Chapter 12 #3
His words hit heavy in my chest; the moments we missed sharing, the trips we didn’t get to take, and the unfairness of it all.
“Now you can tell me all about it,” I say. “And we can find new places you never got to see, together.”
He smiles, his eyes lighting up. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
The more time we spend together and the more his injuries heal, the harder it becomes to keep things in the friend zone.
Standing on this bridge, with the waterfall in the background, feels like a scene right out of a movie.
It makes me want to wrap him in my arms and kiss him senseless.
I feel the pull, the look in his eyes, that he’s thinking the same thing.
But the last thing I want to be is a rebound. So, I turn toward the trail and keep moving.
We climb a little farther until he gets winded and his ribs ache. I don’t want to push him, so we turn back and stroll through the gift shop in the historic lodge to buy a tacky magnet before calling it a day.
I drop Jay off at his mom’s so he can rest, then head back to my rental to look for places we can go, somewhere scenic, not too crowded, something that feels like a small adventure rather than just another item on a to-do list.
The next morning, I share my idea over our morning coffee. “Have you ever been to Astoria? You know, where they filmed The Goonies?”
“No,” he says, his face lighting up. “But I’ve always wanted to go.”
“It’s only an hour and a half from here.
” I’ve already pulled up directions and a short list of the top things to see.
There’s enough to do that staying the night would make sense.
I’m careful with my next question, unsure how he’ll feel about it.
“If we go, would you be okay with staying overnight?”
His grin is enough to make me forget my hesitation. “Yeah, that would be great.”
He looks excited, and it hits me: he hasn’t had adventures like this in a long time. That’s what I want to give him—a perfect day where he can forget the messiness of his life for a while.
“If we leave by ten, we’ll get there around lunchtime,” I say, already planning the route to avoid the worst traffic. “If we go on a weekday, there will be fewer crowds and cheaper rooms.”
“Sounds perfect,” he says, and the smile on his face makes me think about what other fun things we can do so I can keep it there.
I pick him up a few days later, and we head out after the morning rush, with an eclectic playlist I curated playing softly in the background. Timing it just right, we arrive in Astoria just before lunch.
Our first stop is the house where one of the movie’s opening scenes was filmed. Located on the east side of town, perched on a hill, the Victorian-style house with a wraparound porch and a white picket fence is an iconic element from the film.
Since the house isn’t open to the public, we can only take some photos outside.
“Hey, pose like Chunk in front of the gate,” Jay suggests.
I love seeing his goofy side come out, and I’m going to play along to keep him smiling. Getting into position, Jay is just about to take my picture when a loud shout echoes across the yard.
“Get the hell out of here,” a shrill voice shrieks from an older woman in a housecoat, scowling, standing at an upstairs window next door.
I wave my hand at her. “Sorry, ma’am. We were just taking a quick photo.”
“You and every other damn person who tromps up here a million times a day,” she yells. “Go away before I call the police.”
Seeing Jay’s wary expression and how he quickly stiffens, I’m about to give up on our photo opportunity to get him away from this uncomfortable situation when a younger woman steps out of the Goonies’ house.
“Don’t worry about her,” she kindly says. “Please, take your picture. We don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved as Jay’s body relaxes.
I act out the scene like he wanted, even lifting my shirt and doing the truffle shuffle that gets a big laugh out of Jay. Good, just what I was hoping for.
Once we’re back in the car, Jay lets out a deep sigh. “What was that woman’s problem?”
“I would imagine it sucks living next door to such a famous location. I read that the people who own the Breaking Bad house in Albuquerque have all sorts of problems.”
“That’s understandable, but it sure sucked getting yelled at,” he says.
We’re discussing other filming locations that could cause issues for people when a clear view of the Astoria–Megler Bridge spans across the river in front of us, stopping me mid-sentence.
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
I’m used to seeing towering bridges in New York, but this one has a broad presence that feels right at home against the river and hills.
Astoria itself is a compact, hilly town with streets that slope dramatically upward. It has a small-city charm with storefronts spilling onto sidewalks, salty air, and a steady, quiet hum.
We grab a parking spot on the busy downtown street, eat lunch at a popular brewery with a view of the river, then walk through the bustling shops. As we walk the streets, I notice rainbow flags hanging in several windows, another welcoming sign of a place that is quickly growing on me.
We duck into a toy and game shop and find a bin full of silly novelties. When Jay sees a rubber frog that shoots its tongue out with a squeeze, his face lights up like a kid in a candy store.
“You’re going to torture me with that thing all day, aren’t you?” I tease as he presses it close to my ear, and the frog’s tongue flicks into my hair.
“Oh, come on, it’s hilarious,” he says, grinning.
I pretend to be annoyed, but I love how his ridiculous, perfect sense of humor is coming back to life. Every flick of that frog’s tongue feels like a small act of defiance against the uphill battle he’s facing, and I want to draw more of that out of him with each passing minute.
We head to the museum that served as the backdrop for the jailbreak scene and buy matching T-shirts in the gift shop, laughing over which design looks the tackiest.
After a long day of sightseeing, we check into a riverfront hotel. I booked a single room with two beds, which seemed practical but is now a test of my will.
“Do you want to shower before dinner?” I ask as I drop my duffel on one of the beds.
I settle into the familiar reflex of compartmentalizing my feelings, locking away the desire, shutting the lid, and not letting myself open the box. We’re only friends. That’s the rule I’m clinging to until Jay’s entire world isn’t still raw from cracked ribs and colorful bruises.
“No, I’m good,” he says. “I’ll unpack and lie down for a few minutes.” He gestures to the other bed.
He moves slowly, folding his shirts and tucking socks into a drawer. I carry my toiletry bag into the bathroom to take an unnecessary shower. It’s a helpful distraction, easing away the ache of want that keeps settling in my bones every time his body gets anywhere close to mine.
Out in the world, with trails and museums and other people, it’s easy enough to live in the friend’s box.
In a tiny hotel room with two beds and the quiet between us, it’s so much harder.
His bruises are fading but still obvious; they’re a blunt and constant reminder of why I’m supposed to be patient.
So I choose the distance, because for now, that’s how I protect both of us.
We grab beers and burgers at a hole-in-the-wall spot near the hotel and eat quickly so we can catch the sunset. The drive takes us over another bridge, and we roll down the windows as we pass through Fort Stevens State Park; the smell of ocean breeze and damp driftwood fills the air.
When we step onto the beach, the skeleton of Peter Iredale’s shipwreck sits like a cathedral of rusted ribs, half-buried in the sand and dramatic against the dying light. The jagged beams and corroded plates feel both mournful and strangely beautiful.
It’s low tide, so the wreck is fully exposed.
We take off our shoes and socks and walk until the sand feels cool and solid beneath our feet.
The water softly laps at our toes, a slow, steady roar as the waves break onto the shore.
The sky is ablaze along the horizon. We find a flat log to sit on and let the wind blow the hair from our faces.
“This is perfect,” I say.
Jay nods, his eyes fixed firmly on the ship. For a while, we just sit side by side, our toes in the sand, listening to the ocean breathe. His shoulder brushes mine; the warmth of his body seeping into mine.
After a few minutes, Jay points at the rusted metal and asks, quietly, “Have you ever felt stuck like that?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not sure where this is headed.
“For years, I’ve felt frozen,” he says. “With Ray, I settled into this numb routine. I stopped growing. It was a mundane existence, caring only about work and living in survival mode. In Florida, when we were talking and laughing, that was the first time I’d felt normal in ages.”
“I get it,” I tell him. “After you were gone, and I had to hide, I shoved everything down so deep I couldn’t feel anything. All the milestones we should have celebrated together, like prom and graduation, were just a blur. Not having you there nearly wrecked me.”
Jay scoots closer and rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I wish I’d been there.”
I sigh. “Me too. But we’re here now and we work with the cards we’ve been dealt.” My voice is gentle; I don’t want to push him farther than he’s ready to go, so I gently probe. “You said you felt stuck. What do you think would unstick you?”
He laughs, a small, bitter sound. “I have no idea. I’ve buried things so deep I’ll need a damn shovel to dig them up. And I’m scared of what I’ll find.”
“It’s not easy,” I tell him. “I had to do the same. But the other side is worth it.”
“How’d you do it?” His face is open and amazed, as if I had cracked some code.