We’ve been off the highway for at least fifteen minutes. Apparently we’re in a town called Putnam, but the word “town” feels generous. Even “village” would be giving it too much credit. That would imply that there are, like, sweater-wearing humans and cozy cottages lining the streets. Maybe even a shoppe or two. Villages have shoppes and not shops, right? I don’t know. Really my only point of reference is Little Women — the nineties version starring Winona Ryder and Kirsten Dunst.
Anyway! We’re out here in the wilderness like a couple of pilgrims. Ever since we took a left onto Marco’s “street,” pavement has ceased to exist altogether. It’s all pebbles, dirt, the occasional tree root. Does Marco live in a house or has he been literally camping for the past eight years? I wonder. And this path is so narrow. If another car approaches us from the opposite direction right now, we’ll have to drive straight into the actual woods.
I’m not complaining, though. This is just the kind of environment we need to be in. Even the Garmin doesn’t know where we are — it just lost its signal.
We keep driving straight, like Marco said, until the trees clear and we finally approach a driveway.
Phew! It’s an actual house and not just a large tent. The look is log-cabin-without-any-actual-logs. Wood siding, hunter-green window panes. I shouldn’t be surprised. Marco always gave off an L.L.Bean-y kinda vibe, which was super weird coming from a New Jersey Italian. I guess he finally mustered up the courage to live in his truth.
“Sure as hell ain’t Bayonne.” Mom is gawking up at the view just like I am. “Look — you can see the lake. Past the porch.”
“It’s beautiful.” I squint and see a slice of glimmering water in the distance, but it’s mostly blocked by the house and trees. “We’re completely off the map.”
“Right?”
Mom turns the car off and we sit in silence absorbing the nature that surrounds us. I think back to what my life was like two days ago and what it’s like now, and my brain crashes like an old desktop computer. In the past twenty-four hours alone I’ve racked up enough life experience to fill, like, five HBO specials’ worth of comedy material. I hope I can remember all the random thoughts I’ve been having. I haven’t been writing any of this stuff down.
There’s a loud knock on the driver’s-side window.
Mom and I snap out of our respective daydreams and scream like banshees. We look to the window and see Marco crouched down right in front of it. His short wavy hair is more salt-and-pepper than it was eight years ago, but otherwise he hasn’t aged a day. It’s almost like seeing a ghost. He’s wearing a teal L.L.Bean rugby shirt (I totally called it) and smiling. Wow. I forgot about his smile. It’s the kind of smile Mom deserves — approachable, genuine, excited to see her. Nothing like Richard’s toilet-seat-shaped fucker-grin.
We eject ourselves from the vehicle. Sex is great, but have you tried stretching after having been seated in a car for several hours? It’s euphoric.
“You scared the crap outta me.” Mom playfully pats Marco on the chest. She almost sounds flirty! I have a good feeling about all of this. “Good Lord. You didn’t tell me you lived out in the middle of Bumblefuck. I thought Lake George was supposed to have, like, restaurants and mini golf and shit.”
“We’re a forty-five-mile drive away from all that.” He laughs. “Lake George is big!” He looks across the car at me. “Speaking of big. Is this the same Joey Rossi from Bayonne, New Jersey? The one I used to have to pick up just so he could reach the Cocoa Puffs at Stop & Shop? Holy mackerel. You’re the same height as me.”
I suddenly remember why Mom got so bored with him. Because he remembers thoughtful little details from forever ago and says things like holy mackerel.
“They shouldn’t keep the kid cereals on the top shelf,” I say. “Whose dumb fuckin’ idea was that?”
“Ah.” He looks at Mom and then back at me. “I see you’ve inherited your mother’s mastery of the English language.” She cocks her head and flips him a lighthearted middle finger. He accepts it with a laugh. “Just like old times.”
Marco leads us through the pebbly path to his front door. I consider stopping to get the duffel bags we packed from the trunk, but then remind myself that Marco thinks we’re just stopping by to say hello. He doesn’t know yet that we’ll be spending the night. Let alone the week. Let alone the entire foreseeable future.
His cabin is a rustic oasis with beamy wood ceilings that stretch all the way to the sky. There’s a giant pair of windows overlooking the lake. So this is where all the breathtaking views have been hiding. I look up and see a loft tucked away in the corner with a big wooden ladder leading up to it. I can already see myself taking ownership of the bed up there, looking down over the open-concept living room and out at the tranquil expanse of water outside. Is Marco rich now? Or is this place just cheap because it’s out in the middle of nowhere? I decide the answer lies somewhere in between. My Lottery Dream Home meets Lakefront Bargain Hunt.
“This place is beautiful.” Mom hops onto a stool at a shiny wooden bar counter off the kitchen. “Even if you are living out here in the middle of the woods like the Unabomber.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to a deranged domestic terrorist,” Marco cracks. It’s funny because he’s the furthest thing from a deranged terrorist. More like a… sane weatherman. “I just wanted to be closer to nature, that’s all.” He opens his fridge and hands us two bottles of water. “I mean, look at this place.” He gestures toward the window. “It makes Jersey look like hell on earth.”
“Can’t argue that,” I whisper.
“So what’s going on with you two?” he asks. “I don’t see you for almost a decade and all of a sudden you show up at my house at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.”
“Why are you home at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon?” Mom totally ignores his question in favor of her own. “How are you paying for this place if you’re not working?”
“I am working,” he says. “Same job I always had. They just let me do it remotely now.”
“Ah.” Mom and I nod in unison, even though the concept of doing a job “remotely” couldn’t be more foreign to either of us. She can’t cut someone’s hair via FaceTime. I can’t stuff a cannoli over email. I guess that’s one of the reasons Nonna has always been so obsessed about getting me to go to college.
“So what about my question?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”
There’s a concern in his voice that is already making me feel less guilty of the crimes Mom and I have committed. Like he somehow senses or understands that we’re in deep trouble, but it’s not because we’re criminals — it’s because we’re victims. It almost makes me feel like we can tell him the truth. Who knows? Maybe he’ll have a totally obvious solution that we haven’t yet thought of.
“Everything’s fine.” Mom flips her hair back and takes a sip of water. “Other than Joey’s boyfriend cheating on him. But that’s why we’re on this trip. To forget about that jerk.”
The room goes awkwardly quiet for a moment.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marco offers. “Screw that guy, right? You’ll find someone better in no time, I bet.” More awkward silence. “Are you — uh — you’re eighteen now! You pick a college yet, or what?”
“Rutgers,” Mom answers.
“My alma mater.” He smiles. “Nice.”
“I don’t know if I’m gonna actually go,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like I need college. It’s so expensive. Instead, I could spend four years working and saving up for a move to LA.”
Marco looks at me like I’ve just confessed to murder (and/or arson). “But you gotta go to college.”
“He’s going to college.” Mom hits me in the arm.
“Have you decided on a major?” Marco asks. “They have a great program for —”
“Do you have a bathroom I could use?” I interrupt. This topic couldn’t be more useless right now. “I have to pee so bad.”
He motions to a door across the living room. I make a beeline and shut it behind me.
Everything inside this bathroom is bear-themed — the shower curtain shows a large black bear sitting in a bathtub, scrubbing his pits like a human. The soap dispenser is a ceramic bear with a metal pump sticking out from its head. The hand towels have claw prints embroidered onto them. It’s all a bit much. Like, we get it, Marco. You live in the woods!
I turn to the mirror for a reality check. But what even is reality at this point? There’s a part of my mind telling me we have to return to Bayonne eventually and deal with the mess we made. But the other part of my mind — the one that daydreamed that whole scenario of moving in here and leaving Jersey behind forever — is starting to actually view that as a possibility. Marco clearly lives alone out here. He was able to just welcome us back into his life on zero notice this afternoon. Why should tomorrow afternoon and all afternoons thereafter be any different?
I take out my phone to see if I’ve missed anything in the ongoing investigation of the fire. Somewhere between the wooded path to his house and here, I regained two bars of service. So that’s good. Or bad, depending on how you think about it.
Nonna called. She’d be delighted to hear that we’re with Marco, but I can’t tell her. The less she knows, the better. That way if this situation completely blows up in our faces, she can honestly say she had no idea about any of it. As much of a law-abiding citizen as Nonna is, I know she’d lie to the cops if it meant protecting Mom and me. It’s bad enough we took her car. I’d never forgive myself if we took her innocence, as well.
I do a quick news scan, but there haven’t been any developments. Joggy McBitch’s picture has gained a few more retweets, but that’s about it. So. Phew. Okay. Everything. Is. Going. To. Be. Fine.
I reach for the doorknob but stop upon hearing traces of a heated discussion between Mom and Marco. I can’t tell what about, exactly, because they’re whispering. So I glue my ear directly to the door in an attempt to get a better listen. Eavesdropping on Mom’s conversations with boyfriends has always been one of my favorite pastimes, but I’m especially curious to hear what they could be talking about right now. It definitely sounds kinda tense. Is she telling him everything? Oh, my God. Why would she do that without me?
My attempt at making out their syllables is ultimately fruitless. Their voices are too deliberately soft. I make a mental note to grill Mom about it the next time we’re alone.
“So, Joey!” Marco says as I emerge from the bathroom. “Gia tells me you two haven’t eaten all day. You must be starving.”
“I had some sfogliatelle this morning.” I shoot suspicious looks back and forth to Mom and him. “And some Combos on the way here. But yeah.”
“Okay.” He scratches the back of his neck. “So I have to wrap up a few things for work in the next couple hours, but once I’m done I can throw some burgers on the grill. Or we can go into town and eat out somewhere. I’ll let you two make the call.”
“Sounds good.”
“It’s a beautiful day for April,” he adds. “You can go and hang by the dock if you want. The water’s freezing… but you can at least try to get some sun or something. Or you can stay here. Whatever you wanna do.”
“We’ll go to the dock,” Mom says. “That sounds nice.”
Marco’s giant windows make it look like the water is right outside, but there’s actually a steep hill you have to walk down to get there. Mom and I take turns almost tripping on it until we’re finally at the dock.
The water is even more breathtaking up close — an endless stretch of shimmering metallic blue in all directions. The shore across from us looks like it’s at least a mile away. “Shore” isn’t even the right word. It’s all just trees and mountains. You can see other lakefront houses and docks dotted along the edges — Marco has a couple nearby neighbors to either side of us — but overall this feels like a part of nature that has been mercifully spared from humans and their bullshit. Like something out of a “beautiful places” calendar or stock desktop background.
“We’re staying here forever,” I tell Mom as we tiptoe onto the dock. Maybe if I say it out loud it will become closer to being reality.
“I don’t know about forever.” She takes her boots off and pulls her leggings up to her knees. “But we’re good for tonight.”
“Really? You asked him already?”
“Yeah. While you were in the bathroom.”
“So that’s what you were being all whisper-y about.”
“I told him we’re strapped for cash and that I didn’t have the money to take you on the vacation I promised. He felt bad and offered to let us stay. He hasn’t changed at all.” She pulls a cigarette out from her purse and gestures at the scene around us. “Except for the fact that he’s now living on the set of Deliverance.”
“Come on.” I grab the cigarette out of her mouth and toss it in the water. “Look where we are. You really wanna destroy all this beauty with your stink sticks?”
“Says the bitch who just threw one into the lake,” Mom snaps back. But then she takes a look around, inhales deeply, and seems to agree with me. She points to the other side of the dock. “You think that’s his boat?”
“What’s his job again?” I ask.
“Something with… computers, right?” Mom says. “He used to try to explain it to me, but it never made any sense.”
“He’s gotta be rich if he has a boat.”
The only people with boats in New Jersey are, like, Richard-level yuppies and/or mysteriously wealthy Italian families who almost certainly have mafia ties. (Side note: Why couldn’t Nonna and Mom have mafia ties? Life would be so much easier. Not only would we have money, but we’d also probably have a crooked cop on speed dial who we could totally extort to make sure we never get arrested. We wouldn’t even have to be on the run right now.)
“I guess he does good for himself out here.” Mom shrugs and gestures toward a pair of kayakers gliding across the water heading toward us. “Look at these bitches.”
For a quick second I fear they may be cops en route to arrest us, but that’s just ridiculous because one) as they get closer I see they are just a straight teenage couple, and two) in what world would cops make an arrest via kayak? There’s no backseat. The suspect could just wiggle around and tip the whole thing over!
“Is it just me, or is the guy insanely hot?” I ask. “Who knew they existed out here in the wild?”
He has this Latin lover thing going on that kinda reminds me of a young A-Rod. He looks like his hands would totally know their way around a baseball bat. (For all the healthy, normal reasons. Definitely not for Mom’s and my reasons.) Wait a minute. Is he shirtless under his life vest? He’s shirtless under his life vest. His chiseled shoulders and biceps involuntarily flex with every row of his paddle. Shit. I need to think about dead puppies or something. The last thing I need right now is a boner.
I focus my attention on his kayaking partner. She’s laughing and paddling with a grace and ease that suggests she’s probably a joy to be around. You know what? Fuck it. You only live once. I’m gonna check out the guy some more.
Should I give him a wave and/or a smile? Normally I would never even consider something so brazen. But we’re on the run and our lives as we know them could be over any minute now, so I feel like it might be the time to start doing some bucket-list shit. What’s the worst that can happen? The hot guy ignores my wave? He returns my smile with a disgusted look? He calls me a faggot? Actually — never mind. Mom and I are dealing with enough right now. I don’t need to add rejection and a hate crime to the list.
“They don’t exist in the wild,” Mom says. “They’re visiting from the city. Marco told me when you were in the bathroom.” She lowers her feet into the water. “Ow! That’s cold. How is that guy not wearing a shirt?”
She stretches her legs out in front of her and flaps her feet around until they adjust to the temperature. “That house over there belongs to some family” — she points at a log cabin at the bottom of the hill across the bay — “they have a daughter your age. She’s having friends over for spring break. Marco thought you might wanna hang with them.” Oh, my God. It’s a sign. I should totally wave. “Don’t worry,” Mom adds. “I told him you’d rather drink horse piss than randomly introduce yourself to a group of teenagers.”
“First of all,” I start, “I saw on Wikipedia that Janet Jackson used to get horse piss injected into her veins because it helps with weight loss. So I don’t know why this has to be an either/or situation.” I laugh at my own joke. “And secondly, maybe I should say hi!”
Right as I finish talking, the hot guy smiles and waves at us.
He’s totally gay! Right? Straight guys are never that friendly. Waving isn’t even in their vocabulary. The best they can do is constipated head nods. The girl he’s with must be, like, his cousin or best friend or something.
I try to imitate his smile — carefree, casual, chill — and reciprocate the wave. And then he keeps on paddling until they reach the rocky shore across the bay. He wobbles out of his kayak and helps his platonic bestie out of hers. I hope he’ll come running over and introduce himself to me, like, “Hi! I waved at you because I think you’re perfect and I would like to make out with you immediately.” But no. He and the girl just disappear into the house.
“Earth to Joey.” Mom waves her hand in my face. “Hello?”
“Sorry,” I say.
“You can gawk at Ricky Martin later.” She reclines back onto the dock and is basically just talking to the sky at this point. “I was just thinking. Should we throw our phones into the lake?”