Happy Messy Scary Love

by Leah Konen

  I clear my throat. “I’m kind of a Hitchcock fan, but I wouldn’t normally even call his movies horror. I mean, they’re not, right?”

  Jake turns to me then, and in his eyes is the kind of relief you get from being understood, the kind I almost always feel when I’m near him. “Yes, exactly. They have crime and suspense and all those elements, but they’re missing the fundamental part. Take the shower scene out of Psycho, and it’s not horror at all. You said that, actually,” he says, turning to Katie. “When we talked about it.”

  Katie licks a bit of melted ice cream off her finger. “I say a lot of things,” she says, voice flat. “You shouldn’t take them all so seriously.”

  Jake looks taken aback, but I’m not so surprised. The thing about Katie is . . . she doesn’t take feedback all that well. When Ms. Sinclair, her drama teacher, told her that she had a tendency to overact during more upbeat scenes, it took her a full week of moping before she could even consider the teacher’s words.

  I glance at Katie again, and for once, her eyes catch mine—she knows she’s taking this too far. Wowing Jake with her movie knowledge was never the plan: playing wingwoman was. And making him feel like he doesn’t matter—that wasn’t the plan at all.

  Like a good bestie, Katie stands. “I’m going to walk up that way and take some photos.”

  “Sure,” Jake says.

  “Have fun,” I add.

  Katie heads off, cone in hand. I know what she’s about to do. She’ll chastise herself on not getting the role just right, but I can’t focus too much on that now. Jake is beside me, after all. What’s more, if I’m not wrong, his feelings are hurt.

  “Sorry,” Jake says, turning to me. “I guess movie debates can get a little heated.”

  “It’s not just that,” I say. “I know you’ve talked to Katie a lot online, but in person, she can be a little . . . brusque, sometimes.”

  Jake shakes his head. “It’s okay, and I didn’t mean to dominate the conversation. It’s just . . .”

  “What?” I ask.

  It’s just that I’m in love with Katie/Carrie, and I thought you should know sooner rather than later.

  I liked you, kind of, but that was before my dream pen pal entered the picture.

  Should I go check on her? Do you think she’s mad?

  Jake’s face tenses up. “It’s just funny. I thought, when I found out Carrie was actually here . . . I don’t know, I thought it would be different.”

  “What do you mean?” I know I shouldn’t push, but I can’t help myself.

  “She’s so easy to talk to online. We used to chat for hours, but in person, it’s different. It’s almost like she’s got a whole other personality. I’m sorry—I know she’s your good friend.”

  “My best friend,” I correct. “But I guess you don’t get the full picture online, do you?”

  Jake gazes at me, like he’s thinking hard on something, and half of me wants him to figure it all out, but I remember what Katie said about Dexter, and she’s right. He’d be horrified. This all would be over, and I can’t bear the thought of that—not when it feels like this is only our beginning.

  “I guess,” Jake says, glancing to where Katie walked off, perhaps a little wistfully.

  He bites into the top of his cone, then turns back to me. “Anyway, enough about that. Should I entertain you with some bad jokes or something?”

  I laugh. “What are you, a factory?”

  He chomps at the bottom of the cone, then sucks the rest of the ice cream out. “Maybe. Though I don’t have any good ones off the top of my head, to be honest. Mood has to strike me just right.”

  “I’m sure you can dig up a bad one, though.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Hey, even those take work.”

  It’s quiet for a moment, and I feel that thrum again, of our bodies close. I lick at a bit of ice cream dripping down the side of my cone.

  “You know what’s funny,” Jake says.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that we spend so much time working together, you and me, and we don’t even know that much about each other.”

  I feel a blush start to creep to my cheeks and I dig deeper into my cone. “So, what do you want to know?”

  Jake smashes the remains of his cone in his fingers and bites into it like a sandwich. “Well I didn’t know you had a best friend named Katie, for one. And I know you’re from Brooklyn—and that you’re an only child—but I don’t know anything about your family. Like, what they do and all that. I assume people have really cool jobs in Brooklyn. My parents are high school history teachers, which is decidedly not exciting.”

  “Well, Katie is my best friend, that’s true. My parents are fairly boring parent types, too; my mom is an art professor, and my dad works in marketing, and my aunt is pretty cool. She’s a creative director.”

  “Wait, like Katie’s?” he asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Katie’s aunt, the one who lives nearby, she’s a creative director, too.” He laughs. “Damn, is that the only job in New York?”

  I swallow, my throat thick. Shit.

  Quickly, I force a laugh. “Seems like it sometimes!” I’d completely forgotten I’d told Elm that ages ago, when he was going on about his aunt Mona, when we were in the thick of initial conversation, trading cool-aunt stories. Oy.

  Jake smiles. “You know, I don’t even know your favorite movie.”

  “Carr—”

  I manage to stop myself, halfway through.

  “Ing,” I finish. “Caring.”

  “Caring?” Jake tilts his head to the side.

  My heart races. “Caring for You. It’s with Meryl Streep. She made it right before The Deer Hunter.”

  “Really? My mom is obsessed with her and I’ve never even heard of it.”

  I smile weakly, pushing the lie, the totally made-up film even further. “It’s pretty low-key. Kind of like the original indie movie, you know.”

  I want to smack myself across the head, it sounds so stupid.

  Jake smiles, finishing the rest of the cone and licking his fingers. “I never knew you were into indie film. That’s how I got into horror in the first place. I was really into low-budget, nontraditional distribution kind of stuff. Just tired of all the superhero movies and all that.”

  “Right,” I say. “Exactly.”

  His hand drops to the side, and if I dropped mine, too, maybe ours would touch.

  In the distance, I spot Katie walking back toward us, and I can’t do it. It all feels too shaky, too precarious, like I’m on some kind of tightrope—one wrong step, one more cool-aunt mention or Caring for You (oy) slipup, and I’ll crash to the ground.

  This will all be over before it’s even begun—and no amount of hand-grazing, accidental or otherwise, will change that.

  The Invitation: Part Two

  “I’m sorry for my behavior,” Katie says as soon as we’re back in my parents’ Subaru, driving home.

  “Geez, you don’t have to apologize,” I say with a laugh. “It’s okay.”

  Katie shakes her head. “It’s not, though. I got too into the role, and I . . .” She gulps as she turns into my driveway. “I overacted.”

  She says it so dramatically, as if it’s more horrible than anything in any horror movie, hands down. I suppose, to her, it is.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as she puts the car into park.

  Katie’s eyes are wide, almost glossy.

  “What is it?”

  She only shrugs. “Let’s go inside.”

  We do, and my parents greet us, asking if we want them to heat up any food from dinner. We’re both so full from our double cones that we go straight to my room, promising to get real food later.

  Katie tosses herself onto my bed.

  “Too much ice cream?” I ask as I set my things down and turn around, quickly changing out of my zip-line T-shirt and into a tank.

  “Ugh,” Katie says. I can’t tell if she’s talking about ice cream or
her “role” or something else altogether.

  My phone flashes, buzzing to life. I pick it up. It’s from Jake.

  Had fun tonight! Going to a party tomorrow up in Cairo, at one of Bryson’s friend’s. You guys should come!

  I break into a smile, then flip the phone around. “Don’t be so quick to hate on your performance, lady.”

  Katie grabs the phone from me and gives it a read. For the first time all night, her smile is back. “Oh, girl,” she says, beaming. “We’re doing this.”

  “A party?” my mom says incredulously at breakfast the next morning, Katie and I digging into my dad’s famous scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. “Will there be alcohol there?”

  Katie takes a sip of coffee—she drinks it black, more for the quirk of it than because she likes it that way, I swear. “If there is, we won’t touch it, don’t worry. I’m driving, and I do not mess around with my shiny new license.”

  “License!” my dad says, looking up from his iPad. “Seven-letter word for ‘Permit, as a government office.’”

  “Charlie, we’re trying to decide if the girls can go to a party tonight.”

  “Oh,” he says, putting his iPad down. “Sorry. Will there be alcohol there?”

  My mom shoots us a conspiratorial look, nodding to Katie to deliver her line again.

  “If there is,” Katie says dutifully, “we won’t be partaking.”

  My dad looks from my mom back to us. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.”

  My mom nods. “As long as you’re back by eleven and don’t come home smelling like a distillery. And if we text you, you text right back.”

  “Deal,” I say.

  “Deal,” Katie says.

  My mom takes another sip of her coffee. “We’re just glad you guys are choosing to be honest with us instead of making up some sort of story. But I suppose that’s just the kind of girls you both are. Oh, and Olivia—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aunt Chrissy got a few days off her current project and is coming up on Tuesday. So no impromptu parties and hangouts next week, okay?”

  I hesitate. I love Chrissy, and I welcome any chance to spend time with her, but I can’t help but think of our last text exchange. She thinks I told Jake the truth. I promised her I would.

  I promised myself I would, too.

  “What is it?” Katie asks quietly, but I only shake my head.

  “That sounds great, Mom. Can’t wait to see her.”

  We spend the day at the swimming hole, before having dinner with my parents. I ask Katie again whether I should just tell Jake the truth, but she reminds me of the Dexter Incident, promises it will all be fine if I just trust her to do her wingwoman job.

  Chrissy texts me after dinner, while Katie and I are in my room, getting ready for the party, trying on sundresses and asking each other’s opinions, as we always do.

  Did you hear my change in plans? I’m coming to see you, my dear sweet niece!

  I pull one of my favorite dresses of Katie’s over my head, then text her back.

  Mom told me this morning, can’t wait!

  She sends me a smiling emoji, then:

  P.S. Did you tell the boy? How did it go?

  I hesitate, then type quickly.

  No, actually I didn’t. Not yet, at least.

  Okay, good luck. Truthfully, I don’t blame you for putting it off. It sounds difficult and complicated, but I know you can do it! We can dish all about it when I’m up, but go easy on yourself, Olivia. None of us are perfect, you know.

  I smile. Chrissy always makes me feel better.

  “Texting your boo?” Katie asks as she tugs at the bottom of her dress.

  “No.” I laugh. “Chrissy.”

  Katie approaches the mirror, then begins to draw on her winged eyeliner, her official going-out look. “Do you think we need to brush up on any more horror movies?” she asks.

  “No,” I shake my head vehemently. “I think you’re good.”

  Katie smiles, blinking a few times as she finishes up. “I won’t overdo it this time—promise.”

  It takes us thirty-five minutes to get to Cairo, and we wind down country roads until we reach the address that Jake gave us this afternoon. Cars line both sides of the road, a few pickups speckled among them.

  “So many cars,” Katie says as she puts the Subaru into park. “I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  I laugh. “I think you might be right.”

  Together, we amble up the gravel road. There’s a meadow on one side, but the house in question is nestled in the woods.

  “This has got to be the way, right?” Katie asks as we follow two guys up a winding drive.

  I nod. “Either that or we’re going to meet some kind of awful death, Deliverance-style.”

  Katie laughs. “Hey, no horror jokes for you tonight. That’s my expertise now.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t overdo it,” I say. “Don’t forget that.”

  Katie smiles. “I won’t.”

  We follow the guys around the house and through the woods, to a clearing in the backyard. In the middle, there’s a fire pit crackling and blazing. Around it, twenty or so people spread out on camping chairs and coolers. On the edge, near the deck, a couple of guys are hovering over a grill.

  Katie points toward the fire to where a guy is standing, separate from any group. “Look. There’s Jake.” She steps confidently toward the crowd of people, not missing a beat. “Jake!” she calls, and as he turns, a smile breaks across his face. He runs up to us, and he looks like he’s going to hug Katie, but in true wingwoman form, she sticks out her hand. It’s a little awkward, greeting a friend with a handshake, and by the time they’re done, all I can manage is a wave. Oy.

  “Do you guys want a drink or food or something?” Jake asks.

  “Water for me,” Katie says.

  “Me too,” I say in solidarity.

  Jake dashes off to a cooler and returns promptly with three waters. “This way,” he says, leading us toward the grill. “This you have to try.”

  At the grill, I spot Bryson, who gives me a requisite nod. I don’t think he and I have exchanged more than two words since I started work. Jake sidles up to him. “Can I get some of that grilled pineapple? Three.”

  Bryson puts the trio on a plate, and Jake nods to us. “Come on. There’s an awesome spot to sit back there.”

  He leads us back, deeper into the woods, to a log turned on its side, and takes a seat. I hesitate at first, but wingwoman Katie gives me a nudge, and I take the spot right next to Jake. Katie sits next to me.

  “Dig in!” Jake says a little too enthusiastically, grabbing a piece and passing the plate to me. “I already had three.”

  “Not stopping you from taking another, though,” I say.

  “Hey,” Jake says. “Only a monster passes up grilled pineapple.”

  I grab a slice and pass the plate to Katie. It’s sweet and charred, like sugar and smoke mixed together. Juice drips sticky down my chin, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

  “Damn, this is good,” Katie says as she devours some, too.

  We talk about work—I ask if Steinway or Tennyson or Cora are coming, and Jake says no, and we discuss how Bryson’s robotic demeanor doesn’t change too much off the clock—and we talk about how nice it is to be in the mountains, away from the muggy heat of North Carolina and Brooklyn. Jake even tells us about his little sister, Emma, how she FaceTimed him today just because she missed him, and to tell him she learned a new song in day camp, which she sang in full—all four verses.

  For a little bit, I let myself imagine that this is just regular life, that no lies have been exchanged, that Brooklyn is far away, and Katie and I are the sort of girls who regularly go to parties in the woods. Jake is no more than the guy I met at my summer job, talking about his cute little sister, and everything will unfold like normal, like it does in books or movies. And for a moment, as the sweetness tickles my tongue, an
d Jake’s warm summer skin is so close we’re almost touching, it’s just lovely. My crush and my best friend and me, sharing a log in the woods, eating grilled pineapple.

  But then Jake changes up the game, taking the conversation in a new direction. “I was thinking about what you said,” he says, leaning forward so he can see Katie. “About creature features. Maybe you’re right, you know. Maybe they really are always about the monsters inside us, and that’s what horror is all about.”

  “Nah, I was just bullshitting,” Katie says. “Sometimes, I take this stuff too seriously.”

  “Don’t we all. Except Olivia.” He elbows me playfully, his arm warm against mine. “She knows better than to obsess about the ins and outs of creature features.”

  I have a feeling I should say something. Agree or disagree. Do anything but shove pineapple into my mouth. But I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t know how to be myself when I’m pretending to be somebody else—and when somebody else is pretending to be me.

  “By the way, I was meaning to ask,” Jake says to Katie. “Did something happen to make you leave your program?”

  “Huh?” she asks, her body tightening.

  “Your screenwriting program?” I give her a quick nudge.

  She doesn’t look at Jake. Instead she stares at me, her eyes going suddenly cold.

  “Only because you were so excited about it,” Jake says. “When we talked before.”

  Katie’s steely gaze disappears. Now she looks almost . . . crestfallen. For a second, I’m not sure what she’s going to say, but she looks away. “Like I said, it wasn’t the right environment.” She stands. “I’m going to go, uh, get some more water.” She walks off without another word.

  Jake frowns. “You think she’s okay? I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “She’s just sensitive,” I say. “About the things she cares about. Let me go make sure, though.”

  He nods. “I’ll be right here.”

  I find her back near the deck, staring intently at her phone.

  “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  Katie looks up, and for a second, her eyes are glossy. I could swear she’s about to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.