I did an impossible thing. You’d tease me so much—I just lied to Mamochka! I told her I fell while hiking. It was easier to lie via Skype, but still not entirely guilt-free. I think she believed me. I really just want to go home, but I don’t want to worry them. Or waste money. So, I’ll suck it up. I’m barricading myself in this hotel room again. More wound licking. At least the injuries are mostly external this time. God, I’m a wreck.
Nothing’s working. Nothing’s changing. I feel like I’m being buried alive.
I hate labels, you know? I’ve been a lot of things, like the Son of Those Two Lesbians and the Only Queer Kid in School. How about That Guy Dating That Chick Who Used to Be a Dude?
The thing is, I’m fine with all of them (except for someone calling you a dude). For the most part, I’ve never been ashamed of my parents or my sexuality or you. Sure, there were times I wished things were simpler, that my life didn’t leave me with so much explaining to do. It is what it is, and I can’t really change any of that.
So it really sucks now to be stuck with this label because of a conscious choice that I made. I am now the Guy Who Threw Our Beloved Vivian to the Wolves. I don’t know what to do or where to go from here. It feels like I need to apologize to the entire world.
And sometimes it feels like the entire world ought to apologize to me.
That’s selfish. I know. But every once in a while, I get caught up in this fantasy where your parents show up at my door and tell me how wrong they were. I wonder, too, about all the trolls who filled your Haters inbox—do they know what happened to you? Would they take it back if they could?
I think about what I’d say if my mom apologized for not seeing the warning signs in you. Before I left, we kept having this same conversation. It’s not even a conversation, really. She’d show up at the cabin or my bedroom or wherever I was trying to sleep and just talk at my face. Say things about how a lot of shit factors into a person’s decision to commit suicide. That just because I yelled at you the night before doesn’t mean it’s all my fault. When she does that, it makes things worse somehow. It’s almost like she thinks she has the power to absolve me. I wish she’d just be real. Say out loud that I screwed up. Admit that she did, too. Maybe then we’d be getting somewhere.
Okay, I promised to tell you about Óskar. Two things first, so I can kind of set the scene. For starters, Óskar looks like a supermodel. That’s not to say he’s hot. You know how you sometimes see those angular, androgynous people in magazines and think, How on earth did that awkward creature land a modeling contract? That, in essence, is Óskar. He’s perfectly symmetrical, physically flawless, and blond as all get-out, but sort of . . . alien? Then the light hits him just right and you go, Oh shit, those are some gorgeous baby blues. Or maybe I’m just really, really horny and everyone is starting to look damn sexy to me?
Anyway, the other thing is that his phone rang all night. Like, every ten or twenty minutes—and I’m not exaggerating. It kept vibrating in the cup holder between us—this old-ass flip phone, btw—and he’d snatch it up, look at the display, then set it back down unanswered. This happened from when he picked me up around one or two a.m. until we crashed. Not literally crashed. I mean, when we went to sleep.
So, back to where we were. Óskar had just picked me up from—and here is its actual name—Seljavallalaug, and I was . . . honestly, I was trying my damnedest not to cry. Not just because I was in pain, but just the idea of it. I’m still really upset, V. I’ve always been a part of the queer community, but turning my back on you meant turning my back on the rest of them, I guess. It’s just really scary to know I won’t be welcome anymore. The kids at Camp must be really mad at me too. Maybe not all of them, but enough for my parents to send me to the friggin’ Arctic Circle.
Maybe that’s why they didn’t want me around. Maybe it wasn’t for me to heal but to protect me from them.
I really regret letting everyone down, and for such selfish reasons.
Óskar turned the Jeep east, away from Reykjavik. I leaned on the window and watched the scenery, because the south coast is super pretty. There are really, really tall cliffs all along the road (none of those tiny baby mountains I’d seen leaving the airport). Green fields. Lots of sheep. And waterfalls pouring out of everywhere, like, every ten feet.
I decided the only way I was going keep my shit together was to not think about you, so I started getting really fixated on Óskar and his stupid phone. Since I was wounded and a little out of it, my mind wandered to some pretty weird places, and I ended up convincing myself that he was up to something illegal. I mean, he was driving to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. His phone going buzz buzz all urgent like he was late for an execution.
“So, are you, like, a drug dealer or something?” It was the first thing that came to mind.
“I can get you some weed when we get back to Reykjavik.”
“No, man, that’s not what I’m asking—”
“I said for you not to ask me anything.”
“You are just acting all kinds of shady right now with your phone and your confidentiality clause, or whatever. If you’re about to make me an accessory, I just wanna know, okay?”
He glared at me for an uncomfortably long time, then didn’t say anything for the rest of the trip. He turned in to a long driveway with a squarish house at the end, maneuvering the Jeep behind a stone wall so that it was mostly out of view of the house. Weird house, black with white trim. It looked so ominous, even in the relentless Icelandic sunlight.
“You are in no danger,” he said, turning to me.
“Uh, okay.”
“But we cannot speak for the rest of the night.” Bliiiiink.
“We can’t?”
“No.” He waved his hand dismissively. “We are going in that house—do you snorrh?”
“What? What does that mean?”
“When you sleep? Do you snorrh?”
“Snore? No, I don’t snore.”
He nodded. “Good. Then you can sleep. But no talking. Because I am not there. And you are definitely not there.”
“No, I don’t think either of us is all there right now.”
“In the house.”
“Yeah. Uh, we’re in the driveway.” Between my head wound and his weird accent, it was starting to seem like a game of Who’s on First.
He blinked at me again and pointed a finger. “Quit fucking around. I know you understand me.”
“Not really, man.”
He paused for a second and scrunched up his face. “Did you ever sneak into a girl’s room?”
“Ha. Oh, okay. Gotcha. Why didn’t you say so?”
One more scowl, then he hopped out of the Jeep. He shut his car door very slowly and quietly, so I did the same. We took a roundabout way to the house, circumventing a huge red barn on our way to the back door. Óskar let us in with a key. We crept through a laundry room and up a flight of stairs. The house was old and sort of Victorian-looking on the inside. Floral wallpaper and scuffed wooden steps. In the middle of the upstairs hallway was a door with a word, a name I (correctly) assumed, painted on it. Bryndis. Óskar opened this door with yet another key, and we went inside. There must’ve been blackout curtains or something, because it took my eyes a second to adjust. I heard the lock click behind us and sensed Óskar moving about the room. He handed me this super soft knitted blanket and pointed to a chaise longue in the corner. I shuffled over to it and curled up, making sure to turn my head so that I didn’t stain anything with my blood.
Even though I was in a strange house, uninvited, my entire body relaxed when I lay down. I felt comfortable. And safe. At least I wasn’t on the floor of some filthy changing room, getting an unsolicited spinal column adjustment.
Óskar pulled off his shoes and cardigan and crawled into the bed. There was a girl beside him, but I couldn’t tell much about her other than that she was small, blond, and probably asleep. Óskar stretched out on his belly, facing away from her. I thought that was weird at the time. Why go to all the trouble to sneak into your girlfriend’s house, then not even, like, cuddle with her? He just fell asleep. Pretty quickly, too.
His phone kept buzzing, and you know how light a sleeper I am. Plus, I was dealing with some PTSD shit, or whatever, and every time it went off, I’d twitch. Finally, I got up and grabbed it off the nightstand. The background on his phone was a photo of him and a blond girl. She was cute, grinning this big, sparkling grin. Óskar had on his usual serious face. The notification display said “27 missed calls from Jack.” Well, it was in Icelandic, so it didn’t exactly SAY that, but I could tell that’s what it meant, because the name and the number were legible to me. There were text messages, too. I was so tempted to look at them, but I powered the phone down and put it back.
After that, I kept myself up worrying that I had a concussion and if I fell asleep, I might not wake up. I wasn’t sure if that was a real concern or just something they put in movies. And then I was suddenly so exhausted that I didn’t care. I wonder if that’s what happened to you. Maybe you were just tired. Tired of being alive anymore. That’s how I felt that night, so defeated that I didn’t even care whether I’d wake up in the morning, or if I’d expire in a strange Icelandic girl’s bedroom.
Óskar was sleeping a few feet away from me. His arms were bent up, hands tucked under the pillow. The shirt he had on was sleeveless, and his biceps were surprisingly buff. He looks like a fucking archangel when he’s sleeping, and I was jealous that he had someone to wake up next to. I fell asleep, mildly pissed that he was probably the last thing I’d ever see.
Bryndis woke me up that morning. She’s got the same supermodel looks as Óskar, but they work so much better on a girl. Resting her hand under my chin, she tilted my face, examining my wounds. It was the strangest thing in the world, to be awoken by some random but beautiful girl. And have her touch me so gently like that. I wanted to flinch away, embarrassed and taken aback. But I stayed still and let her look me over.
“Did you do this to him?” She glanced over her shoulder at Óskar. He was on her bed, laptop open in front of him and a mess of papers and binders and files fanned out around him. Schoolwork, I figured.
“No,” he said, without looking up from his screen.
“Oh, are we allowed to talk now?” I asked.
“Quietly,” he replied.
Bryndis told me her name and gave me a container of blueberry skyr. And a spoon! Such luxuries. Then she left for a minute and came back with a first aid kit. But while she was gone, I told Óskar his girlfriend was nice.
“Sister,” he said, still focused on his computer. “She is fourteen. And if you try to fuck her, then I will fuck you. In the ass.”
“A double date?” I said. “How delightful.”
Bryndis returned and started patching up my face. She wiped the dried blood off me and put one of those butterfly things on the gash, then a big Band-Aid on top. And she gave me some aspirin, which I desperately needed. My head throbbed.
She told me I had striking eyes.
“Thanks. I’m sure you’ve heard that a few times yourself.”
She smiled. Fourteen, I reminded myself. Fourteen.
She left again, whispering in Icelandic to Óskar. I was getting pretty tired of being gossiped about in foreign languages. Whatever she said didn’t garner a response from Óskar.
“Hey,” I said to him. “Can I use your computer for just a couple minutes? I need to cancel my stolen debit card.”
He pointed to a desk in the corner. “Use hers.”
I had a hell of a time getting around on Bryndis’s little pink laptop. Everything was in Icelandic, plus it had a bunch of extra keys. I was able to get to my bank’s website and report that my card had been stolen. I had to ask Óskar if I could receive mail at the hotel and what the address was. I could tell he hated being bothered, especially when he had to walk across the room and type the street name for me because I couldn’t figure it out. But at least I’ve got a new card on the way. I had no clue what I’d do for clothes and food for the next seven to ten business days, though.
I started thinking about my wallet and what else I’d had inside. There was a photo of you—I hope those assholes saw that. It wasn’t like I’d forgotten about you, if that’s what they thought. And my driver’s license (thank God I’d left my passport at the hotel). Thirty or forty American dollars. One of my three condoms. I’m over that now, though. No more following my dick around. Look where it’s gotten me so far.
I shut Bryndis’s laptop and curled up with the blanket again. The house was so still and quiet. Just Óskar tapping away on his keyboard and some muffled TV sounds coming from downstairs. I had about a million questions for Óskar, like when are we going back to the hotel and why did we sneak into your sister’s bedroom last night, but, man, Óskar is weirdly intimidating for such a small, little dude. And I knew if I started looking for answers, he’d probably do the same: where are your clothes, and why are you all beat up? Eventually, the conversation would circle back around to you. I’m tired, Vivian, of defining myself in relation to you. I want to try just being Miles again, whoever the hell that guy is.
The morning dragged on. Mainly because I had nothing to do. Óskar eventually finished his work and loaded all his binders and shit into a big ol’ man purse. Of course he has a trendy little satchel to match his trendy little bun. Though, to be fair, he was still wearing his hair down at the time.
(Yes, I know. I’m being shitty and sexist about Óskar’s style choices. I think it’s deep-rooted passive aggression from eighteen years of being raised to be the most accepting, PC guy on the planet. Damn, can I just be an asshole for a little while, okay?)
“My brother will be home soon. And then we will leave,” he told me.
I was busy counting the stick-on plastic stars on Bryndis’s ceiling for the third time. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, we heard a crash from downstairs, like glass breaking. Óskar sat up, and then there was a little scream—Bryndis shrieking—and Óskar was gone from the room in a blink. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in my life.
My stomach bottomed out then. My gut understood before the rest of me that something horrible was about to go down. Then, there was all this noise—crashing and pounding and screaming and shrieking. Chaos. It sounded like someone was getting murdered down there.
And I wanted to stay out of it. I’m not one of those brave souls running toward the disaster scene. In fact, when I heard bare feet slapping up the staircase, I had half a mind to hide under the bed.
Interesting fact I’ve heard about the Icelandic language: they don’t really have a word for “please.” Like, the phrase for ordering a beer would actually translate to “beer, thanks.” So, when Bryndis appeared in her doorway and said (in English, of course), “Help. Me. Please,” my blood went cold. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the stairs into a little kitchen.
Óskar was beating the shit out of this naked old man.
Okay, the guy wasn’t totally naked. He was wearing a robe, but it was open. Óskar was crouched over him, just whaling on the dude.
“Stop. Him,” Bryndis said.
The image of Óskar’s beefy little biceps flashed in my mind, and my recently kicked ass didn’t want to tangle with him, but I also couldn’t let him commit homicide. I tried to grab Óskar and pull him away, but he elbowed me hard in the gut. So, for my second attempt, I just threw myself on him, and we both tumbled to the ground. For a minute there, I was in between Óskar and the old man while they continued to scream what I can only assume were Icelandic obscenities at each other.
Then this other dude came into the kitchen. He was fortyish, ruddy complexion and ginger-haired, but with Óskar’s and Bryndis’s same ice-blue eyes. I kind of figured he might be their dad. And then he was shouting along with everyone else.
“He’s American. He doesn’t understand you!” Bryndis screamed at the new guy. I hadn’t even realized he was talking to me.
“Get him out of this house,” he said, pointing to Óskar and then the door.
I got up and pulled Óskar along. He didn’t fight me too much, though he and his opponent were still shouting. We were halfway through the door when the old guy shouted something at Óskar that made us both cringe. “Faggi!”
“Keep walking,” I said to Óskar, though I kind of wanted a shot at the old man myself. You know that kinda hate don’t fly with me.
Outside, Óskar broke away from me and booked it to the barn. I followed him past the stalls of bleary-eyed sheep and up a ladder to the loft. I leaned on the window frame and looked out into the mountains. Óskar paced the floor, steam rolling out his ears. And then, like flipping a switch, he was fine. Calm again, as if nothing batshit crazy had just happened.
He squeezed in next to me at the window and pointed into the distance. “Wolcano.”
“That’s pretty close. Aren’t you afraid it’ll erupt?”
“It did. In 2010.”
“That’s the one, huh? With the impossible name?”
“Yes.” He spewed out a name full of consonants and accent marks. “When I was a young man—”
“Pretty sure you still are one.”
“I was afraid, yes. But that is a worry that only children have. When you first learn that something so consuming exists, you always imagine that it will swallow everything you know and love. But then you get older and you find out that all those horrible things you’ve imagined can happen anyway, no natural disasters required.”
What a guy, huh? Still waters run deep.
Before I could comment on Óskar’s musings, the ginger-haired guy showed up under the window with Óskar’s bag thrown over his shoulder. We climbed down from the loft and then he and Óskar had a brief conversation without really looking at each other. Then the guy handed Óskar his bag, and Óskar and I went back to the Jeep.
On the drive back, I broke the confidentiality clause. I told him about Frankie and the French girls beating me up. I didn’t say why. I hoped he assumed that it was a mugging. For now, anyway.
Then I went into sympathetic camp counselor mode and somehow managed to coax a few little details out of him. It turns out that the old man in the robe was Óskar’s dad. He’s got dementia now, and it’s so bad that he doesn’t recognize his kids. He likes Óskar’s brother Karl (the ginger), but, for whatever reason, hates Óskar with a passion. And poor Bryndis looks so much like their dead mom that she can’t be left alone with him. That was the scream we heard—Bryndis getting bent over the stove and groped by her own dad.
“I overreacted,” Óskar told me. “But I would like for my sister not to lose her virginity to her father.” He was really pissed at Karl for running off for the weekend with a girlfriend and leaving Bryndis to fend for herself. Óskar’s been sneaking around the house while Karl’s been away, trying to look out for his sister and keep out of sight of their dad.
“That’s really fucked up,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
What I didn’t say was that it was kind of nice to know that someone had a shit-ton more problems than me.