“When’s he leaving again?”
“I don’t know.”
Hands in our pockets, we ended up wandering the road that winds along the seashore. I probably should have just dunked my head in. God. We passed that sculpture that looks like the skeletal remains of a Viking boat. It surprised me that Óskar didn’t stop. I think maybe he’d just phased out of impress-the-tourist mode. He probably walks past those ship bones every day. Nothing new.
So, I didn’t stop either, or point them out. I just kept walking next to him, pretending for a moment that I could be a part of Óskar’s everyday life.
“I’m learning to be a producer,” he said as we approached a long pale yellow building with LAZY LUNA RECORDING STUDIO on the sign. A crooked crescent moon hung on the door. “That’s my dream. I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.” He winked at me.
I was exhausted. From the long walk, but also just emotionally. I needed that fluffy white hotel bed. And I missed home. I missed my everyday life. I wouldn’t be any better or worse off in either place, but at least the food was better at home. I’d have comfortable shitty clothes and video games and Mamochka if I were home.
And darkness. I miss darkness. Fireflies.
The owner of the recording studio, a beardly guy named Siggi, handed Óskar a pile of sheet music and the two of them sifted through it while I stared at the gangster movie playing on the TV in Siggi’s office. Finally Óskar chose a few pieces he wanted to work on, and we moved from the office to the studio. It looked like you’d imagine—a room with a big mixing board facing another room lined with soundproof glass. Óskar went into the recording booth while Siggi and I sat in chairs by the soundboard.
“Cheer up,” Óskar said to me through the glass. We could hear him, but he couldn’t hear us unless Siggi pressed a button. “There’s some Brennivín in my toolbox.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Black Death,” Siggi said, because Óskar didn’t know I’d replied.
The toolbox was on the floor under the soundboard. I popped it open. There was a single socket wrench, a Phillips-head screwdriver, a mini tape measure, and a big green bottle of alcohol. Oh, also there was an iPhone. I didn’t even know Óskar had an iPhone.
Yep, everything he needed to fix my imaginary shower problems, right?
I unscrewed the cap and found out from just one whiff why they call that shit Black Death. “Maybe later,” I said, and Siggi laughed at me. I offered him the bottle, but apparently it’s all fine and dandy in Iceland if you wanna binge your brains out on Friday and Saturday, but if you glance at so much as a beer the rest of the week, you’re a raging alcoholic.
Behind the glass, Óskar started to undress. And I started to wonder if I needed that booze after all. First he undid his bowtie, then he unbuttoned and shrugged off his work shirt. He had a light pink shirt on underneath, and he tugged that over his head, too. The pants stayed on (thankfully), but I could see the waistband of his lavender briefs peeking out. Lastly, he peeled off his shoes and socks.
“Watch this,” Siggi said. “Sexy librarian in three . . . two . . . one.”
And, though he wasn’t paying a bit of attention to either of us, Óskar pulled the elastic band from his bun and shook out his hair, right on cue.
I melted into my chair. And I stayed in that liquid state pretty much the entire time Óskar was playing. At one point, Siggi looked over at me and asked if I was Jack.
“Fuck no. I’m Miles.”
Anyway, I sat there all starry-eyed, watching Óskar work his way through the sheet music. Sometimes he would break out a pencil and scribble on the pages, humming out a different set of notes that he and Siggi would argue over. Eventually, they’d come to an agreement, and Óskar would pick up a guitar or a pair of drumsticks or whatever, and Siggi would record him playing. It always sounded perfect to me, but one or the other of them would want a third or fourth or fifth take. And as much as I liked watching Óskar play, I eventually nodded off. When I woke up, Siggi had gone out for a ciggy and Óskar was hunched over some more sheet music. The iPhone was ringing inside his toolbox. I dug it out.
Jack, of course.
I couldn’t find the button to press to talk to Óskar, but he saw me moving and came up to the glass. I held the phone up so he could see Jack was calling.
“Shit. I forgot to change phones. Turn it off for me. Immediately. Thanks.” Later he told me that Jack uses one of those family tracker apps to keep tabs on him, and normally when he wants to go somewhere without Jack knowing, he swaps his SIM into the old flip phone and leaves his iPhone at the hotel.
“We should go. I don’t want him coming here.”
I looked for the button again but still couldn’t find it in the sea of sliders and knobs. Óskar was pressed against the glass, with his hands near his face. I gave up on finding the button and just looked up at him. I traced my hand down the soundproof glass, over his chest and down to his fucking six-pack, and I swear I could almost feel the heat of him. I thought about the magic words Björk had told me to say. I looked up at his blinky blue eyes and hoped he could read lips.
“You don’t need him.”
But I’m not really sure if I was saying it to Óskar or myself.
We took a bus back to the main hub, and then it was time to part ways. He could have left right then and walked the block or two back home, but he waited with me for the next bus back to the hotel to arrive.
“I know it’s none of my business, but have you really been with him since you were fourteen?”
He nodded.
“And how old are you now?”
“Twenty.”
“Six years. That’s a long time.”
“Yes. A wery long time.” He balanced himself on the curb, with the scuffed toes of his Chucks dangling over the street.
“We’re kind of in the same place, you know? Just suffering through this relationship that doesn’t fit us anymore. You said ending things with him would be complicated, but, man, you should try breaking up with someone in a coma.”
“Everyone hates Yak. They all wanted me to go to therapy—Karl, Bryndis, Björk. So, I did. They believed that after some time, I’d have a revelation and see him differently. But after all these years, I don’t have any regrets. He was kind and patient. He didn’t abuse me. He didn’t even pressure me—I gave myself to him when I was ready. I never felt like a victim. He took care of me when I really needed someone to take care of me. I don’t think my opinion on those matters will ever change.”
“I’m sensing a but . . .”
“Yes, but . . . I don’t need him taking care of me anymore. And . . . I worry that my friends are right. When I remove myself from the equation and picture just . . . some boy off the street in little Óskar’s shoes, I do understand the concern. My opinions may never change, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t wrong.”
I stared at him. “You’re really fucking smart, you know that?”
“You’re smart, too. You sometimes say such intelligent things, but then you downplay them with fucks and likes and whatevers.”
“Maybe. Hey, you know what? I’m kinda glad we didn’t hang out or hook up or anything on that first weekend. ’Cause you probably would have been all Icelandic about it and never spoken to me again. And I like talking to you. Tell me something else.”
“That’s it, really. The seed has been planted, and I keep watering it with the idea that perhaps there have been other little Óskars, you know? And sometimes I think I stay with Yak because I feel it is my burden to protect these faceless little boys. I often wonder what he’s gotten up to while he’s been away. And what he’ll do if I’m gone from him for good. There is this one question my therapist asks that I’ve been unable to answer: have my friends’ opinions poisoned Yak for me, or could he actually be poison? I don’t know. But that means I don’t trust him. And if I don’t trust him, does he belong in my life?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question,
so I let it hang in the air for a moment, then I leaned in. “So, Óskar”—and, yes, I said his name correctly that time—“what is Wednesday?”
“The seventeenth.”
“What else?”
“Icelandic National Day.”
“Also known as . . . ?”
“Our independence day.”
“Exactly. Yeah.” The bus was coming, and I stepped up to the curb. “OUR independence day. I’m going to rent a car and get the fuck outta Reykjavik for a week. You should ditch Jack and join me, man. Think about it.”
Then I got on the bus without waiting for an answer. Without looking back.
Chapter Seventeen
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 16 3:34 PM
I think I’m ready for my road trip. I spent the morning at the hotel desk with Óskar and Atli, with That Asshole Jack peering over their shoulders. They helped me rent a car and some camping equipment. Also, getting my phone screen fixed was on the list for today. I wasn’t going to bother, but since I’m going to be out in BFE, I decided it’d be a good idea. I was like, “Do you know a guy who fixes phones?” Because, you know, everyone knows a guy. And it turns out Atli is that guy. He’s fixing it after work and will bring it back later this evening. And he didn’t charge me an arm and a leg, so that’s cool.
Speaking of saving money, Óskar and Atli spent like an hour trying to convince me that I should hitchhike. Apparently it’s safe here, totally the norm. But I’m wary. And I think I also need the control. I want to be able to go where I want, when I want, and not be an inconvenience to someone who’s just trying to be nice. But, anyway, the rental car seems pretty cool. Comes with a GPS that’s preprogrammed to guide me to all the interesting places on the Ring Road, the main roadway that loops around the island. The rental company dropped it off at the hotel, and I’ve already driven it once. I went downtown to pick up the camping supplies I’d rented: tent, cooler, cookware, etc. The other thing I bought in town was this camper’s card that gives me access to practically every campsite in Iceland.
Also, earlier, Óskar, Atli, and I had a lengthy argument about “hiring” versus “renting,” because every time I’d say “rent,” Óskar’d say “hire,” and I was like, “Look, little man, you cannot hire an inanimate object.”
Jack mostly stayed in the background and scowled.
“How many sleeping bags did I rent?”
“You hired two.”
“Are they coming to trim the rosebushes and clean my gutters?”
Anyway . . . I didn’t pick the number of sleeping bags. Óskar did, so . . . I decided to take that as a positive sign. But I couldn’t exactly ask with That Asshole Jack looming around.
I went grocery shopping, too. Enough to feed two or three with each meal. Even if Óskar flakes, it never hurts to have extra food on a campground. That’s how you make friends.
I bought another box of condoms.
And a few minutes ago, I called down to the front desk to tell Óskar I’m leaving bright and early tomorrow. Seven a.m.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 16 8:24 PM
I’m fidgety again. And I think I’m idiotic. I should hope and pray that Óskar doesn’t show up tomorrow. I can sit here and tell myself that I’m helping Óskar by conning him into ditching Jack, but getting involved with me is probably worse than staying where he’s at.
No, I’m not worse than that asshole. But I’m no prize either.
In other news, it is nice to have my phone back again. Phone photography is an art in and of itself. I’ve already been experimenting with some apps and filters and stuff. There is a magic to it that I think most people aren’t willing to admit. That beauty can come from something so soul-sucking. Sure, I might get lost on Twitter, or I might make something cool. Whatever helps, helps.
I spent some time earlier wondering if you’d like Óskar. At first I thought no, you wouldn’t. And I felt a little guilty about that, the fact that the first person I’ve been genuinely interested in after you is someone you wouldn’t approve of. But then I thought maybe you would if you just gave him some time.
You’d like Óskar’s accent, for starters, and you’d make him pronounce things for you. And I wonder if he’d like you, if he’d sound his way through hamburger and alligator for you, simply because you are always the most sparkling person in the room.
And I bet you could make him laugh, if you figured out how to hold his interest long enough. Of course, I’d be more entertained by this conversation than anyone. And happy about it, too. Because it’s a fantasy. It belongs in a future none of us will ever have.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 16 9:15 PM
Since I’ve been feeling pretty down on myself, I decided to check the Instagram account. I had 13 followers the other day, and now I have 176, wow! And there are 59 photos with the inhershoes hashtag. I’ve been trying to talk to all of them, leave comments, you know? I’m not great at talking to strangers, especially about something big and important like this. It makes me happy, though, to think I started something. To watch that ripple effect.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 16 11:19 PM
Óskar showed up an hour ago. He stood in the doorway, and we just kind of looked at each other for a second. I think we were deciding if we were going to make out. Then he walked past me and plopped down on the corner of my bed like he did the other day, only he wasn’t laughing this time.
He said he couldn’t go with me tomorrow. And I said okay. He sat there for a second and then he said he wanted to, but it would cause too much trouble. And I said, “I know.” And he said, “You don’t know everything,” but not, like, in a snarky way. He just meant I didn’t know all the details. Then he went on to tell me all the details.
So, like a year ago when Óskar got your painting, he ended up on Mamochka and Mom’s email list, and occasionally he’d receive those letters they send out, updating everyone about you. Everyone who donates gets the letters, but Óskar decided to email back.
I asked why, and he said, “Because I promised everyone I’d see a therapist.”
OMFG, Óskar is one of Mom’s patients. He said he sees her via Skype. I knew there was something going on. All this time I thought maybe Mamochka was behind this, but it was Mom. I can’t believe this shit. How did I not realize?
I was like, “Wait. I do her billing. I’ve never mailed anything to Iceland. And a name like Óskar Franz Magnússon is kinda hard to forget—”
“Jack monitors my finances, and I didn’t want him to know. So she and I bartered.” He pointed to the floor. “This is my therapy bill. As the manager of this hotel, I’m able to provide you with a free stay. But if I leave Jack, I leave the job. And I’m certain that will mean you must leave the hotel.”
“So, what?” I said. “I’m going to be gone camping for a week. And then I only have another week after that. I’ll find another hotel.”
“It’s tourist season. I’ve been calling around, but many places are booked.”
“Then I’ll camp for two weeks if I have to, all right?” I sat next to him on the bed. Knees touching. “Look, if you think it’s time to break up with him, then just break up with him, okay? Don’t make this about me.”
“I don’t even know where I’ll live after . . . if I . . .” He sighed. “How did you get so far?”
“Uh, I took a plane?”
“Why do you do that? You know what I mean! You’re . . .” He wove his fingers together in his lap. “Brave. You’re just as intelligent and brave as your mother said you were. I’ve been anxious to meet you for some time.”
My fucking parents . . . Just like how when Mamochka found out you had a crush on me, she harassed me a million times to give you a chance. Mom has shipped me off to Viking Wonder Boy, knowing damn good and well I’d go all head over heels for him, too.
I’m going to have to have a little chat with them once I finish messaging you.
&nb
sp; “Oh, man. That’s adorable that you think I’m brave and shit. And smart. Fucking hilarious. I’m a moron. And I’m in pain, like, all the time. I’m terrified of everything, like . . . damn buses.”
He scoffed at me, and I scoffed at him.
I wanted to kiss him. Just a little kiss, right below his ear.
“It’s a rare trait, though, to be able to see when something is wrong and to know when to walk away. I admire that.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re embarrassing me.”
He leaned in. “Also, did you know that you’re really fucking sexy?”
“God.” I buried my face in my hands. “You’resexytoo.”
“I should go. I have a very long letter to write. Bags to pack. That sort of thing.” I felt the bed rise as he hopped up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Promise me,” I growled. “Promise me I’m not going to lay here all night thinking about you and then have you fucking blow me off.”
“I promise to do some of those verbs with you in the near future.”
Lay. Fucking. Blow . . . Right. “Dirty old man.” I grinned into my hands.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 17 9:45 PM
I didn’t know when I’d get to message you again, but this campground has Wi-Fi, so here I am. It’s been an incredibly long day. Óskar’s out cold (archangel status: 100 percent), and I’m close to drifting myself.
Mom once told me that the ultimate test of any relationship was furniture assembly. That always kind of scared the shit out of me, so I paid extra to have that bookshelf we got for your cabin put together at the store. I didn’t want cheap particle-board furniture to spell our demise.
But, anyway, tent assembly is probably just as frustrating, and I’m happy to say that Mr. Magnússon and I passed with flying colors. We work together perfectly, as a matter of fact. I kind of dove in, matching pieces as I saw fit, and he was the one who stopped to read the directions, coming behind me to correct my mistakes and add some stability. We didn’t fight; we didn’t even talk, really. We didn’t need to. We just . . . clicked.
Miles Away from You Page 16