Bad Will Hunting

by Heather Wardell

  “Good choice,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn to see a man in a sleek black suit and the brightest yellow loafers I’d ever seen. “Those are spectacular.”

  Wondering where he keeps the battery pack for his shoes, I say, “Yeah, they are. Do you have them in a nine?”

  He eases the shoe from my grip. “I’ll check.”

  He strides off into the back room with supermodel-worthy style, and Becky says softly, “See? Shoes make the man. Or woman, in this case. Imagine how you’ll strut your stuff in these!”

  “Yeah, but his look radioactive so that probably boosts the strut factor. I just hope I don’t break an ankle wearing them.”

  She elbows me. “You won’t. Think positive.”

  I study the remaining shoe, then make myself flip it over to see the price. “Ack,” I say, setting it back down. “I’m positive I can’t get them.”

  She checks the price too. “Okay, I agree four hundred bucks is a lot. But they’re perfect for you. For a lot of reasons.”

  “But I can’t live in them like that old woman in the shoe, so I’ll still need to pay my rent.”

  “The money you got from Kent and MC is all gone?”

  I give her a sideways look. “Oh, have you forgotten me telling you barely two hours ago about my savings? I know you know it isn’t, so don’t give me that fake innocent tone.”

  She laughs. “Fine, I won’t. You’ve wanted shoes like this since I met you, you know. Literally for decades you’ve been longing for silver high heels. And here they are, the perfect ones, right when you’re ready to have them. If this isn’t the time, what is?”

  I stare at the shoe, letting her words sink in. The shoes won’t change my life, of course. How could they? But I’m doing that on my own and they would be evidence that I’m seeing things differently, that I’m not hoarding and hiding any more, that I’m open to whatever life has for me and I can handle the good times and the bad. All of that for four hundred bucks? A bargain.

  The bright yellow shoes return, bearing the salesman, who bears a shoe box reverently in his arms with the original shoe on top. “We have them,” he says, replacing the original on its stand and holding the box out to me. “Enjoy.”

  I sit down and slip off my running shoes and socks, then gently coax the heels onto my feet and sit staring down at them. Even with my jeans, they look amazing.

  I stand up and walk around the store, feeling my stride changing into something swinging and confident, and they feel even better. Both physically, as I realize they’re so well designed that they don’t hurt my feet anywhere, and mentally, as I look down at them and feel terrific.

  Part of me wonders if getting them is a mistake, because they’re so tied to how I’ve felt about my parents’ leaving me. Are they a sign I’m still too attached to all that? I don’t think so, though. Refusing to get them would be an attachment, a negative one. Buying them, taking some of the money I’d been saving to hunt down my parents and using it for something I love, feels like freedom.

  I return to the salesman and say, “I’ll take them.”

  He tucks them carefully back into their box and departs, and Becky leans in and said, “I’m proud of you.”

  I turn, surprised and ready to make a joke, to see her eyes are full of tears. “Be-Rebecca?”

  She smiles at her new name, which I’ve been struggling to remember to use, and blinks her eyes clear. “I am, you know. You’re doing something awesome.”

  “It feels that way,” I admit. “But that’s stupid, right? It’s just shoes.”

  “Is it?”

  I look at the sample pair on the shelf. “Nope,” I have to say. “It’s a lot more than that.”

  “Then it’s not stupid. If it matters to you, that’s all that matters. You’ve gotta do what’s right for you.”

  My throat tightens at the sincerity in her voice. I lean against her for a second, and she returns my pressure, then I say, “Well. When’d you get so smart?”

  She laughs. “I’ve always been smart, I think. You just weren’t ready to hear it. And neither was I.”

  “All I heard before,” I say, getting to my feet, “was you talking about lava cakes.”

  She sobers, and I feel bad. I was trying to be funny but I should have thought my comment through. “Sorry, I mean--”

  “No, you’re right, actually. And that’s what I mean. They were never what I really wanted, but they distracted me from what mattered. Like you and the search for Will.”

  I nod slowly. What mattered was me getting over what my parents did and moving on in my life without the need for revenge. Hunting Will had definitely distracted me from that, but I’m over him now. Over him, and over revenge. And my new shoes will be a great reminder of that.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When I wake up Saturday morning, I look over at my silver shoes, which I placed on my bedside table so I’d be able to see them first thing, and tell them, “I want to talk to Sam before the wedding.” Ellen and I put together a perfectly logical plan for talking to him afterwards, so I should probably stick to that, but I miss him so much and I want to tell him how I’m changing. I don’t want to wait.

  I could call him right now, but I know Kent and MC put him in charge of chauffeuring MC’s aged grandmothers to and from their hair and makeup and manicure appointments because he’s so patient and I don’t want to interrupt. Once he’s at the wedding, though, he might be able to spare me a few minutes between ushering people to their seats. There’s a chance, anyhow, and a chance feels worthwhile, so I decide to get to the three o’clock wedding around one-forty-five since Sam and the other guys will arrive at two. That way I’ll be there when he gets there and I’ll give myself the best chance of getting to talk to him.

  It’s a great plan.

  It doesn’t work.

  I go for a run to calm myself in the morning, and miscalculate my turn-around point so I end up having a twenty-minute walk home afterwards. When I finally reach my apartment I find that Silver has spilled her water and seeds out of her cage and all over the carpet, so I have to waste a chunk of time taking care of the mess. My hair won’t cooperate after my shower and it takes me three tries to get a braid I like, and then I manage to stab myself in the eye with my mascara wand and ruin my makeup so I have to wash it all off and start again.

  In the end, I don’t manage to leave until one-forty for the twenty-five-minute drive to the wedding site. I can feel the old fury rising but I tell myself it’ll be fine. Sam might still have time. It’s not what I wanted but it might work.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m still barely halfway there. A massive accident on the road has us down to one lane of traffic in both directions, and the cop at the intersection is making sure both sides get a chance to go but doesn’t seem to have noticed the people who keep turning right onto the road and taking up all the space that should belong to at least a few of those of us going straight. Several times none of us manage to get through, and most of the time only one car makes it before the cop stops us and lets the other direction go, and my dreams of getting to talk to Sam are as shattered as the bits of car I can see near the accident site.

  I’m shuddering with anger as I sit staring at the cars in front of me, still so many even though we should have all been through ages ago, and I feel so helpless too. I am helpless. The cop is the only one who can do anything, and he isn’t. I can’t do anything to fix this.

  I imagine the things I would have done, before. Yelled and screamed. Laid on the horn. Maybe even gotten out and told the cop off. It all seems so stupid now. But I still want to do something. I’d feel better if I did.

  No, I wouldn’t. I might, if I had some control and so whatever I did could actually make a difference, but I don’t. The situation’s out of my hands.

  All I have is how I react to it.

  Almost before I realize I’m doing it, I start into the calming deep breathing Ellen taught me. Part of me doesn’t want to, because
I am furious and I have a right to be furious and that part doesn’t want to give that up. But as the extra oxygen floods into me and I feel my tense shoulders relax the tiniest bit, I know that I do want to give up the anger. It’s not helping the situation, and it’s hurting me, and that’s all there is to it.

  I keep breathing slowly and deeply, and when my shoulders have dropped nearly to their normal level I start trying to think of good things about this situation.

  At least I wasn’t in the accident.

  If I hadn’t left early, I’d probably have been terribly late for the wedding.

  The wedding party is coming from a different direction so they shouldn’t get caught in this mess.

  I can use this as an opportunity to practice all these calming techniques.

  I’m in my nice dry car, not out in the cold drizzle trying to direct traffic like that poor cop.

  Poor incompetent cop, my anger says, flaring again.

  I take a few more deep breaths. He’s not incompetent. He just hasn’t noticed what’s happening. And for all I know there are rules that state he has to direct traffic exactly as he is. He’s certainly not doing what he’s doing intentionally to anger me, so why let it?

  Over the next three chances for my side of the road only one of us gets through, but I keep breathing and reminding myself of the reality of the situation and I’m able to keep my anger at a low simmer.

  I’ll take it. Far better than the fury I used to--

  A blaring car horn shatters my calm and I look into my rear-view mirror to see the guy behind me screaming and waving his arms around. I can’t hear him, and from how pissed-off he looks I think I’m lucky.

  That’s how you used to look, I think as I watch him freak out. Like an idiot.

  There’s no point to that. He’s not getting through any faster than I am, and he’s having a far worse time than I am now.

  I briefly consider leaving my car and suggesting how he could calm down, then have to smile as I imagine exactly how I’d have responded if someone had said that to me. No, he’ll have to learn it on his own someday.

  After another turn in which we don’t get to go at all, the driver door of the first car in line opens and a gray-haired man climbs out. He calls to the cop, who turns, and they have a brief conversation. The cop nods, the man nods and gets back into his car, and when we get to go again the cop allows two cars through from the turning lane and then blocks them and lets only us through.

  As I pass the cop at a crawl, I roll down my window and say, “Thank you. Tough job you’ve got.”

  He looks shocked, and doesn’t reply before I’m past him, but I meant it and I think he knows it and that makes me smile.

  Smiling after my whole day goes wrong. “Angry Ashley” is indeed no more.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “I’m so nervous. I know my reading inside and out, but still...”

  I smile at Lily. “I hear you. Me too.” By the time I finally arrived, at ten to three, Sam was off with Kent and the other groomsmen in the back room of the church, and my fear about talking to him has been replaced with fear of doing my reading. We still have a few minutes before MC and her wedding party are due, so I say, “Want to practice once more?”

  Relief floods her face. “Please. Maybe outside? I could use a bit of air.”

  We slip out of the sweet country church and stand together under its tiny roofed entranceway in case the now-stopped rain starts again. Lily does her reading, a gorgeous poem about how marriage is like an arch and how Kent and MC will lean into each other and support each other, with no issues, and I say, “You’ve got it. Ready to hear mine?”

  She nods, but then frowns. “What’s all that?”

  I turn to see two identical black SUVs pulling up in front of the church. “Guests?” I say, but I know I’m wrong. The vehicles look official, like police or something.

  Or, I realize with shock as a bunch of people climb out and begin quickly pulling out gear, a camera crew.

  “Oh, God,” Lily murmurs beside me, and for a moment we stand frozen in shared horror. Sam told me that after turning down a million-dollar offer for the broadcast rights for their wedding, Kent and MC chose this isolated church to prevent anyone from finding and filming it anyhow. Clearly, that hasn’t worked.

  The interlopers begin moving single-file up the narrow walkway, looking cold and determined, and I say to Lily, “Quick, go get Sam. Or Greg. Anyone.”

  She takes off, and I raise my chin, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Are you invited?”

  The first man laughs. “Sure we are. Out of the way, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, spreading my feet a little further apart in their silver heels to make myself feel more stable. “I know they don’t want the wedding filmed.”

  “Someone does, or we wouldn’t know where to be. It’s none of your business. Now move.”

  He moves closer, and though I want to turn and run I step forward. “It is my business. They’re my friends. And they’ve found each other and that’s amazing, and all they’re asking is a little privacy. They don’t want you here.”

  “Amazing?” The woman’s voice sounds familiar but I can’t see her behind the men. “Whatever,” she says, pushing her way toward me. “It’s a wedding, Ashley, not the second coming of Christ. No big deal.”

  She reaches the front and I stare. Her. The reporter from the reunion show. “Then why are you here, Mimi?” I challenge, wishing Lily would hurry up but knowing she’s probably had to go hunt down the wedding party. “If it’s no big deal, why do you care?”

  “I don’t. But there’s an audience, and I’d film two squirrels getting it on if that had an audience. And this has a way bigger one, so we’re doing it.”

  “You’re not.”

  She makes a face like she’s looking at a million adorable puppies. “Aw, does Ashwey have a cwush on Kent? Does Ashwey want Kent to be hapwy even dough he doesn’t want her?” Taking a few steps back, and pushing the guys back with her, she adds, “Poow Ashwey. Nobody wuvs her.”

  Though her expression is still disgustingly sweet, her eyes are cold, and I realize she’s trying to provoke me to get angry. As she takes another step back, and the two biggest guys move to stand one on either side of her, I understand why. She wants me to come at her so I’ll leave the doorway open and the guys can rush in. Well, not a chance. “Of course I want Kent to be happy,” I say, ignoring her tone and pretending I think she’s sincere. “He’s my friend. And a nice guy. And I know letting you in won’t make him happy, so I’m staying put. You might as well leave.”

  “You might as well leave. You don’t really think these people like you, do you? Didn’t you watch the show? They all ignored you then, and they will again. They must think you’re useful at the moment, although I can’t see why, but as soon as you’re not they’ll abandon you. They’ll abandon you, Ashley. Just like your parents did.”

  I stare at her. How does she--

  My freak out on the first day of the show comes to mind. Yeah, she knows. And she knows how angry I was then.

  But she doesn’t know how I’m changing, and that’s my advantage. “They won’t abandon me,” I say, making my voice as calm as I can. “You don’t know them.”

  “Did you think your parents would? You’re not a great judge of character, Ashley. Angry Ashley. After how you were on the show, haven’t you wondered why these people are bothering with you?”

  A flicker of doubt makes my stomach lurch. I have wondered. I’ve wondered a lot.

  Mimi takes a step forward, and so do the guys. “I feel bad for you,” she says, sounding like she really does. “Nobody stays around for you. You can’t trust anyone.”

  My stomach twists again but I take a deep breath and feel it settle a tiny bit. I can trust. I can trust Ellen. MC hasn’t been anything but good to me, and the same with Kent. Lily and Greg invited me to their parties when they didn’t have to, and Sam... I can trust Sam.
No question. She’s wrong.

  “I don’t trust you, that’s for sure,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “Smarten up. If your own parents walked away from you, why the hell would you think anyone else would stay?”

  Her scornful voice floods me with a fierce instant fury that makes me take half a step forward, but the little bit of control I’ve got left sees the sudden triumph in her eyes and I manage to stop myself and back quickly up to block the door again. “You will not talk to me like that,” I say, amazed to hear the calm iciness in my voice. I’ve always envied people who can respond to anger and rudeness with this tone, and now I’m doing it. “My parents are irrelevant here. These people are my friends and I believe they’ll stay that way. And if they don’t I’ll survive.” Mimi’s mouth drops open, and I find myself smiling at her. I know I’m right, and that’s awesome, and the fact that it screws with her plans is even better. This is a good way to get revenge, a healthy way. “You can’t provoke me, Mimi,” I say, loving that it’s true. “Don’t even bother.”

  As I finish, I hear people rushing toward me inside the building, and one of the guys outside mutters something that doesn’t sound appropriate for church.

  Then Kent gasps, “Excuse me,” from behind me and I move aside to let him through the narrow doorway and blend gratefully into the newly arrived crowd. Greg and Lily and Aaron pass me...

  And Sam stops beside me.

  He takes my hand, and I squeeze his and let myself lean into his strong shoulder, but we don’t have time for anything more than that, not even to look at each other, because Kent is saying to Mimi and her men, “The police are on their way. Get out of here now.You are not welcome here and you will not be filming any part of my wedding.”

  Mimi laughs and pulls several stapled pages from her coat pocket. “Then how come I know exactly where it is, Kent? Trust me, we will be filming.”

  “Who gave you that information? Not me. Or my fiancée.”

  “On your behalf.”