Bad Will Hunting

by Heather Wardell

  I snatch the card from her hand. “You’re bad enough, I don’t want to start over with someone else.”

  Incredibly, she smiles like I’ve given her a compliment. Fury rips through me and I tear the card in half then in half again and throw the pieces to the ground.

  Her smile crumbles, and a blast of satisfaction at her reaction pushes away my anger. “I can’t stop you calling, and I guess I have to answer. But I’ll be damned if I ever call you. I’m fine. I don’t need you.”

  “Well, you’ve got me anyhow. You have a real opportunity to shake things up when you go home, Ashley, not to fall back into your same ruts which I know you were wanting to get out of, and I’m available to help you find the will and the way to make that happen.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. “And Brett and I were supposed to get out of the ruts. No amount of will is going to bring him back.”

  She nods slowly. “That’s true. But it might take will to let him go.”

  If she’d slapped me it would have hurt less. “Get out,” I say, pushing back my chair so hard it falls over. “Get out and leave me alone!”

  She leaves without a word. As the door closes behind her, I see a drinking glass on the desk and snatch it up, hurrying into the bathroom so I can smash it into the empty garbage can while she can still hear me. I want her to know how furious I am.

  There are two more glasses on the bathroom counter and they’re soon in pieces too. I hope the show gets in trouble for the damage. Dory and her damned company have shattered my life, so I’ll shatter their glasses. Not even close to enough revenge, but it’s a start.

  Chapter Two

  At eleven o’clock that night I’m pacing in my room. I’m exhausted, and the bed looks about a million times more comfortable than the shelter I showed everyone how to build from leaves and logs on our island, but I can’t imagine falling asleep when I can’t even sit down with this anger spinning through me.

  I did have my shower, although I was so pissed after my conversation with Dory that I ended up scalding myself with too-hot water without noticing, and after that the show’s doctor came in to examine me and reported that I’ve lost fourteen pounds and have a lot of scratches and bruises but am otherwise ‘just fine’. As if.

  As I stalk back and forth I hear several familiar voices giggling in the hall and realize some of Kent’s other exes are hanging out together.

  Of course they are. And of course they haven’t bothered looking for me. Who’d want to spend time with “Angry Ashley”? They didn’t on the show either. They talked to me when they had to and that was it. Jerks.

  I toy with calling hotel security and complaining about the noise, but the voices fade out and I’m left in my miserable silence again.

  No, not miserable. Furious.

  It’s so unfair. Everything’s unfair. Brett and I should have gone on the show together and come home in triumph, and now he’ll never come home again and I can’t imagine how I’ll survive in our crappy Portland suburb without him. We were going to leave Oregon together. We had it all figured out, how he would turn his success at training me to survive on ‘Stranded!’ into the fitness business he’d always wanted and I would turn my fame from the show into a following for my hair-braiding videos. We wouldn’t need to make money, not right away, because we’d have the million bucks we’d won, but we would eventually. We’d both known it would all work out.

  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’d never heard of it before, but now I’m all too aware of what it means. It means sudden unexpected death in a young man who’d never had worse than a cold in his life, and the end of all our plans. I called the ambulance for him, I did the best I could with the CPR he’d taught me, but--

  A spasm of pain rips through my hand, and I look down to realize I’ve been digging my nails so hard into my palm that I’ve drawn blood. I scrub it away onto the arm of the chair, hoping the show will be charged for my damage, then deliberately dig my nails into a fresh spot again. I don’t need to bleed, but I do need to hurt. The physical pain makes my anger a little easier to handle.

  Only a little, though, and for the next two hours I alternate between lying in bed trying to force myself into the sleep I so desperately need and stomping around the room so angry I can barely breathe. I’d break a window, just to hear it shatter, if I didn’t feel sure the show would make me pay for that. Which I can’t do. My horrible job, which my grandmother got me and insists I should be grateful for, considers me ‘unskilled labor’ even though I’m the only one who can run the machine that packages the water filters without ever mangling one, so I only get minimum wage. I don’t work tomorrow, since I’m flying back to Portland, or Sunday because the hellhole is closed, but I do on Monday and I’d rather rip off my arms.

  Or Dory’s.

  Damn her for making me think about Brett. Damn her again for suggesting I could find the will to change my life alone. And quadruple-damn her for emailing me her number and reminding me of her plans to poke at me every few days once I get home. How am I ever going to get back to my useless life if she won’t leave me be? I deleted that email without replying, of course, but it still pisses me off even though it’s long gone.

  At one o’clock I remember I’d intended to get drunk. Blind, stinking, blissfully empty-headed drunk. There’s no minibar in my room so I flip through the pages of the hotel’s faux-leather-bound binder of information looking for the room service menu to see what booze I can get. Naturally, I discover that they closed at midnight. I turn another page, to see if there might be a late-night option, then notice an ad for a 24-hour distress hotline.

  I’ve heard of such things before but I’ve never called. Why would I? They’re set up for people who are thinking of suicide or having some other immediate crisis. I’m not having a crisis. I’m having a crappier-than-usual episode of my crappy life and nobody’s going to care about that, especially not someone over-optimistic enough to work at a distress hotline.

  But after another hour of sleepless fury, and multiple readings of the ad’s statement that ‘all calls are welcome’, I can’t stand being alone with myself another second.

  “Las Vegas Distress Center, this is Lynn speaking, how can I help you?”

  I can’t speak. I don’t know how she can help, how anyone can help.

  “Are you there?”

  I clear my throat and manage, “I am.”

  “Good,” she says softly. “Very good. What’s happening?”

  “I... no, never mind.” The words tumble from me. “I shouldn’t have called. It’s not going to make a difference. Everything’s crap.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. And it’s okay with me that you called.”

  “What’s the point, if everything’s crap?”

  “I don’t know,” she says calmly. “But we can talk about it.”

  “Like that’s going to help,” I mutter. “This is useless.”

  I’m expecting her to point out that I called her, and then I’m going to tell her off, but instead she says, “Is there a name I can call you?”

  “Ashley,” I say before I mean to, then dig my nails into my hand again. I don’t even want to open up that much.

  “Okay, Ashley, nice to meet you. Now, what’s going on?”

  I laugh. It burns. “Have you seen the unbelievably stupid TV show ‘Ragged Royalty’?”

  “I have. Why?”

  “Well, you’re talking to ‘Angry Ashley’. What do you think of that?”

  “I think...” She clears her throat. “I think you didn’t enjoy your time on that island.”

  “Oh, gee, really? Did that come across?”

  “A little, yeah. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t asked that,” I snap, and tell her everything. My dreams with Brett, my nightmare of his death and then learning what was really going on with the show, the hell of being stuck with six strange women and my ex Ke
nt who barely even looked in my direction, how I know my coworkers will tease me for being on the show and how much I dread going back to work to the job I despise... I don’t stop talking until my throat’s too dry to keep going.

  “Let me grab a... aw, damn it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was going to get some water, but the drinking glasses are...” I glance toward the bathroom, where they lie in shards in the garbage. “Forget it. Anyhow, so, tell me what to do.”

  “This doesn’t work like that. It’s more that talking things through can help you go in the right direction.”

  “No offense, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Really?”

  Her politely inquisitive tone, as if she’s honestly wondering if I’ve never heard anything stupider, makes me sigh. “Fine. I talked it through. So what’s my direction?”

  “You mentioned something about hair braiding videos.”

  I blink. “I did?”

  “You did. Twice, actually. And you sounded pretty excited about them. Want to tell me more?”

  Still surprised I’d brought that silly dream up as part of my flood of words, I say, “Well, I love doing fancy braids, and I thought other people might like to learn how too. So I’ve made and posted a couple of videos. That’s it. Kind of stupid.”

  “I have long hair,” Lynn says. “Know how I wear it? Straight down my back. Always. Because I don’t know any other way to do it. I’ve even considered cutting it off because it bores me. I don’t think showing people how to do interesting things with their hair is stupid at all. But you do?”

  Faced with that blunt question, I don’t know how to respond. She waits in silence. Finally, I say, “I... I guess I do,” but it feels terrible so I have to add, “But I don’t want to.” Not liking where the conversation’s going, I say, “But it is stupid. And I don’t know how to do it anyhow. It was going to work, with Brett. He made everything make sense. He was always like that, since he moved in near me and my grandparents when he was eight and I was seven. Almost twenty-five years we spent together! Seeing each other all the damn time. He was always so positive. Things seemed like they made sense, when he was around. But now... now he’s gone and so’s everything that matters. I could talk to him about anything, and now he’s the only one I want to talk to and he’s gone and that’s what I want to talk about but...”

  I stop to take a much-needed breath, then don’t start again. What’s the point?

  “I can see that,” Lynn says eventually. “It must be very hard.”

  I want to snap back that of course it is, but the support and sympathy in her voice chokes me up. Two times nearly crying in one day. I have to toughen up.

  “It doesn’t feel like it’s worth living,” I mumble, blinking back tears. “Just doesn’t. He was what was worth living for and now he’s gone.”

  “Are you considering suicide, Ashley?”

  I’d love to, but no. Brett would never have wanted me to do that. Though I can’t see the point of living without him, I know I have to. He was so vibrant and happy and thrilled to be alive that killing myself because he’s gone would betray everything he was. And though I feel like everything in my life but him has betrayed me, I still can’t do that to him.

  “No,” I say. “I’m stuck being alive. I just... don’t want to be right now.”

  “Is there anything good? Anything you can look forward to?”

  I consider this. It takes quite a while. “I have a bird. Silver. A ring-necked dove. I haven’t seen her for the three weeks I’ve been gone. I’d like to see her again.” I grunt. “Unless she’s dead too, of course.”

  “Let’s hope she’s not. That’s a start. What else?”

  I imagine Shannon, who visited me on the show as my ‘loved one’ even though our friendship is more about a certain wary acceptance that neither of us can do better, and Becky (‘big fat Becks’ as Shannon calls her when she’s not around and sometimes when she is) who would have loved to come to the island but who I knew wouldn’t have survived the physical challenge even for a single day. Then I imagine my grandmother’s face, permanently puckered into an angry expression, and my grandfather’s passivity. My aunt Elaine, although I can only see the shock on her white tearless face when the doctor pronounced her only son dead. My parents? I haven’t seen them since I was six, so I don’t know what they look like any more. Not that it matters. I can’t look forward to them.

  “Not a damn thing else,” I say, anger rising again. “Just a stupid bird.”

  “Maybe,” Lynn says slowly, “one thing to look forward to is enough. It might not be the answer to everything, but it could be a start. It could give you the will to change your life. Do you think maybe?”

  Most of me says no, but I feel a single cell in my heart radiating the optimism Brett always gave me. Could that single cell be right, instead of the millions and millions that know everything is pointless? It’s not likely. But I guess it’s possible. “I... I don’t know. But maybe.”

  “Good,” Lynn says. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Tired.” That’s an understatement. Fatigue just swept in like the terrible storm we lived through on the island and it’s drowning me. “Really tired.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  I don’t have a choice. I can barely hold the phone. “Yeah.”

  “Good luck, Ashley. And call again if you want to.”

  “K,” I mumble, then hang up the phone and lose myself in the first solid sleep I’ve had for three weeks.

  Chapter Three

  When I wake the next morning, feeling rested after my night in a cozy bed instead of a rustic shelter, I consider hitting the hotel’s gym for a hard workout but then remember I don’t need to do that any more. I followed Brett’s training schedule perfectly as I got ready for the show, but now there’s no Brett and no show and so no point.

  I take a long hot shower instead, managing not to burn myself this time, then though my flight home isn’t until two o’clock I pack up and go to the airport. I don’t want to run into any of the exes in the hotel, and if I can’t get on an earlier flight I’ll just hang out in the airport and check out women’s hairstyles. I usually come up with my own ideas for my braids, but the last video I posted featured a gorgeous star-shaped braid I’d ‘borrowed’ from a woman I saw at Portland’s Japanese Garden. I’ve never seen anything cool in my own neighborhood, so I should probably take this opportunity to pay attention to new things before I get home and back to my same old boring life.

  For all the attention my taxi driver pays to the road, he might as well be blind and deaf, and I’m so stressed and angry when we reach the airport that I can barely explain what I want to the airline worker. She does get me on an earlier flight though, and I’m just feeling a hint of happiness about that when she adds gently, “I hope your day gets better, dear,” and aggravates me all over again because I don’t like that she saw my vulnerability.

  “Angry Ashley,” I think as I stalk away from the counter. It wasn’t my fault I was angry on the show, and it’s still not my fault. When the world has mobilized itself to bring you down, how is anger not the only possible right response? What would be better, the teariness of last night? Hardly. If I have to have emotions, they need to be the kind that keep me protected not the ones that open me up to getting hurt.

  After waiting forever behind a woman who seems to have brought every large bottle of liquid she’s ever owned and can’t get her head around why she can’t bring it all as carry-on luggage, I finally go through security, managing not to scream as I’m given a pat-down I don’t think is needed. To celebrate and recuperate, I grab a beer in a little restaurant near my gate, glad the airport caters to traveling drunks and serves alcohol this early.

  Once I’ve sucked half the drink back, I can feel the tension in my shoulders letting go and I’m able to look around at the people milling around the terminal. Most of the women have that messy ‘I just got u
p and scraped my hair back with my fingers’ ponytail going on, which doesn’t interest me, but I do spot one beautifully done braid that looks like nine segments woven together and another one that would be gorgeous if one big chunk of hair hadn’t escaped its elastic at the bottom of the braid.

  I sit in the bar, and then in the gate area, sketching the styles in my notebook and writing some notes about how I could recreate them and then working on figuring out a better way to secure the hair at the bottom of the second style until my flight is called for boarding.

  As always, waiting in line while a pack of idiots struggle to remember where they stashed their passports and tickets makes me crazy but I chew on my thumbnail and remember that I don’t want to go to prison and manage not to punch anyone. I don’t think people truly appreciate how hard I work every day not to just lash out and kill everyone around me.

  Like I’m being rewarded for my control, once everyone’s finally boarded I have my row on the plane entirely to myself.

  At least, I do until the flight attendant says, “You’re lucky, sir,” and I hear a panting voice say, “Always. Thanks.”

  The man moves down the aisle, and I sit staring at my lap and begging the universe to just once not kick me in the head, but of course he stops beside me.

  I look up, trying not to sigh, and then instead have to try not to gasp.

  “I think I’ve got the window seat here,” he says, his voice as smooth as his sleek brown hair and as sexy as his green eyes.

  “Okay,” I murmur, and scramble out of my seat to let him through because staying put and making him brush across me seems wrong though it’d be the most physical contact I’ve had in nearly a year and I’m sure I’d enjoy it.

  Once we’re settled again and I’ve done up my seatbelt, he looks over and says, “Do I know you?”

  I shake my head, wishing he did. He’s about my age, and about ten times better looking than me. “Doubt it.”