Damaged (12 page)

My body suddenly aches for movement. I need to get out of this car. It's been so long since I've run, so long since I've felt my lungs and muscles burn. I don't care if my ankle isn't completely healed yet. “I need to go for a run,” I say.

“Not today,” Hunter says, pulling off Lake Shore Drive and onto a side street. “It's dinnertime.”

We drive a few blocks as Hunter consults a scrap of paper in his lap. “Aha!” he says, and does the quickest parallel park I've ever seen. “We're here,” he announces, practically glowing. There's something childlike about his excitement, something pure.

We carry our bags to the front door and Hunter presses an apartment button. “We don't want any!” calls a scratchy voice over the intercom.

“Well, you're gonna get some anyway,” says Hunter with a grin. The buzzer sounds and we climb the stairs to the third floor.

A tall and very handsome black guy in an apron greets us with a huge smile. He and Hunter embrace for what seems like a long time for a dude hug, and I can't help smiling a little at yet another one of Hunter's surprising quirks—the photography, the reading highbrow books, the possibly ­praying in a roadside chapel, and now this open affection for a male friend.

“I'm Eli,” the guy says, then hugs me, too. He smells comforting, like herbs and fresh laundry.

“Come in, come in,” he says as he ushers us into his apartment. A beautiful platinum-blond girl sits at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables. Her arms are covered with ­tattoos and her nose is pierced in the middle like a bull, but her eyes are bright and kind, confusing what I instantly recognize as my prejudices about people who look like her.

“This is my girlfriend, Shelby,” Eli says, and she comes over and hugs us too.

“I've heard so much about you,” she says to Hunter, holding his hand in hers.

“Uh-oh,” he says, and we all laugh.

We sit at the kitchen counter while Eli finishes cooking. Hunter seems suddenly calmer in Eli's presence, less troubled. “This is a nice place,” he says, looking around the apartment. It's clean and bright, with art on the walls, plants, and a mix of IKEA and secondhand furniture. “It almost looks like grown-ups live here.”

“Yeah.” Eli laughs. “It's a far cry from my parents' basement, huh?”

“I liked your parents' basement.”

“We got in a lot of trouble down there.”

“Exactly,” Hunter says.

“I've heard all about that basement,” Shelby says. “It's kind of famous.”

I want to say, “Tell me about the basement.” I want them to tell me everything about Hunter and his life before he moved to Wellspring. But I don't want him to know how ­curious I am. I don't want him to know how much I care.

Eli sautés vegetables in a pan, expertly flipping it one-handed. “Wow, you look like a real chef,” I say instead.

“He is a real chef,” Shelby says proudly.

“Just finished my first year of culinary school,” Eli says.

“Tell them the other thing,” Shelby nudges.

“Oh yeah,” he says humbly. “I found out I got a summer internship at Chez Jardín.”

“It's like the best restaurant in Chicago,” Shelby says. “People apply from all over the world. He was picked from literally
thousands
of applicants. Right, honey?”

Eli just grins and shrugs, turning his focus back to his cooking.

“Wow, man, that's awesome,” Hunter says with so much sincerity I have a sudden urge to hug him. “That's like the best news I've heard in a long time. Seriously.”

They share the kind of look reserved for best friends, and I am hit with a sudden ache for Camille. I remember when I had someone to look at like that, when a few seconds of eye contact could communicate things we could never say with words.

“I had a pretty gourmet childhood thanks to this guy,” Hunter says. “His parents' basement was like a little apartment with its own kitchen and stuff. We'd get really high and Eli would turn into this like food magician and whip ­something up out of whatever ingredients he could find. It was like watching
Top Chef
. What was that one you made, that epic meal we couldn't stop talking about for months?”

Eli laughs. “Oh shit, I forgot about that.” He takes on a fake high-class accent and points his chin in the air. “Cheetos-and-cashew-encrusted tilapia with fruit-punch-infused rice and water chestnuts.”

Shelby and I both groan in disgust.

“It was so good,” Hunter says with no hint of irony.

“This will be much better,” Eli says. “I promise.”

Shelby lights candles and we all sit at the dinner table. Eli lays the food out in front of us, each plate perfectly constructed like a work of art.

“Tonight,” he says in the hoity-toity voice, “we are featuring fresh Alaskan salmon with a balsamic fennel glaze, a ratatouille of eggplant and summer squash, and mashed new potatoes with green garlic and sun-dried apricot.”

“It smells incredible,” I say.

Eli sits down, takes Shelby's hand, and reaches across the table for mine. “Just humor me,” he says. “I have this thing about saying grace before meals.”

I don't think I've ever said grace before a meal in my life. I look at Hunter and he just smiles like this is perfectly normal behavior.

“Thank you for this food,” Eli begins. “And all the energy and love that went into growing it. Thank you for old friends and new friends and the warmth around this table. Thank you for love. Thank you for the ability to always grow. Amen.”

“Amen,” we say, and start eating.

I take a few bites. “Oh my god,” is the only thing I can think to say. This may be the best meal I have ever had in my life. My mother is an incredible cook and I know I've been luckier than most Midwesterners in my exposure to good food, but somehow this seems different. Maybe it's because we've been eating on the road for the last few days. Maybe it's the warmth and love in the room. Maybe I can taste that. Or maybe it's because Eli is simply a genius.

“You know what would go great with this?” says Hunter. “Some wine. We've been here an hour already and you haven't offered us a drink? Where's the hospitality, Eli?”

I can tell Hunter is trying to make it sound like he's kid­ding, but I know he's not. And I'm pretty sure Eli knows too. I kick Hunter under the table.

“What?” Hunter says to me. “It's a perfectly reasonable question. Right, Eli? That's what we do.”

Eli and Shelby share a look that sends another ache through me. I don't know what that look feels like. That one's reserved for people in love.

“Yeah,” Eli says. “That's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, but I wanted to do it in person. We don't have any booze here. I don't do that anymore.”

“What, like you're taking a break?”

“No, like I quit. I'm sober. Got one year clean a couple weeks ago.”

Hunter looks confused for a second, then it hits him what Eli is saying and he looks almost sad, like he's lost something precious. But then his face warms into a smile and he gets up out of his chair and walks around the table and throws his arms around him. Eli looks surprised but relieved as he hugs him back.

“That's cool, man,” Hunter says. “That's really cool.” He looks a little embarrassed as he returns to his seat, and before I even know what I'm doing I find my hand wrapped around his under the table. I squeeze once and let go. I look up and catch Shelby's eye across the table. We share a smile and I feel a smooth warmth growing in my chest, and I wish I could stay here with these people forever.

When everyone's done eating, I excuse myself to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and all I see is my own reflection. Camille, where are you? Are you gone for good now? Are the nightmares over? Was that visit in the diner bathroom a onetime thing? Did you get what you wanted?

Did I?

My eyes fill with tears. I wipe them away before they have a chance to fall. I miss Camille so much I can't stand it—the real Camille, not the skewed version of my nightmares. But I think I would take her, too, just to see the face and hear the voice that are almost hers, even if it scares me.

When I return, the table has been cleared and everyone's sitting in the adjoining living room in the middle of a conversation. Eli and Shelby are draped across the love seat and Hunter sits on one side of the couch. It could be my imagination, but the mood seems somewhat somber as I curl up on the other side.

“Were you any good?” Shelby says.

“We sucked.” Eli chuckles.

“Were they good at what?” I ask.

“Our band,” Eli says. “Though I use the term ‘band' very loosely.”

“We weren't that bad,” Hunter says. “We could have been good if we actually practiced.”

“But we'd only ever play for half an hour,” Eli says. “Then we'd be too drunk to do anything but keep drinking.”

“Those were the days,” Hunter says. A weird silence fills the room. Shelby and Eli seem so comfortable and relaxed, so free, so at home in their bodies. But Hunter sits upright in the corner of the couch, his body tight and anxious, like he's ready to break out of his own skin. “It was so much fun back then,” Hunter says. I can't tell for sure, but I think his hands are shaking.

“Yeah,” Eli sighs. “Until it wasn't.”

“It was just that one night,” Hunter protests weakly.

“No it wasn't, Hunter. It was tons of nights. Nights and mornings and afternoons, too many to count. Just because we only got caught once doesn't mean shit wasn't fucked-up the rest of the time.”

A tinge of hostility sharpens the airs, the warm post-­dinner coma suddenly gone.

“What happened?” Shelby says, and I want to tell her to shut up. Doesn't she know talking about these things will just make them worse? It's better to ignore them, better to deny them until they go away.

“What happened was Eli killed a dog,” Hunter says flatly.

“Oh, I've heard this story,” Shelby says like it's no big deal.

“Wait a minute, what?” I say. “You killed a dog.”

“It wasn't on purpose,” Eli says. “We were really drunk and high on Ecstasy. Me and Hunter and our old friend Caleb.”

“Whatever happened to Caleb?” Hunter says.

“I have no idea. When I got back from rehab and said I actually wanted to try staying sober, he just sort of disappeared, like there was no reason to try to stay friends anymore.” Eli is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Anyway, I was driving Caleb's car because—get this—we decided I was the most sober.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Hunter says. “And what was your blood alcohol level?”

“Point one six. Two times the legal limit. Plus I was seeing triple from the X.”

“So you ran over a dog?” I say.

“Yep, then crashed into a tree and totaled the car. And when the cops came, smart guy Hunter over there decided it'd be a good idea to punch one in the face.”

“You punched a cop?”

“That's what they tell me.”

“You don't remember.”

Hunter shakes his head and I can't tell what he's feeling. His face is blank, closed.

“We'd probably both be in jail if it weren't for your dad pulling whatever strings he pulled.”

“Yeah, and he never lets me forget it.”

“Got me sent to rehab,” Eli says. “Best thing that ever happened to me.” He runs his fingers through Shelby's hair. “That's where I met this fine lady.”

“Got me sent to Bumfuck, Michigan,” Hunter says cruelly.

“Maybe everything happens for a reason,” Shelby says. “Maybe there's something you needed to learn there. Or someone you needed to meet.”

Hunter looks at me for a second, then his eyes dart quickly away. Was it Camille he was meant to meet? Was it me?

“Can we stop talking about this now?” he says.

Shelby sits up and says matter-of-factly, “Gelato.”

“Yes,” Eli agrees.

“Gelato and a stupid movie will solve all our problems.”

Hunter nods, but I can tell by the look of discomfort on his face that he doubts their logic. Is he thinking about drinking? Is he thinking about how even though it's created so many problems in his life, it is still his only solution? Is he thinking about how it was a drunk driver who crashed into us and killed his girlfriend?

We eat the fancy ice cream as the movie starts—something about mistaken identity and the ensuing hijinks. Our laughs gradually dwindle over the next hour until my eyes shutter closed, and I am vaguely aware of someone turning the TV off and laying a blanket across me. I think for a second that I should get up, brush my teeth, wash my face. But sleep seems like such a better idea, and it wins.

TEN

The first thing I notice
when I wake up is I'm not alone. My legs are touching skin that is not mine. This warmth has not all been generated by me. The second thing I notice is my back is killing me.

As the world comes into focus, I realize the source of both of these things—I slept on the couch all night. With Hunter. His head is at the other end, our legs entwined under a blanket. My first thought is I should get up. My second thought is I like the feeling of his skin against mine; I like not knowing which part of his body my foot, my knee, my calf, is touching; I like the mystery of our bodies under the blanket. It is this second thought that convinces me I definitely need to get up.

I try to untangle myself from Hunter and the blanket as stealthily as I can, but Hunter's eyes pop open just as I'm attempting to unwedge my right foot from under his upper thigh.

“Oh.” He blinks. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I say, stumbling away from the couch. I run to the bathroom before he has a chance to say anything else. I stall as long as I can, washing my face, brushing my teeth, retying my ponytail over and over again.

When I get out, I am grateful to see Eli and Shelby in the kitchen. The blanket we slept under has been folded and set somewhere out of sight. Hunter is sitting at the counter drinking coffee.

“Hey, Kinsey,” Shelby says cheerfully. “How'd you sleep last night?”

“Fine,” I say.

“We made the executive decision to not wake you. You both looked so peaceful.”

I tell myself not to look at Hunter, but my eyes move on their own. My face burns as our eyes meet briefly. I swear he is smirking.

“I have class in a couple hours and Shelby has to go to work,” Eli says. “So after this gourmet breakfast I'm about to make you, I'm afraid you're on your own until about five.”

“That's cool,” Hunter says. “We have sightseeing to do. Right, Kinsey?”

“Right.”

* * *

After the huge breakfast of frittata, potatoes, and homemade blueberry muffins, I'm grateful to be walking. We pass the convention center, surrounded by hordes of people in business suits and name tags.

“If I ever end up one of those people, please kill me,” Hunter says.

The sky opens up to blue infinity on the right; the lake is flat and calm. Sailboats drift by, leaving slow-motion shivers in their wake. We walk along the waterfront trail for a while, joggers passing us. I want to join them. I want to go fast. But part of me also wants to take my time, to do this as slow as possible to make it last.

“I've always dreamed of running the Chicago marathon,” I say.

“So do it,” Hunter says, like it's no big deal, like it's so obvious. For some reason that makes me laugh. I think I've laughed more in the last two days than I've laughed in the previous two months.

“What's so funny?”

“You're right,” I say. “I should just do it.”

“Duh,” Hunter says, which makes me laugh even more. “Laughing looks good on you,” he says. “You should do it more often.”

That shuts me up.

“You should also learn how to take a compliment.”

I pretend I didn't hear him and we keep walking.

Our first stop is the Art Institute. I pick up a map but Hunter says he doesn't need one.

“Now you're just showing off,” I say.

“Hey, man,” he says. “I have so little going for me, just humor me, okay?”

I roll my eyes, but I can tell he takes pride in this, and I am in fact impressed. I wonder if his parents even know this about him, that he cares so much about art. I wonder if it would make them proud.

Hunter takes me through the permanent exhibits. We start on the third floor, with European Modern Art, then move to the second floor, then end up on the first floor for the special exhibit. I'm pretty much shocked into silence for much of the tour; I've never even been to a real art museum, let alone one of the best in the country, and with an amazing tour guide. Hunter explains how different artistic movements evolved into others, how each period's defining characteristics reflected what was going on socially and politically at the time. He waxes poetic about how artists are our modern-day shamans, in tune with a higher plane, charged with the heavy responsibility of turning reality into symbol and then back again, of finding truth in the shadows, of being blessed and cursed with the power of seeing too much. He's passionate as he says this, serious, without a trace of his usual sarcasm, his voice strong and confident, his eyes clear and full of fire. I feel the sudden urge to catch his flying hands, to tame them in mine, to kiss his lips and make him quiet, as if that could somehow contain his energy, as if I could save it, as if I could keep it to draw on for strength, as if I'm afraid he'll use it all up now and there won't be any left for later.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he says.

“What? Oh, nothing. I'm just . . . impressed.”

He smiles. “I'm not as dumb as I look.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Before I moved to Wellspring, I went to this pretty awesome private school in Chicago. I know, I know—private school. I'm a privileged white bastard. But they had this incredible art teacher, Mrs. Laughton, and as long as I took all the college-prep-type classes, my parents didn't care what I did for my electives. So I took at least one art class every semester.”

According to Hunter, he has saved the best for last—a traveling exhibit of one of his favorite contemporary artists, a Spanish painter named Arturo Reyo.

“These paintings were last in Stockholm, Sweden,” he tells me. I'm guessing this is supposed to be an impressive fact. “Reyo is compared to Francis Bacon a lot because they painted around the same time and are both pretty dark. But where Bacon can be kind of grotesque at times, I think Reyo captures more of the sublime. There's hope in his darkness. See there.” Hunter points at the first painting in the series—a large abstract of black and blues and reds, with hints of discernible figures swirling in and out of focus, body parts, pained faces, displaced eyes full of terror. I see hope nowhere.

“That light,” Hunter says. I follow his finger to a space in the corner of the painting, where the darkness opens up into bright whiteness. “See how they're all pointing toward it? See how it reflects off of everything, just barely?”

“Yes,” I say. “I see it.”

We walk slowly through the exhibit, Hunter taking his time with each painting. I look at them with him, but I obviously feel done way before he does. I'm not sure what else there is to look at; I don't know what else he sees. His eyes are open in a way mine aren't.

We come to a painting that is especially gruesome. It seems vaguely familiar; I guess it must be famous enough for even me to recognize it. It is obviously the prized piece of the exhibit, huge and central, with a wall all to itself. Hunter and I join the crowd around it.

I don't know anything about art. I don't know what style or movement this guy is. I couldn't tell you anything about his technique or symbolism or influences. All I know is when I look at this painting—so huge it is the only thing I see—it feels like I am falling into it, getting sucked into its darkness, until all there is is darkness, until I am lost in it and can't get out. I realize I am not breathing. My heart is racing. Did art do this to me? Is it really that powerful?

I turn to Hunter, excited to tell him that maybe I'm starting to understand this thing he loves so much. But when I look at his face I see tears in his eyes. His lips are trembling.

“Hunter,” I whisper. “What's wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” He smiles, but it's a small, private smile, as if he's sharing an inside joke with himself. “That's the thing, isn't it? Feelings are
good
, even when they're uncomfortable. They're not things to run away from.”

“What are you talking about?”

He doesn't answer and he doesn't look at me. He just says, “What did you feel while looking at this painting?”

I try to think back to a few moments ago. “Fear,” I say. “I felt afraid.”

“Perfect,” he says.

“What's perfect about being scared?”

“It proves you're human. It proves you're alive. All this darkness—in a lot of ways it's ugly, right? But it's beautiful at the same time. It's beautiful because it shows what we're ­capable of surviving. It shows how deep we can feel. It's so easy to forget that. We live in this world that's so full of artificial crap, with so many tricks to make things easier, so we don't have to go to those deep places anymore, we don't have to experience this darkness. And people think that's a good thing. But that's what makes us whole, you know? The darkness with the light.”

“Are you scared?” I say as softly as I can.

“Of course I am.” He laughs sadly, as if the effort deflates him. He turns to me just barely, the corner of his eye all that's capable of making contact. “Why do you think I drink so much?”

“Do you think I'm scared?”

He turns to me, looks me fully in the face, and smiles kindly. “You're one of the most scared people I've ever met.”

A tiny voice says to fight, to defend myself, to argue his statement away. But a louder voice says he is right; it says I don't care if he sees it. I
am
scared. I'm terrified. But maybe that's okay. Maybe I am brave enough to feel it, brave enough to go to that dark place, to just be with my fear. Maybe that's the secret to surviving. Maybe facing it is all I really have to do to tame it.

I break off our eye contact. I am full of a different kind of fear now, one that has to do with Hunter, a fear that is unfamiliar, that energizes, that is also a little blissful. Maybe I'm a coward to want to run from it, but I need a break from all this feeling. Just for a second.

“I have to pee,” I say, and Hunter laughs, breaking the spell. Suddenly there's a crowd around us. We're not the only people in the world. We're surrounded by stark white walls covered by these giant squares of sadness, but I'm the happiest I can remember feeling in a long time.

As I'm finishing up in the bathroom, I realize I'm humming. I am not the kind of person who hums. I don't think I've ever hummed in my life. But something about being here, being with Hunter, is making me feel unlike my normal self.

I think about San Francisco. What if I adjusted my plans a little? Maybe I don't need to start school right away. Maybe I can take some time off and see what it feels like to not be a student for a while. Maybe Hunter and I can even be friends. Maybe there's a group of weirdos in San Francisco that has room for both of us.

“You better watch out.”

A high-pitched scream escapes my mouth. I open the stall door and look around. No one. I look in the mirror and there is just me. I run down the row of stalls punching the doors open. Nobody. Nothing. I am alone.

“I'll admit it—he's pretty good at making a girl feel special,” says the voice.

“Camille?” I can't tell where the voice is coming from. It could be in the air vents. The faucets. The hand driers. It could be coming from inside my own head.

“Those eyes of his. The way they look at you and seem to see your soul. The way they convince you that you see his. It's a neat trick, isn't it? But they're just eyes, Kinsey. Just body parts.”

“Where are you?”

“It's not real, you know. I hate to say this, because you seem so happy for once, but really you could be anyone right now and he'd be acting the same. He just wants to get laid and you just happen to be here.”

How can something said by someone who doesn't even exist hurt so bad? What the hell is going on?

“Why are you telling me this?” I say. “Why are you following me?”

Why am I talking to her as if she's real?

“Because I care about you,” she says. “Because I'm trying to help.”

“You think insulting me is going to help me?”

“I'm trying to protect you.”

“Or maybe you're jealous.”

I'm fighting with my imagination. I'm trying to hurt a ghost's feelings.

She laughs, and the sound tears through me. I know it's not her—that mean, spiteful sound could never have come from the real Camille—but it hurts as if it is, as if I'm being mocked by the person I've loved more than anyone.

“Jealous?” she says. “Oh, Kinsey, don't flatter yourself.”

Camille would never say something like that.

“I'm trying to help you.”

“How is freaking me out in nightmares and sneaking up on me in bathrooms supposed to help me?”

“I have to get your attention somehow, don't I? I have to make you listen. Why aren't you listening to me?”

I'm talking to air. I'm talking to my own reflection in the mirror. There's nowhere to look but into my own wide eyes.

“I'm listening, Camille. What do you want to tell me?”

But the door to the restroom opens and a loud group of women enters, their grating voices taking over the space. I wash my hands, trying to look as normal as possible, doing everything I can to avoid looking up and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

When I step back into the exhibit, the previous magic of the space is gone. The paintings are just paintings, giant canvasses covered with haphazard blobs of paint that mean nothing. They are being stared at by pretentious people who are just pretending to understand what they're looking at, but really they're all terrified that someone will see through their act and discover what a fraud they are. That's all any of us really do—try to convince everyone we have our shit together, when really we're stupid or weak or insecure or, in my case, lonely and crazy and haunted by ghosts.

I can't find Hunter. I walk around the exhibit but he's gone. Panic seizes me from the inside; all my muscles and organs wrench tight. Maybe he's left me here. Maybe he's finally gotten sick of me. Maybe he's gone the way of so many other people in my life—my father, Camille, my mom in her various ways—and just disappeared forever.