Love, Hate and Other Filters(58)
“Be careful, dear,” the man says as I step out, the bells attached to the door jingling. I feel guilty for painting him with my paranoia.
With half a mile to the cottage, the skies open up. By the time I walk in the cottage door, water permeates my bones and a pain pierces my thigh. I heave my backpack onto the counter, unload it, and scarf down some food. The chips are mostly crushed, but the burn and tang of the salt and vinegar sates me as I gulp down the Coke. I inhale half the bag. My hunger allows me to temporarily forget that my left arm is on fire.
I find a shake-activated ice pack in Phil’s first-aid kit and hold it against my left elbow. When Phil shared his desire to be an EMT, it seemed strange to me then that he would ever have to hide a part of himself. But we all have secrets, hopes that stay locked deep inside, trapped by our fears of the world’s judgment.
The cold pack makes me shiver, and I realize I should have changed out of my wet clothes before eating. Slipping them off with one hand, I leave them to dry on the mantle.
Dressed only in my bra, underwear, and flip-flops, I step outside to let the water wash away the dirt, pain, and bitter disappointment that courses through my body. I close my eyes to the sky; the rain falls on my face, each drop pushing the only possible answer to my question deeper into my skin, into my muscle memory, so my courage won’t falter when I need it most. I have to face my demons, and I can’t do that from a cabin hidden in the woods.
The rest of the afternoon unwinds in slow motion. I wrap myself in a towel and crawl onto the chair, draping the sleeping bag around me. The rain slows, and beads of water collect in the palms of green leaves in the trees, trailing to the edge of each leaf and plopping onto the roof. My heart beats in tempo. I close my eyes and drift off.
It’s late afternoon when I wake; the sun emerges from the clouds, highlighting the tender greens all around the cottage. The shadows from the trees shift in the soft light, and the smell of wet earth infuses the air. Without my camera or a functioning phone, I look out the door, etching the scene in my mind. An impulse draws me to the pond. Not bothering to change into my swimsuit, I hurry along the path, hoping to edge out dusk.
Leaving my shoes on the sand, I creep into the pond up to my shoulders, my bra and underwear sticking to my goose-pimply body. The storm has churned up thick, dark water. Mud oozes between my toes, and I visualize a million leeches crawling up my legs and digging their suckers into my skin. I make a beeline for the shore. Gross. I brush away my illusory bloodsuckers.
I speed back to the cottage, resolving to face my parents. It’s the only choice. But the horror movie suspense-buildup scene I’ve manifested distracts me. A girl walking through the woods, alone, half-naked, as the late afternoon sun plays with the light, twigs and branches cracking in the distance. No one is here. I’m alone. My thoughts don’t reassure me. But soon, for better or worse, I’ll sleep in my own bed and use a real toilet. Parental authoritarian rule comes with creature comforts.
The cottage door is ajar. I stop. Every hair on my body stands on end. I’m sure I closed the door, but maybe I didn’t. My brain feels fuzzy, my thoughts thick. I can’t remember what I did before leaving for the pond. A part of me wants to run, but the other part, which envisions sprinting down the road in nothing but a wet bra and underwear, decides the wind pushed the door open. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I stand at the threshold, listening to my own breathing. Closing my eyes, I recount Wes Craven’s rules for surviving a horror film. Maybe being a virgin is going to pay off after all. Virgins always survive. I place one clammy palm against the grain of the door and push.
The creak of the rusty hinges startles me even before I can react. I have an intruder—
“Phil?” I gasp.
“Maya. Jesus. Are you okay? Half the town is looking for you.” I’ve never seen Phil’s face look so drawn before—his eyes are dull with dark circles under them. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I take a few hesitant steps toward Phil, who stands at the fireplace. “I know … I … I’m fine … I needed time … Phil, I’m sorry … for everything.”
This could be a perfectly fine freeze-frame ending.
Except it’s not.
So I watch the scene unspool. I’m the audience, staring at the big screen. Phil takes three steps toward me, wraps his right arm around my waist, and pulls me to him. His left hand cradles the side of my face, and his warm lips kiss mine in a frenzy. I hug his neck with my right arm and balance on tiptoes to reach his lips. The worn weave of Phil’s jeans rubs against my naked thighs. I picture us in a black-and-white movie. Lovers about to be separated by war and continents and the rat-tat-tat of machine guns. My lips part as they graze Phil’s. Every blood vessel under my skin expands, throwing off heat and warming the space between us. Phil brings his hands to my hips and pulls me closer still.
“Ow,” I gasp, breaking the seal of our lips and taking a half step away.
“I’m sorry? Did you not want—”
“No … I mean … yes … It’s my arm. It still hurts from, you know.”
“Crap. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was mainly doing.” Phil glances away, and a faint red appears on his cheeks.
“I’m the blusher, remember?”
“You kinda are blushing … all over.” Phil eyes all my exposed skin, and I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing.