Miles Away from You

by A. B. Rutledge

  “Precisely my point,” I said. You haven’t seen this shirt, V. I got it a few months ago. It’s light gray with dark blue cuffs around the collar and sleeves, and the print is dark blue, too. It says YOU ARE A TOURIST, like that Death Cab for Cutie song.

  So, we ended up walking around Laugavegur, the main shopping district. The streets downtown are brick, and I kept stumbling over myself on the uneven path. It’s pretty there, urban and hip. Lots of street art and little boutiques.

  We went in a million little trinket shops, and I helped her pick out souvenirs for her friends back home. We laughed at the stupid T-shirts and postcards that covered topics like Icelandic volcano name pronunciations and the ever-changing weather.

  “If you don’t like the weather in Iceland, just wait a few minutes. We say that in Missouri, too,” Shannon told a shopkeeper.

  Mostly we just talked. And not about you. It seems like every conversation in my life over the past year and a half has circled around to you, but these didn’t. I told her a bunch of stupid jokes, and she laughed at them. I stood too close to her. And she let me.

  I grinned. I grinned so much my face hurts.

  Hello, world. Do you remember this guy? This version of Miles, the bizarre and the bold? He’s back and looking to score.

  And he might, actually . . . with his super-hot former babysitter. (Okay, she’s eight years older than me. But twenty-six isn’t that old, is it? She sure as shit doesn’t look twenty-six.) She asked me out tonight, though. Something about a northern lights tour by boat. I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening. I was just watching her lips move.

  Chapter Six

  Miles Away to Vivian Girl

  June 6 2:53 AM

  Oh, V. My Vivian Girl. I am back from my night out, and your boots are kicked off in the corner of my room, and I am a little drunk. From stolen boozy apple cider on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic. And after everything that’s happened tonight, I am thinking about your mouth . . . you. Your lips against mine and the way you used to kiss my ears and run your tongue around the edge of my gauges and that little crunchy sound it made when you bit down on the shell of my ear. I get shivers thinking about that, even now. I don’t know how to stop being so in love with you.

  And because I am drunk on stolen cider and feeling sloppy and romantic, I’ll tell you everything about tonight, all right?

  I didn’t sleep with her.

  Fuck I wanted to.

  So, after we did all her shopping, we went back to the hotel and Shannon wanted to stop at the desk and get me a ticket for the northern lights thing. There were a few concierges at the front desk, and Óskar was busy, but she wanted to wait for him because she thinks they probably work off commission and she likes Óskar the best. She said he’s a perfect man because he makes sure she has a bottle of wine delivered to her room at the end of every night. I told her Óskar was a toast thief; therefore, not to be trusted.

  Anyway, after he was done getting an elderly Asian couple set up with a rental car, Shannon had Óskar print us off some vouchers. I remember he had a black Sharpie pen tucked behind his ear, and there was a collapsed Jenga tower scattered across his desk. When he handed me my voucher, he said, “You have finally decided to leave the hotel?” and then he blinked at me in that way cats do—wide-eyed and completely uninterested in your life. He also seemed rather unimpressed by the fact that two people from the same small town in Missouri had randomly met in a hotel in another corner of the planet. What. A. Weirdo.

  After that, me and Shannon parted ways for a while. She said she needed to go cram all her souvenirs into her suitcases. I read in my room. Ate some oranges. Took a shower. Fixed my hair. Crawled on the ceiling in anticipation, you know . . .

  We met in the lobby at eleven thirty. A van picked us up and took us to the harbor. Everything was this dark blue color, the sky, the water. It looked like a van Gogh painting, the way the city lights reflected out in long lines across the waves.

  I wanted to draw it. No, paint it. I wanted to smear blue-black mess across a canvas and make little yellow and white squiggles for all the light. I needed you there with me right then, because I didn’t think anyone else would understand that some things cannot be replicated with words or photos even. Sometimes light and memories work that way. Like you can only understand them if they leave stains on your hands.

  I think encaustic painting might be good for the harbor landscape I saw tonight. Sometimes I watch YouTube tutorials on painting and shit. It’s really interesting and comforting. Sometimes it puts me right to sleep. But, anyway, encaustics. It’s painting with melted beeswax and dye. I think I want to try that sometime. Sometime when I figure out how the hell I can get back to making art again.

  We were some of the first people on the boat, this big whaleboat-looking rig. (I wish I’d paid attention to the name. Boat names are always cool.) Apparently Shannon’s super into this aurora-hunting thing: “This is my third time on this tour. They refund your ticket if you don’t see the lights, and no luck so far, so I keep coming back. Tonight’s my last chance.”

  She asked me if I’d ever seen the northern lights, and I said only technically. Mom and Mamochka told me we all saw them on a trip to Montana one time, but I was just a little kid. The only thing I remember about that trip was that I got really carsick and threw up in a Big Gulp cup. Great job prioritizing the memories, brain.

  I followed her down a set of stairs to one of the viewing cabins, where there are big picture windows and dining tables. There were also racks and racks of those big Deadliest Catch–looking jumpsuits for anybody who wanted to keep warm while hanging out on the open-air deck up top. Shannon pulled one on over her swishy dress, but she looked so unsexy in that getup that she was unable to convince me to do the same. “You’ll freeeeze!”

  I had a hoodie, so I figured I’d be fine. Wrong. I was miserably cold all night.

  We went up a level to another viewing room where there were all kinds of drinks and snacks on a table and in coolers. Shannon grabbed a couple of candy bars and a few cans of hard apple cider and we climbed our way to the open deck at the very top. Closer to the stars.

  “Should we, uh, pay for that loot?” I said when Shannon handed me a can.

  “No one cares,” she said.

  “Sure, no one cares. If you’re a beautiful woman. But I’m a pudgy postadolescent in need of a haircut.”

  “Miles, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not pudgy anymore. You do need a haircut, though.” She paused and looked me over. “How much weight have you lost?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure. A lot.” I smoothed my hand over where my gut used to be. Just like you haven’t seen my Tourist T-shirt, you haven’t seen the slowly shrinking guy inside of it.

  “So far my breakup has made me gain ten pounds.”

  “You’d think I’d like how my body looks now, but I kinda miss the old me. At least I was happy then.” I leaned against the railing as the deck filled with passengers and the boat shoved off. I kept staring down at the waves, imagining myself slipping between the bars and into that cold, black water.

  Someone would rescue me if I fell in, wouldn’t they? They’d give me a blanket and cocoa and I’d be just fine, right?

  I drank my stolen booze and felt a little guilty thrill. I held on to that railing tight.

  “So, tell me about this website,” Shannon said.

  “I don’t know. It was just this idea that Vivian had. It used to be a blog, but she expanded it into an online magazine. She wanted to create a space where all these artsy misfit kids could connect online. It’s called Mixtape, ’cause she was huge on nineties pop culture, like riot grrrl music and stuff. Anyway, every month, she’d pick a theme—like water or dignity or something—and people would create a piece of art based on the theme. Like a drawing or poetry or whatever. And there was lots of collaboration all around. It got kinda super popular for a minute there, and I helped her run everything. We even got a book deal.�
�

  “Really? You got a book published?”

  “Kinda. I drew some coloring pages and helped with the art design and stuff. I don’t know. It was mostly Vivian’s thing.”

  “And what’s your thing?” she asked. The wind whipped her hair against my cheek.

  “My thing,” I said, “was making Vivian happy. But I guess I wasn’t too good at that.”

  I thought maybe Shannon would drop the subject the way Brian does when I tend to get all Eeyore about things. But she didn’t. She looked at me and said, “That’s not an answer. Or not a good one.”

  I squinted and said, “What? How?”

  “I get the feeling, Miles,” she said, tugging on my sleeve so I’d turn and look at her, “I get the feeling that nobody is asking you to be a grownup about this. Your mom’s a child psychologist, so she’s probably treating you like one of her patients. And your other mom—I know because I’ve seen her do it—still calls you her baby boy, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, don’t let them give you a pacifier.”

  Because I was starting to get a little buzzed, I laughed.

  And Shannon whacked me on the chest. “I mean it. Don’t let anyone’s expectations define what happiness means for you. Especially not your parents. And especially not a coma patient!”

  And that hit me so hard. In feels I didn’t even know I had anymore. I pulled my hoodie a little tighter. But that didn’t stop the wind from dragging tears out of my eyes and cooling them on my cheeks.

  “You cannot make her happy anymore. You virtually cannot.”

  “Okay. I get it,” I said, dragging my cuff across my face. “No more, okay? Not tonight.”

  She nodded and crushed her cider can under her heel, then stuffed it into the pocket of her jumpsuit because there were no trashcans in sight.

  There was a tour guide, a burly ginger dude with a microphone who was full of folktales and history. He told stories all night and read this poem about the northern lights. I can’t remember a word of it, but it was beautiful.

  And I had a few more apple-y beverages. After we finished off the first few, I went below deck and bought us some more. I don’t even think I’m old enough, but no one asked for an ID. I also paid for the other cans we’d sort of stolen. I know. Lame. But you can’t change Rome in a night, or what the fuck ever that saying is. At least I had some drinks. And good thing they tasted more like apples than beer, because . . . well, you know why. I can’t stand the smell of booze since you.

  After the aurora poem, Shannon leaned on my shoulder. I told her thanks for getting me out of the hotel. It wasn’t bad, really, doing this touristy thing.

  Summer is a shitty time for catching the aurora, what with only, like, two hours of darkness each night. But, somehow, an hour or so after we’d been out there, the guide told us to look over to the west. There it was, just these faint green swirls. Fingers, he called them. Everyone scrambled for their big clunky cameras, even Shannon.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I slurred. “Just look at it.” It was so faint, and the sun was about to crest. I knew it was pointless to try to capture it on camera. I could have easily got up on my soapbox about MEMORIES OVER MEGAPIXELS and how everyone thinks their experiences are invalid unless they post them in full color on Facebook, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything else. But she knew. And that’s probably why, when the lights finally faded and everyone put their cameras down, my hot former babysitter kissed me.

  We didn’t talk about it. The boat turned around, and we went to the lower decks to warm up. There were a couple of teenage girls down there with guitars singing gorgeous Icelandic folk songs. I wish I could describe this to you better, but I really can’t. Except to say that it was pretty and . . . ethereal, maybe? And that I felt really all right.

  It was two a.m. when we got back to shore. The sun came up and there were cars and people everywhere in downtown Reykjavik. I guess if we were cooler, Shannon and I could have stayed out and done the rúntur, that late-night Icelandic barhopping I’d heard about. But she had an early flight, so we just went back to the hotel.

  In the elevator, I said to her that I’d be stupid not to at least ask if she wanted to come to my room. She laughed and said, “I really do have an early flight.”

  “Aw, come on. I just need, like, ten minutes tops.”

  “But I’m a grown-ass woman. I need a little longer than that.”

  “Wait, are we talking about sleep or sex? I’m drunk.”

  “Sex. But it’s the same for sleep, too. I don’t not want to have sex with you, Miles. Just . . . not tonight?” The elevator stopped at her floor.

  “I totally respect that garbled nonsense could I please kiss you some more?” I grabbed her hand. The doors closed, and we went up, smashing our drunken faces into each other.

  I may have gotten to second base.

  We kept kissing, but when the elevator stopped at my floor, she broke away and pushed her button again. We rode back down, and she moaned like a banshee when I nibbled on her bottom lip. And then she got out when the elevator stopped.

  “I admire your self-control,” I said. “But I weep for those who value sleep more than sex.”

  “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she said. “Hey, look me up when you get back home. Maybe we’ll continue this on American soil.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I said. “Good night.”

  “Night.” She grinned, and I grinned.

  Maybe she meant it. Maybe she didn’t.

  I dunno.

  Maybe I will call her when I get back home.

  Chapter Seven

  Miles Away to Vivian Girl

  June 6 11:14 AM

  The sunlight gets into everything here. It just barges through the curtains whenever it pleases. My body still doesn’t understand what time it is. So, I think the healing properties of Icelandic sunshine might be having the opposite effect on me.

  I am on that slippery edge again, Vivian. Last night I felt amazing, and today I’m wallowing. I feel like shit. I’m not hung-over or anything. I’m just a shitty person.

  What was I thinking? No, I wasn’t thinking. And that’s the problem.

  Or it’s the solution.

  All I know is that I want to have more nights like last night and fewer mornings like this one. The trick is to keep moving, I think, and to focus on me instead of you. Shannon was probably right about happiness, that no one else can validate it for me. Mamochka thinks the same thing, too. The other day she told me if I was feeling selfish, I was probably doing things right. “Because you need to take care of yourself right now, little baby boy.”

  Funny how she can tell me to take care of myself and call me baby in the same sentence.

  There is something that happened last night that I don’t know quite how to explain to you, or even if I should. It wasn’t the drinking or the aurora, or the kissing even. It was much later, when I was back in my room. Starting to sober up and feeling so stupid and sad. I sat up on the edge of my bed, and there were your boots. They were standing up, just as I’d pulled them off. So empty without you. I kept staring at them, like if I looked hard enough, all this shit would suddenly make sense. And, then, after all my bitching about megapixels and shit, what did I do? I grabbed my phone and took a picture.

  And the thing is, taking that photo felt good. As good as a kiss.

  You know, I thought I needed somewhere safe and quiet to curl up and lick my wounds, but maybe I’ve done that enough already? I want more of those stupid/giddy/lusty feelings, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get them alone in my hotel room. So I’m going out.

  To do my laundry.

  Ha ha, okay, so I’m making that sound lamer than it is. There’s this place downtown called the Laundromat Cafe, where I can, in fact, do my laundry, but also chill out and people watch in the café part. There’s some veggie food on the menu, and the place is stocked with tons of books. I’m not taking my iPad, and my phone’s bee
n on airplane mode this whole trip. (Emergencies only! Since we don’t have an international plan.) Should keep me from staring at Tumblr all day and messaging the void. Later, V.

  Miles Away to Vivian Girl

  June 8 9:14 AM

  Hahahahahahah. Ha. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about my brilliant idea to Venture Bravely Forth into the World. You may have noticed (pfff) I haven’t messaged in a while. That’s because I haven’t actually been in Reykjavik since I last messaged you. Yeah, because I decided it was totally a good idea to hitch a ride HALFWAY ACROSS ICELAND with a bunch of random strangers. That happened. God.

  So, starting from the beginning now. Another installment in the New Icelandic Saga of Miles.

  The Laundromat Cafe is really damn cool, actually. You go downstairs, toss your stuff in the wash (a girl at the hotel desk set me up with some Icelandic coinage—krónur have fish on them instead of dead politicians) and then head back up to the café. I ordered this eggplant sandwich thingy. So good. I also had a chai tea and tried to flirt with my waitress. I might as well have been chatting with a cactus.

  So, I gave up and started browsing the café’s color-coded bookshelves. And then, there it was, suddenly and unexpectedly. A slim magenta spine with LOFTIS down the side. The first of two times this weekend I was surprised to see your name.

  Of course. Of fucking course this hipster café in Reykjavik, Iceland, has a copy of Mixtape’s anthology. I flicked through the pages until I found the section in the back that I’d contributed: the junkyard coloring book pages. It looked pretty much like you’d expect a coloring book to look after being left in a public place. There were wide green scribbles across full spreads where clumsy-fingered toddlers had been given full artistic range. Also, ink pen doodles of hairy-balled cocks here and there. Thankfully some of the pages had been colored properly by someone who knew their way around art supplies.

  After my weird fantasies in the showers the other night, I did sort of get the illusion of being caught in public with my dick in my hand when I looked up from the book I’d helped create and saw someone staring at me. Someone kind of attractive.