Happy Messy Scary Love

by Leah Konen

  How incredibly wrong I was.

  The Bad Decision Handbook: Part Three

  I wake up feeling high, even though I have no idea what that would feel like, though Chrissy has told me some stories. High on good vibes. High on what happened (or almost happened) with Jake. High on the prospect of a whole Saturday spent writing.

  My parents and I go to brunch at our favorite spot, ordering the usual—eggs Benedict for me, pulled pork sandwich for my mom, and the farmer’s scramble for my dad. When we’re back home, I open up my laptop and The Bad Decision Handbook.

  Over the last two weeks I’ve amassed a fairly impressive fifty pages. It’s not going to be a long movie, probably only an hour and a half, which means I don’t have much more than forty pages left. If I set my mind to it, I might be able to finish at least a shitty first draft this weekend.

  Most importantly, I’ve got the fodder, stories, settings, feelings acquired from being here. I’ve already decided that my Tennyson-inspired character is going to accidentally say something brilliant that helps kick off the climax. And that my Steinway-style gal will call him an idiot before agreeing it’s likely the best idea. As much as I wanted to avoid the romance clichés, I can’t help it, I definitely think I’m going to have Onyx and Jimmy kiss at the end of the second act, right before the evil director launches his most vicious and terrifying attack.

  I write fairly solidly from one p.m. to four, when my phone buzzes and I get my first message from Elm. I take a break, shocked to realize I’ve added another eight pages.

  ElmStreetNightmare84: Hey, so I re-watched Sophia last night, it was great!

  And only a few minutes after, a text from Jake:

  Last night was fun! Hanging with my aunt at her shoot this weekend, but we should finish the movie at some point, maybe this week?

  Then another, from Elm again.

  ElmStreetNightmare84: Well I partially re-watched it, at least, but still great. How are you?

  I push my laptop aside and shake my head. This already feels so messy.

  I answer Jake first.

  For sure. Maybe Monday?

  Then I open the Reddit app and start to message back.

  CarriesRevenge01: I know, isn’t it the best? P.S. Working on my screenpl

  I stop myself. It’s too disingenuous after last night, pretending to be two different people. Keeping up the Carrie façade—it’s got to stop. I know it’s time to fade her out. Letter by letter, I delete the message. Then I close the app and go back to my messages. I watch as the dots appear, and Jake texts back.

  It’s a plan.

  A smile breaks across my face. I set my phone down and grab my laptop again.

  My mom pokes her head in. “Dad’s going to grill tonight. Probably eat around seven. You’re here, right? No late-night plans with new friends?”

  I feel myself go red, but she only smiles. “I’m just teasing, Olivia. You look . . .happy.”

  “I’ll be here,” I say quickly, and when I don’t add anything else, she turns on her heel, pulling the door shut behind her.

  I am happy, I realize.

  I like my job, I like the people I’ve met up here . . .

  I like Jake.

  I’m not going to mess it up this time. I’m not going to hide behind Carrie, the photo of Katie, and the anonymity of the internet.

  I’m going to try my best to be me. That’s it.

  Briefly, I consider deleting the Reddit app, putting Carrie behind me, ghosting, just like that.

  Only, it’s cruel. Elm doesn’t deserve that.

  I go back to Reddit, open his most recent message.

  CarriesRevenge01: I’m good but pretty busy, actually. Might not have quite as much time for all our usual chats this week!

  Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Send.

  I write the rest of the night. In fact, I don’t go to sleep until long after midnight, when I have a grand total of seventy pages.

  On Sunday evening, after a long hike with my parents, I get back to it, working through—only breaking for dinner—and I nod off sometime around two a.m., then wake up again at four.

  I have eighty-six pages. I’m so very close. I only have to write the final confrontation, which I’ve got all planned out in my head anyway.

  I’m tempted to stop. But when it gets hard, I remember the way I felt standing at the edge of the cliff, before the first zip line. I remember Jake’s hand in mine. That I don’t have to be the kind of person who’s so afraid to fail they’re afraid to try.

  It’s five thirty in the morning before I finish.

  The script is a mess, and it’s all over the place, and I know it’s not perfect, but it’s real.

  I stare at it, scrolling through the pages, looking at all I’ve written.

  So many words, so many scenes, so many bits of dialogue, action lines, and description.

  All mine.

  My heart swells, and I feel, again, like I’m zipping over the trees, flying.

  Like my fear, my self-sabotaging bullshit, my old neuroses—well, they can go jump off their own cliff, and not securely hooked up to a zip line, either.

  Only there, in the back of my head, a niggling thought.

  There’s no one I want to tell as much as Elm.

  I shake my head. I can’t. I have to fade out Carrie. Things are progressing too much in real life. My alter ego—she’s got to go.

  Only . . .

  What if I sent it to him anyway? Just this one last thing. After all, I did promise him I would as soon as I finished. It’s almost rude not to, after how much we’ve talked about it.

  Wouldn’t it be wrong to break my promise?

  Before I can stop myself, I hit Share on my Google Doc, and it gives me a link. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I have to tell him.

  I open Reddit and start a new message to Elm.

  CarriesRevenge01: Told you I was busy because I was finishing my screenplay! Here it is.

  I paste the link and hit Send.

  It’s only after it’s sent, somewhere out in the ether, that I realize what I’ve done. In my Google Doc, my name. I’m the author. Not Carrie. Olivia Knight.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  It’s five forty-five a.m. He can’t have looked at it already.

  I head to my Google account and change my alias, turning my first name from Olivia to Carrie, my last name from Knight to Revenge.

  I don’t even care if the script is rough—I don’t even care if sending it was a stupid mistake—it’s out in the world.

  With the person who I care about seeing it more than anyone else.

  Maybe sending it was a bad decision; but right now, it feels like a damn good one.

  Vertigo: Part Two

  I can barely keep my eyes open on Monday.

  I’m not saying it was a bad decision to go on a writing bender and finish the screenplay. I’m just saying that I can hardly focus enough to check in the two-thirty crew. I’m just saying that, five minutes ago, a guy told me his name was Brad, and I asked him how to spell it.

  I haven’t yet heard back from Elm regarding the screenplay, but honestly, I’m a bit too tired to really give it much thought.

  Just before three, Marianne pops in. “How’s it going?” she asks.

  “Good,” I say. “All accounted for. No hiccups. And we sold like ten T-shirts today.”

  Marianne smiles. “It’s my niece; she did the new design. She’ll be thrilled to see it’s so popular. Anyway, I’m putting you on Ropeland duty, because I need to send Tennyson up to the zip lines. Steinway’s leading the tour, just make sure the kids wait and all that—you know the drill. I’ll handle the front in case anyone comes in.”

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  When I get to Ropeland, the kids are impatiently standing in line as usual. I look up to see Steinway leading a cluster through the ropes in the middle.

  The next hour passes slowly and unceremoniously. Steinway finishes her group and begins ano
ther. I pass out gear for the next group of kids.

  When it’s almost four, I get a text from Jake.

  Still on for tonight? Was going to ask you at lunch but stayed up here because the tour ran long.

  I write back quickly.

  For sure, can’t wa

  I delete it and go for something a little more casual.

  Sure

  Too casual. I add a little punctuation.

  Sure!

  Then I hit Send.

  It’s only ten minutes after that when I see a message on Reddit.

  ElmStreetNightmare84: OMG YOU FINISHED THE SCREENPLAY? This is the best news ever! I CAN’T WAIT to read.

  I scroll above and click the link I sent him to the screenplay, checking once again that the author comes up as “Carrie Revenge” and not “Olivia Knight.” All good.

  Suddenly, I see Steinway, booking it across the lowest rope bridge, the group of kids behind her. She hops down, helping the kids down with her. “I need a break,” she says.

  “What?”

  She’s completely pale. “I’m gonna be sick,” she says. “Just cancel the next group. I gotta go.”

  That’s when I hear the crying. I look up. There’s a boy, maybe eight or nine, standing at the very top, the highest part of the tower, head thrown back, wailing.

  “What about him?” I ask, pointing up.

  “Uh-oh,” she says. “Sorry. He must have gotten left behind.” She points to the harness. “You’re gonna have to get him. I can’t.”

  She runs off, like her life depends on it, leaving me on my own. The kids all stare at me. Shit.

  My heart beats faster, and I glance around furtively, hoping to wave down Cora or Bryson, anyone. Standing here, it looks so damn high.

  I push a button on the walkie. “Olivia here. Anyone able to come to Ropeland? A kid is stuck up top and Steinway got sick and had to leave. Over.”

  There’s a beep.

  “Jake to Olivia. Too busy here with the tour. Over.”

  “Marianne to Olivia. Just got busy in the office. Can you handle it on your own? Over.”

  My heart continues to race, but I press the button again. “Sure thing. Over.”

  I hook the walkie onto my belt and clench and unclench my fists. I can do this. I have to do this.

  Quickly, I shimmy a harness up my legs, hook a carabiner and a few feet of metal rope onto the front, and grab a helmet that miraculously fits right.

  Grabbing the first rope, I pull myself up. I’m only a couple of feet off the ground, but already, the ropes are shaky; I hook my carabiner onto the safety cable that stretches above the rope bridge, like I’ve seen Steinway do plenty of times, but still, my stomach flip-flops. I take another step, and I let myself look up.

  The kid is still wailing, holding on to the ropes with both hands.

  I take another cautious step. I’m going to have to speed up. At this pace, it will take forever. My walkie beeps again. “Jake to Olivia. You okay?”

  With a shaking hand, I grab my walkie. “I’m making my way up . . . slowly.” Screw the lingo. I don’t have time for that right now.

  The walkie beeps again, punctuating the kid’s wails. “Okay, on the left side, closest to the lodge, there’s a ladder built into the course. It goes straight to the top. It’s easier than using the bridges and nets,” Jake says.

  I look over, and from the ground, a young girl points to exactly what Jake is talking about. I walk quickly, not looking down, ignoring the way the ropes seem to barely hold me up. I tug on the metal line that connects me to the safety cable overhead, reminding myself I’m secure, that eight-year-olds do this all the time.

  The walkie beeps again. “Find the ladder?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another beep. “Okay. Grab on to the outside corner—that’s the easiest way to climb—then go up as fast as you can. Look up, not down. You’ll be fine.”

  I swallow my nerves, then unhook my carabiner from the safety cable overhead. I place my foot onto one of the rungs of the ladder, pulling myself off of the rope bridge. Thankfully, I’m still only a few feet from the ground, but I’m no longer hooked to my safety line. I don’t look down, like Jake said.

  The ladder is much more stable than the rest of the course, made of wood instead of rope.

  I make my way, one rung after another. Below me, I hear a call. “You can do it!”

  The walkie beeps again. “Just keep looking up,” Jake says. “Step by step. You’ll be fine.”

  I can’t talk back—I need both hands on the ladder—but I nod anyway. I think of those scenes in Vertigo, when Jimmy Stewart stares down. I know that if I do, I’ll never get the guts to do what I need to. It beeps again. “You got this, Olivia.”

  The air seems to get cooler, the kid’s wailing louder, but when I look up, all I can see is sky. Then, like that, there’s no more ladder left. I’ve done it.

  I swing around, back onto the highest bridge, quickly hooking my carabiner onto the safety cable overhead. The boy is there, holding the ropes so tight his hands are shaking. I feel ya, boy. I feel ya.

  Eyes locked straight ahead, I walk over to him. Kneeling down, I give him a quick hug, his tears dripping onto my T-shirt, then stand up. “Follow me, okay?”

  He nods, and together, we walk.

  The walkie beeps again. “So you’ll obviously have to take the long route down, but just go slowly. You got this.”

  I lead the way. One rope bridge connects to the next, and at each one, I help the boy unhook his carabiner from one safety cable and on to another. We wind around, going slowly, our hands holding tightly to the ropes on each side, keeping our balance, until suddenly, we’re back at the beginning, on solid ground. The girl who pointed out the ladder is cheering; the boy looks as relieved as I do.

  Marianne appears then, walking quickly over. “Sorry, I was slammed.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “You good? Those wobbly ropes can be trickier than the zip line sometimes. It’s totally safe and everything, but it gives you that feeling, doesn’t it?”

  I nod. “Definitely.”

  Marianne takes the boy’s hand. “Come on, let’s find your parents.” She looks up to me. “I’ll send Tennyson back down to handle the next group. Just hang tight a second.” She saunters off.

  My walkie beeps again. “All good, Olivia?”

  I hold down the button, smiling as I hit it. Between facing my fear and him cheering me on, I’m more than good.

  “All good, Jake.”

  The Shallows

  Back at the check-in office, shift wrapped up, I grab my things and Jake does, too. We say our goodbyes to Marianne, then head out of the front doors together.

  The air is perfect—not cold but not too hot, either—the sun, nowhere near setting but lower in the sky. I marvel at how beautiful it is here, with the mountains framing our views, seemingly from every side.

  Jake leads the way to his car but turns to me before opening the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “It’s so nice out. I was thinking, before the movie, we could go on a short hike, but only if you’re down.”

  Nothing in the world sounds lovelier than that. “I’m more than down.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “I can drive us up to the trailhead. It’s just past the swimming hole we went to on Friday.”

  I nod, getting into his car and shutting the door behind me.

  Jake pulls away, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and heads out of the parking lot, taking a left instead of right. We drive along for a bit, the road smooth, the view clear, until he shifts onto a small, unmarked turn-off, leading us back into the woods, the road changing once again to dirt.

  “By the way,” I say. “Thanks for your help, you know, on the walkie.”

  He turns to catch my eyes for a moment before looking back at the road. “I know how hard that must have been for you, but you were awesome,” he says. “You did it.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I hardly thi
nk getting up the guts to do something a million kids can do is ‘awesome.’”

  “Kids are fearless,” Jakes says. “We get less fearless each year.”

  “You don’t,” I say as the car curves around a bend, and another view of the mountains opens up before us. “You’re leading people on daily flights through the forest.”

  We wind back into the woods, and a trailhead marker comes into view.

  “That’s different,” Jake says as he puts the car in park. “I’m not scared of that, but I am scared of other things.”

  I turn to look at him. “Like what?” I ask.

  He catches my gaze, then swallows.

  “Believe me, I’m scared of plenty.”

  The hike is only about a mile, or so Jake says, at least, but he’s a lot more used to the outdoorsy thing than I am.

  “How was your weekend?” he asks as I stumble to keep up, sweating slightly.

  I stop walking, an ache, deep and heavy, in my gut. I want to tell him, so badly, that it’s me who wrote the screenplay, that I was up all night, not Carrie.

  Scratch that—that Carrie is me.

  “What is it?” he asks, turning to face me.

  I imagine it, pulling him close, whispering in his ear—I haven’t been totally honest with you. Can we find a way to start over, please?

  I shake my head. “I’m just tired. I was up late last night.”

  I was up late finishing the screenplay that was sitting in your inbox this morning.

  Jake reaches out his hand, letting it land on my elbow. “You okay to keep going?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  His hand drops away, leaving fire where he’s touched me. Then he smiles. “It’s just up ahead.”

  We do another few turns, back and forth, the ground rising before us and my body getting hotter as we make our way slightly uphill. The woods thicken more than ever, and I spot ivy, granite, and moss-covered stones.

  Jake turns to me. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  He does something crazy: He takes my hand in his and leads me forward. “Close your eyes.”

  “You’re not some horror movie villain?” I ask. “Leading me to impending doom?”