who hangs onto grudges the longest. Once, I got mud on his favorite pair of sneakers and he wouldn’t let it go for an entire week. Another time I made a comment about his nose, it isn’t big, but it isn’t little either, and it was like I’d rid the world of puppies, forever.

  I look from his house to mine, wondering in what ways we’ve stretched ourselves to fit preconceived roles and in what ways we’re stepping out of our own personal boxes. I’m about to turn inside, when the Mustang rolls in.

  “Got out early,” Grady says, grinning and tossing his keys in the air before sliding them in his pocket. His hair is wet. He grabs my waist and spins me around, sprinkling me with warm droplets. “It’s almost summer. Can you feel it?” he asks.

  I eye the garage. I wonder if the bicycle in there can fly—maybe it has a flat tire and a rusty chain, but I sense it's waiting for me to hop on.

  When he sets me back on the ground the Westing’s front door slams. Teddy appears, cuts his eyes in our direction, and then stomps to his car. Grady and I disappear into the house before the Grapesicle pulls away.

  Now I'm plagued with recalling our lip-locking moment and how Teddy’s kiss didn’t quite match mine. It was wet and pointy and all wrong. Then again, a kiss, from Teddy was about as likely as scratching my ear with my elbow. That was another one of my grandfather’s sayings. I close my eyes, imagining Grady’s lips touching mine. He's only two steps away, and suddenly I don't understand how people keep desire at bay. Then I picture my parents. Gross.

  “I didn’t realize you guys were neighbors,” Grady says as if he’s putting together facts that had little to do with his life before last week. He takes my hand, leading me inside and upstairs like this is his house.

  “Do you mind if I shower?” I ask. I'm sweaty from humidity and the geyser building inside me needs release and fast. I could pounce on Grady, but it feels strange, here in my house where I’ve spent so much time being a kid and then a teenager—thinking about him. It’s like if our lips meet within these walls, he’ll be able to read my thoughts, past and present.