Looking up to the second-story windows of Turp’s bedroom, I can practically smell the wave of turpentine that permeated his bedsheets. He was incredibly arrogant for a guy who reeked of brush cleaner.
He was supertalented, but he had zero interest in studying art history or working on craft exercises. He seemed to believe he could become truly great based solely on his natural painting abilities. Like everything he churned out was genius, including the shits he took.
Plus, he thought the sniveling masses were too ignorant to appreciate high art. His snobbishness was off-putting, but I was blinded by his talent. Particularly the large, red painting hanging over his bed.
In it, Turp had created a perfect juxtaposition of color and light, and the thing was honestly close to brilliant.
We were already mostly naked when I realized that hooking up with Turp again felt all wrong. I thought having sex with him a second time would validate the first time, make it not a mistake. But it was a mistake. And doing it again was just going to mean two mistakes. Suddenly, I’d wanted to leave.
I was clear about changing my mind.
He definitely knew my no meant no.
I lick my lips and look over at Hayes sitting rod straight beside me. “Stay in the car.” I shut off the engine.
“What are you planning to do?” Hayes reaches for his door handle.
“I’ve got this. Seriously. You wait here.”
“I can’t just sit here in the passenger seat, twiddling my thumbs.”
“Hayes, I want you here with me. I appreciate your moral support, but I can’t get you in trouble, and trust me, this is something I need to do on my own.”
Stealthily walking around to the back of my car, I pull out a can of silver spray paint with a special tip that allows for small precision lines. I give it a few quick shakes and move toward the black Ferrari parked in the driveway. It’s Turp’s car.
I’ve always thought of rape as a back-alley-with-a-stranger sort of affair. I’ve held that what happened to me did not resemble a violent crime in the least. I never fought back. Heck, with some of the defensive moves my dad has taught me, I’m sure I could’ve taken the guy.
Instead, I just lay there, trying to lose myself in that amazing red painting.
I actually convinced myself that Turp’s talent made everything okay. As if artistic genius can be transmitted via jizz.
I’ve been pretending it didn’t really matter, but now that I’m back here, I realize I’ve been pissed off all along. Extremely pissed off.
The heavy panting of my lions is nearly audible as I finally have a place for all my fury to land.
Moving steadily, I reach his shiny car and hear a crunch of footsteps behind me. Whirling around, I’m face-to-face with Hayes, boldly following me with his shoulders back, a look of controlled rage on his face.
I hiss, “Seriously? What are you doing?”
The fabric of his T-shirt sleeves chokes his biceps as he crosses his arms. “I’m just here to support you, like you said. This is your vendetta. What are you going to do?”
With a sigh, I motion for him to follow me. “You’ll see.”
I move to the wide hood of Turp’s car, and with another quick shake of my can, I begin writing my message of revenge.
Warning, ladies!
The guy driving this car is selectively deaf.
He can’t hear the word NO.
Proceed with extreme caution or prepare to be FUCKED.
I step back and consider a moment, tilting my head from side to side. I hold a wait finger up to Hayes as I move past him and jog back to my car.
Opening the back hatch, I rifle through my small collection of loose cans, flinching as they clink loudly against each other.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for—a can of hot pink.
I dash back to the front of Turp’s car and am just finishing up my drawing when I hear the front screen door of the duplex fly open.
The guy is better-looking than I remember, and I grin at him. “What’s your expert opinion of my work?” I point to the hood of his car. “I realize it’s a lower art form and perhaps a bit vulgar for some tastes, but I think I’ve captured the shape and quality quite nicely.”
His eyes widen in horror at the penis I’ve drawn below the silver lettering.
He doesn’t have time to recover before Hayes is directly in his face. “You think raping girls is some sort of fun pastime, art boy?” It’s as if a switch has been flipped, and I don’t recognize the raging Hayes in front of me. Holy shit.
Turp holds his hands up in defense. “Listen, buddy. I don’t know what your girlfriend told you, but she wanted it. I swear.”
Hayes raises his arm reflexively, and I drop my pink spray can to grab him.
“Come on, he’s not worth it.” I try corralling Hayes toward my car, but it’s like attempting to move stone.
Turp harps, “You two can answer to the cops. I called them as soon as I saw you pull up.”
Hayes and I look at each other.
I’m mentally calculating how long we’ve been here and dividing it by the notoriously fast response time of our police force. The realization that my dad is on duty and could easily be on his way to this location gooses me into action.
“We need to go now,” I say firmly.
Hayes still has his eyes locked on Turp, but the sound of distant sirens finally unfreezes him. He presses his pointer finger into Turp’s left cheekbone. “You called the cops because you know what you did.”
I yank his arm hard, and Hayes finally turns away.
“So, she’s fucking you now?” Turp mocks. “Better get tested, because that bitch’s pussy is—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence on account of the fact that Hayes’s punch knocks him out cold. He just lies there on the ground, face up and unconscious, with one arm flung across his body.
“Holy shit,” I say. Hayes and I stand there in shock, looking down at the unmoving Turp. Finally, I give a huge smile. “That was awesome.”
But when I look over at Hayes, his face has gone white. He holds up his fist and stares at it as if it’s a foreign object he’s never seen before.
“Come on.” I grab his forearm and feel it’s trembling. The siren is getting louder by the second. Dragging hard on Hayes’s arm, I finally manage to get his attention. “We need to leave. Now.”
He and I run back to my car like we’re costars in some frustrating dream where we look like we’re sprinting but we’re actually moving in slow motion.
When we finally reach the hatchback and dive in, I start the engine, hit the gas, and do a doughnut on the lawn, leaving two muddy streaks in a circle on the grass.
As I speed back down to the winding road, a police cruiser comes around the bend and heads straight toward us, lights flashing and siren roaring.
I try to duck down in the driver’s seat as the screaming car blows past, but not before identifying the officer who’s driving.
Officer Juchem has known me for years, and I’m pretty sure he just saw my car.
“Fuck.” I look over at Hayes. “That’s one of my dad’s men. He helped me once when I broke down and I’m pretty sure he recognized me. He’ll probably tell my dad about spray-painting that asshole’s Ferrari.”
Hayes doesn’t respond, so I add, “Don’t worry. There’s absolutely no way to tie you to any of this.”
He remains silent, and when I look over, he’s watching his fist open and close as if it’s being controlled by a remote. Finally, he runs his other hand through his hair and says, “God do I want a drink right now.”
I know enough to keep quiet. Offering to stop and pick him up a six-pack as a joke is not at all the proper response here.
When I pull into the driveway of his aunt’s cabin, I see she isn’t home, so I kill the engine, hoping he’ll
maybe invite me in to cool off and possibly fool around to unwind.
I’m pretty turned-on by him right now. I may not approve of violence, but I found his rage-y reaction to Turp’s insult sexy as hell.
“Hayes Michael Mcallaster,” I say, “you are not just some rich kid from the suburbs. That was straight-up gangsta action.”
Unbuckling my seat belt, I angle my body toward Hayes, who still hasn’t moved.
“Listen, you have nothing to worry about. I would never let you get into trouble.”
He takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair again before going back to examining his knuckles. “I said I really want a drink.”
“So you’re having a craving. Isn’t that normal for an alcoholic? To want alcohol?” I reach over and rub his neck. “Looking for a little distraction to take your mind off it?”
I expect this to get a small smile from him, but instead, he reaches up to the back of his neck, catches my hand, and drops it to the center console between us.
“I can’t do this, Rory. I thought I could…” He looks at me with so much sadness, it makes me want to cover his whole face with both my hands.
I’m consumed with regret, and now the lions have all scattered to save their own stupid hides. Why am I so damn impulsive? I should’ve known stopping by Turp’s couldn’t end well for Hayes and me.
I swallow and look down at my hand still sitting on the center console. As if I’m the one who put it there.
I really am too broken for him. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I fucked up.”
After an unbearably long pause, he says, “It’s just that I’ve been working so hard to change myself. You don’t understand how one single drink could send me back to a life that I don’t want. A life of addiction that will lead me to either prison or an early death.”
“I promise, you’re in the clear—”
“Why can’t you see that I’m not worried about getting busted?” The anger that flares in my direction makes me sit up straighter in the driver’s seat. He says, “I’m worried about how I felt back there. I lost my mind. I wanted to kill that guy for what he’d done to you. And it seems like I care more about you than you care about yourself. I’m frustrated that you didn’t go directly to the police after it happened. Or at least to your dad.”
I reflect Hayes’s anger back at him. “Why can’t you comprehend the reality that I don’t have that kind of dad? He never sat around reading Narnia books to me. He hates me. I’m an artist just like my mom was, and she broke his heart in every possible way.”
“Your father doesn’t hate you, Rory.” He looks at me and I watch the fight drain out of him. I want to tell that fight, No, come back! But it’s gone.
And now I’m left with facing what I’ve done.
Causing him to break the law and risk everything. Completely undermining his desire to act less impulsively. I’ve drawn Hayes into my drama and let him down after he’s tried so hard to help me.
But then, it’s not like I ever asked for his help.
“So, I guess this is it, then?” I say. “You forced your way into my life just so you can check out as soon as things get messy?”
He sighs. “There’s this saying that AA has to be a ‘selfish program.’ That’s because as we look at ourselves and our past behavior and try to change, we really need to make some hard choices. We need to choose our own best interests if we hope to get well.”
Did he really just say all of that? I swallow the explosion of rage that wants to detonate right now. “Selfish program?” I say harshly. “Seriously, that’s what you’re going with as an excuse to blow me off right now? That you’re in a selfish program?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Yeah, well, in my experience, selfishness comes to people pretty naturally, but hey, good luck with your selfish program. Let me know how that works out for you.”
I put my seat belt back on and restart my car’s engine.
Hayes doesn’t make a move to leave. “Listen,” he says quietly. “I still think we were meant to be in each other’s lives. Your lions spoke so strongly to me right away. The fact that I found you—”
“You were stalking me, remember?” I pull the elastic tie from around my wrist and gather my dreadlocks into a ponytail behind my neck.
“I really thought you and I could help each other find our ways.” His use of past tense does not escape my notice.
“Yeah, well, painting that pink penis really did help. Thanks. Maybe I’ve found my calling as a vigilante artist, doling out spray-painted justice.”
The hint of a smile plays at his lips, and I feel my anger subside. We shift so we’re facing each other in the front seats.
He shakes his head. “I’ve loved my time with you, but after today, I know what I need to do. I’m walking out of the wardrobe, Rory. Your fantasy world is too real. I can’t ever lose control like that again. When cops start getting involved, it’s time to let go.”
My body feels like it’s made of wood. He’s pulling the heavy wardrobe door closed and shutting me out.
I lean in and whisper meanly, “Narnia is a made-up place that doesn’t exist. Welcome to the real world where everything sucks and we all get fucked.”
Hayes opens the passenger door and steps one foot out onto the ground. “I seriously need to go call my sponsor.”
He climbs out of the car, and before I can stop myself, I call after him, “Told you.”
He turns back toward me, resting his forehead on both his hands as they grip the top of the car’s doorframe. You would think he was purposely showing off the undersides of his biceps. “Told me what?”
“I told you there was nothing special connecting us together.”
He closes his eyes a moment, then opens them and looks directly at me as he leans into the car through the open door. “There was always something special. And you know it. It’s still here.”
The truth of that hits me in the gut. He’s right, and it knocks the wind out of me. I’ve never felt this connected to a guy before. This isn’t just a zing; it’s a pow.
Hayes goes on. “But my connection to you is going to destroy me.”
My lions begin pacing. He’s the one who woke up all these stupid feelings.
I snap, “That’s what I do I guess: drive people to destruction. Cause havoc and ruin lives.”
“Rory, I…”
“You’re what? You’re sorry?”
He stares at the center console and won’t look at me.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry too.” I put the car in gear and start rolling forward, forcing him to close the passenger door.
Without even checking the rearview mirror, I can feel him watching me pull away.
So that’s that, then. I just wish he’d never followed me in the first place. And that I’d never believed in some sort of Narnia world where people don’t turn on you or let you down. Or abandon you for being too impulsive.
I wish I’d never let my guard down with Hayes.
Because rejection hurts most when you don’t see it coming.
Chapter Fourteen
I’m dragged along through the following week like one of Kelly’s soggy chew toys and find myself dropped on the lifeguard bench beside Scott one rainy weekday morning.
I’m severely awake due to the fact that I went to bed super early to avoid my dad. I started off reading Andy Warhol’s book POPism about the sixties art scene, but I must’ve been pretty tired or depressed because I drifted off before nine o’clock.
My book was put away with my page marked when I woke up, so Dad obviously looked in on me when he got home. I picture him watching me sleep for a moment, probably trying to figure out if I was just pretending.
The upstairs hallway was still vibrating with his snores this morning as I snuck downstairs and slipped out of the hou
se. It’s too quiet there now, without Mom’s videos playing.
Thankfully, my early wake up allowed me to work at my cabin for a few hours before beating Scott to the lake. When I did my rounds, the mist was still coming off the water like magic.
And now the promise of impending rain is pretty much a guarantee that nobody will come swimming today. I sort of love it when this happens. It’s like the lake belongs to just us.
The ugly remaining dirt streak on my day is the fact that Hayes still hasn’t responded to the text I sent him a few nights ago. I told Kat that things were over between us, but she felt like I should give Hayes and me one more chance.
I actually cringed at how vulnerable I felt as I hit Send on a text asking if we could talk about the way things ended.
He never responded.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my one attempt at developing a real romantic relationship not centered on sex drove the guy straight off a cliff. I’ll be sticking with drive-by hookups from now on. They’re the only guaranteed way to avoid rejection.
Scott and I sit silently underneath the giant yellow umbrella, watching as a light rain begins to dance across the empty lake. Small, rippling circles form on the surface at random. The tempo rises and falls, and I’m transfixed.
“You seem awfully quiet,” Scott says beside me. “Something on your mind?”
I shove thoughts of Hayes underneath the raised bench we’re sitting on. “Just digging the rain on the lake.”
Scott bumps his arm playfully against mine and teases, “You afraid you’re going to melt?”
I laugh. “Yeah, because you know I’m made of brown sugar.”
Just then, the sky explodes, and I’m hit with sharp, cold drops of rain pelting my side.
Scott and I both hunch closer to the giant umbrella’s pole, but the rain is coming sideways, threatening to turn our weak cover inside out. Finally, we hear the distant rumble of thunder. Scott calls, “Let’s go,” and stands up to close the umbrella.
I jump down and flip the sign on the back of our chair so it reads “Beach Closed.” Just in case anyone mistakes this for a lovely beach day.
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