Happy Messy Scary Love

by Leah Konen

  The walkie beeps again. “Marianne here. Approved.”

  I push the button. “Olivia here. Will do. Over and out.”

  Not so long ago, Jake had gotten on that walkie and guided me through my first and only battle with Ropeland. He’d asked, in front of everyone, whether I was coming to hang out at the falls after work. How did it all get so messed up, so quickly?

  Oh, right. Because of me. My bullshit.

  Just after three, Steinway breezes in, puts two elbows on the check-in counter and gives me a look, her braids pinned up around her head like a crown. “Tuesdays, right?”

  I offer a weak smile. “Yeah,” I say. “Tuesdays.”

  She stares, not moving from her spot. “What’s going on with you?”

  My cheeks go red, and once again, I feel like crying.

  “Jake’s in a horrible mood, too,” Steinway adds.

  I focus my eyes on my screen, on the reservation list for the day’s final group, but Steinway keeps pushing. “Something off between you two? It was all sunshine and rainbows with you guys a few days ago.”

  “What can I say?” I offer. “Rainbows go hand in hand with rain, right?”

  Steinway raises an eyebrow. “Seriously. Are things okay?”

  Maybe because she’s always been so nice to me, or maybe because now that the secret’s out to the person it matters to most, I don’t feel like lying or evading anymore, but I tell her the whole story, from the online chats to the way I sent a photo of Katie to the surprise coincidence of discovering Jake was working here, and then the even bigger surprise, that Katie was up here to visit. When I finish, Steinway stares at me, shaken.

  “I know,” I say. “It’s awful.”

  “Damn, girl,” she says. “And I thought I was messy with romance. This is like the plot of a romantic comedy or something.”

  “I wish,” I say. “Those always have happy endings.”

  Steinway laughs. “So he’s pretty mad?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Steinway nods, a little gravely. “I would, indeed. This is a tough one. I mean, it’s not cheating or whatever, but—”

  “It might as well be,” I finish for her. “I know.”

  She crosses her arms. “Why did you let it go on so long?”

  I pick at a piece of the cheap linoleum counter, one that’s about to come off. “I don’t know, because I liked him? I didn’t want him to hate me for lying.”

  “So you kept lying . . .”

  “Hey, I never said it was logical. I didn’t actually think anything would really happen with us. This is embarrassing, but Jake was my first kiss. I didn’t think we’d actually become something real—nothing ever had before.”

  Steinway taps at her braids. “Look, all I have to say is—and I’m a few years older than you and maybe I have more experience in the romantic department and all—but never, ever, ever be afraid of who you are, of what you look like, of who you like, okay? Because it never ends well, believe me.”

  To my surprise, Katie picks me up after work that day.

  “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” I say as I climb into the Subaru. “I thought you’d have gotten my mom to take you to the train station, after everything that happened last night.”

  Katie doesn’t look at me, only pulls out of the Hunter Mountain parking lot, turning toward Woodstock. “Don’t get any ideas that everything’s all good between us, okay? My mom texted me this morning, said that when I get back, we need to have a long talk about responsibility and following through on my commitments. I’m avoiding the reprimands and punishments for at least another day.”

  I look out the window, watch the mountains roll by. “I really am sorry.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Olivia. Chrissy is here now. Let’s just pretend everything’s okay.”

  “Come on, Katie,” I say. “Talk to me.”

  She doesn’t say another word the rest of the way to my house.

  Chrissy knows. That’s the sense I get all the way through dinner, which we have on the porch, my dad grilling up burgers, my mom scooping out potato salad she picked up at the farmer’s market. As Chrissy sips wine and regales us all with tales of the advertising shoot she wrapped only yesterday, I’m sure of it: Chrissy knows something’s off with me. Chrissy knows it all went down horribly. Chrissy can read me like a book.

  After dinner, Katie complains of a headache and retreats to my room, and when the dishes are done, Chrissy sidles up. “Want to build a fire outside?”

  I nod.

  “Cam?” Chrissy asks my mom. “Want to come out to the fire with us? Girls’ night?”

  My mom shakes her head. “I’m deep into this new art history book and am finishing it tonight if my life depends on it. Did you guys know that Picasso was once considered a suspect in the theft of The Mona Lisa?”

  “I bet he did take it,” Chrissy says. “That guy always seemed messed up. I mean, the blue period. Oy.” Chrissy elbows me. “Anyway, her loss. Grab the logs. I’m going to top off my wine.”

  Outside, the crickets seem to be going double-time, and the stars are bright in the sky. It’s a perfect summer night, the sort they make movies about. Chrissy’s even here, which makes everything more fun. Only problem is my best friend is sitting in my room right now, furious with me. And the guy I like, he’s furious, too.

  “All right,” Chrissy says, pointing to the fire pit surrounded by stones, the one my dad and I made together when my parents first bought this house. “Lincoln Logs,” she says.

  “You mean log cabin?” I ask, referring to our fire-building method of choice.

  “Exactly,” Chrissy says. “Remember, you’re the country girl here. Not me.”

  She sinks into one of the Adirondack chairs that surround the pit and sips her wine. “It sure is lovely out here, though, I have to say. It’s good to get out of the city for a bit.”

  I arrange the logs carefully, adding kindling and the package of fire-starter to the middle. With the extra-long lighter, I get it going. Immediately, it sparks to life, and I sit back, waiting for the kindling to catch.

  “You’re good at that,” Chrissy says.

  I laugh. “It’s really not that hard.”

  Chrissy tips back her wine. “Well, I wouldn’t know where to start, so I’m going to pretend like it’s this really specialized skill.”

  I sit down in the chair next to hers. The kindling has started lighting now, and I slip my feet out of my sandals, reaching them toward the warmth of the budding flames. “Any celebrities on set?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know,” she says, running through a list of models and B-list actors and the like. “They’re all people, too, when you get down to it. Just doing their jobs. Anyway”—she takes another sip—“how’s that zip-line company? Learning all sorts of new fancy outdoorsy skills and stuff?”

  I lean forward, using an extra-long stick to poke at the fire so it catches even better. “If you count checking in people’s reservations and ringing up T-shirts as outdoorsy skills. It hasn’t been that bad, though. Much better than I thought it would be.”

  “Your mother always has something up her sleeve, that’s for sure. She’s usually right, though.” Chrissy narrows her eyes. “Anyway, more importantly, how’s that boy? What happened with him?”

  I remain silent, focus my eyes on the fire.

  “Oh, shit,” she says.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You told him, and it didn’t go well?”

  “I actually didn’t tell him,” I say, shaking my head. “But he found out anyway. ‘Didn’t go well’ is the understatement of the year.”

  Chrissy sits up straighter in her chair. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”

  “Well, my summer’s been eventful, at least. I’m definitely not wasting away anymore,” I say quietly.

  Chrissy sets her glass of wine down in the cup holder carved into the chair. “Wait, what did you say?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

/>   “No, really, Olivia. What did you say?”

  My eyes tear up. I swallow, holding the emotions back, and look up at the stars instead.

  “Did you hear a conversation between me and your mom?” Chrissy asks.

  My vision blurs from tears, the stars blending together.

  “Oh, Olivia,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  I swipe at my tears with the back of my hand. “It’s fine. She was right. I was wasting away, just like she said. No wonder she’s disappointed in me.”

  “No,” Chrissy says. “She’s not disappointed in you. That couldn’t be further from the truth. She adores you.”

  “Sometimes I think it would be easier for her if she would just accept I’ll never be who she wants me to be. Then it wouldn’t be such a drag when I keep disappointing her.”

  Chrissy reaches out, resting her hand on top of my arm. “Olivia,” she says, but I don’t look her way.

  “Olivia.”

  I turn finally. “What? I know it’s true.”

  “Olivia, your mom and I have been angry and snippy with each other in some fashion since I was two years old. And in that conversation, which I really wish you hadn’t had to hear, your mom was right.”

  “That I’m wasting away?” I force a laugh. “Thanks.”

  Chrissy shakes her head again. “No, she was right that, as much as I love you, as much as you are one of the great blessings of my crazy little life, I’m not your mom. She is.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “So she knows what’s best for you in a way that I don’t. And I know she didn’t word it the best way, because we don’t always phrase things well about the people we love and care about, but I do think she was right about getting you that job. I understand now that it wasn’t okay for me to question her like I did.” Chrissy leans forward, taking my hand in hers. “Olivia, she could not be happier with you. I know she can be particular—even difficult. I know she expects a lot. But you are her dream, you always have been. Believe me on that one. You, all of you—every misstep, every success, every part of you—are exactly what she loves most about her life.”

  I take a slow, steady breath. “I want to make her proud of me, but sometimes, it seems like she can only be proud of me if I’m perfect. And I get so scared I’m going to fail that I don’t even want to try.”

  Chrissy gives my hand another squeeze. “She’s already proud of you, Olivia. She’s crazy about you. You’ve got that one in the bag. Trust me. Whatever is going on in your life, good or bad, you can turn to me, of course, but you can turn to your parents, too. Believe me. They’re ready for anything you’ve got to throw at them.”

  The Bad Decision Handbook: Part Four

  My mom is still sitting stretched out on the sofa in the living room when I walk inside.

  “How’s the fire?” she asks, looking up.

  “Good,” I say. “Chrissy’s still out there.”

  She smiles. “I’m glad you guys are getting some time to catch up.”

  I nod, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Er, Mom, can we talk?”

  Her eyebrows perk up. Immediately, she sets her book down. “Of course.” She pulls her legs back, making room on the couch for me.

  I sit on the edge.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yes.” And then: “No. No, it’s not.” I turn to her, and she’s staring, patiently, at me. “I haven’t exactly been honest with you.”

  My mom folds her hands in her lap. Her eyes don’t betray even a hint of surprise. She nods, urging me on. “The NYU program . . .” My words hang in the air, but my mom doesn’t help me along, only waits. “I told you I didn’t get in, and while that’s technically true . . .”

  My mom blinks a few times and unfolds her hands.

  “It’s more than that I didn’t get in,” I go on. “I didn’t even really give myself a shot. I waited until the very last minute, so what I did send in was just kind of mumbo jumbo. I basically sabotaged the whole thing.”

  She stares at me. Then, after what feels like forever but can’t be more than a few seconds, she smiles. “I know that, Olivia.”

  “What?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. “How? I told you I was working on it like every day.”

  “I’m your mom,” she says. “I’d walk in your room, when you told me you were working on it, and see another horror movie queued up on your screen. I know to a point it was research, but no one needs to do that much research.”

  “But . . . but why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you just call me out on it? My procrastination and all that.”

  “I didn’t want to pressure you. I thought you’d learn a valuable lesson if you didn’t get something you really wanted. Maybe even a better lesson than you’d learn in an NYU program.”

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask.

  “Mad?”

  “For messing it all up? For not giving myself a chance?”

  My mom laughs. “Of course not. The things I put off in my day—the lies I told my mother, you don’t even want to know. Much, much worse than saying I was working on an application when I wasn’t. I know what it’s like to be scared to go after something you want. I hope now you understand that it’s always better to give yourself a real shot. When Marianne told me about the job, your dad and I really thought that getting you out of your comfort zone would be good. And we’re so proud of you for following through and giving it your all, even if it’s not what you wanted.”

  “Me too,” I say, because even with all that’s happened, even if Jake will never, ever speak to me again, I’m glad I’m spending the summer doing something I wouldn’t have before. I’m glad she pushed me, and I’m glad I took the literal leap off that cliff.

  “You don’t always have to be so hands-off, you know,” I say. “I mean, I know I should get better about being honest with you and telling you things, but I don’t care if you ask me what I’m up to every once in a while, or hassle me if you can see I’m messing everything up.”

  My mom beams. “You know, Olivia, you’re right. Maybe I’ve been so afraid to pressure you that I haven’t been as involved as I should. Let’s make a pact to both be more open with each other. Deal?”

  I nod. “Deal.” I hesitate. “In the name of openness . . .”

  Her eyes widen.

  “I wrote a screenplay, even though I’m not at NYU.”

  “Really? Like a whole screenplay?” She clasps her hands together. “That’s, what, like—”

  “Ninety pages.”

  Her eyebrows shoot skyward. “Ninety pages? That’s amazing, Olivia. That’s just, that’s crazy. Ninety pages!”

  I feel myself blush. “You’re not going to like it, though, because it’s a horror movie screenplay.”

  “Olivia,” she says, playfully hitting me on the shin. “Your dad and I like anything that you like, okay? We’re not that old and fuddy-duddy, after all.”

  I smile. “Really?”

  She nods. “Of course.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  “Anytime. Oh, and Olivia. In the name of more openness on my part, I’ve noticed that you and Katie—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s fine,” she says. “I just wanted you to know that friendships are important. And you have to take care of them, especially the good ones, like everything else.”

  I stand up. “Thanks, Mom.” I give her a hug, and she holds me tight.

  “I’m always here for you, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  Back in my room, the lights are off, but I can hear, by the way she’s breathing, that Katie isn’t asleep.

  “Is your headache any better?” I ask.

  Katie scoffs but doesn’t turn over. “I don’t have a headache. You know that, Olivia.”

  “Do you want to talk?” I ask, my voice soft.

  Katie doesn’t say a single word.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so
rry for not being a better friend to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk, Olivia,” she says, to the wall more than me. “I’m leaving tomorrow. It’s fine.”

  I know it’s not, though. I get up from the bed, and leaving the lights off, quiet as I can, I change into PJs, head to the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face. My mom is no longer in the living room; my dad isn’t in his office. In the kitchen, I grab a glass of water, and through the windows, I see the fire still going. But to my surprise, my mom is walking across the yard, straight toward Chrissy.

  In the firelight, I can see Chrissy stand up and then, after a few seconds, they hug. For a long time. Ten seconds, at least. I don’t know what my mom said, if she apologized to Chrissy or the other way around, or maybe they both did; but I’m pretty sure my mom took her own advice.

  Friendships are important. And Chrissy and my mom have been friends—and sisters—their whole lives.

  I return to my room, quietly grabbing my computer, then head into the living room. Then I open Reddit and do what I know I need to do. I start a new message to Elm.

  Figured I’d start my apology here, because I’ve known you here the longest. Where to begin? I’ll start with this. I always loved talking to you. About movies, about your aunt, about what was going on in your day. I know we didn’t really exchange a lot of specifics; and I liked that too. It’s not because I was trying to be someone else with you, but because I felt like I could really be myself with you. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. It was always me, then. I was always trying my best to be real.

  When you asked for that photo, I freaked out. I was worse than any character in any horror movie. It was out of fear, but there’s no excusing it; it was a bad decision. And then, when I had already lied, it felt easier to let you think I really was going to the NYU program, one I hardly even had a real shot at because I was so nervous about failing I kept putting it off. That was another very bad decision.

  But the worst bad decision—again, worse than anything I’d done before—was not telling you this crazy story as soon as I saw you here at Hunter Mountain. It was not trusting you to like me the way I am, even with all my quirks.

  For that, I’m truly sorry. I’ve always liked you—when I talked to you online, and when I saw you in person—just the way you are. I should have given you the same chance with me.