Chapter 3 #2
I used to assume that adulthood held some secret wisdom, that as we matured, crossing the threshold into the marriage and baby years, we’d magically change into people who craved nothing but a square of dark chocolate, who weren’t intimidated by our taxes, who understood the stock market and mortgage rates and insurance premiums. People who were no longer vulnerable or overwhelmed or afraid.
But there’s no such thing as magic, no instantaneous transformation on this side of thirty, only more uncertainty, and shame of that uncertainty.
At least, for me. I don’t mind Cassie vaping, because it makes me feel like maybe it’s that way for her, too.
That she also hasn’t aged out of her faults or miraculously transcended her more irresponsible needs.
“Hold up! I want a picture,” Luke says, commencing the cabin-front photo shoot.
“My phone, too,” I say, so Evan won’t say it, so things will be different from the dream, feel different. But Evan still makes his request.
“And mine!” he says, tossing Luke his phone. There’s only so much I can change.
I pose for the pictures. Smile like I mean it.
Evan’s right. The dream, the déjà vu or whatever it is, it’s probably a result of not taking care of myself—mixing substances, experimenting with new ones. There’s a rational explanation. I should accept the logic. I should move on. Release the anxiety.
We start down the path toward the lake. My foot is fucked and I’m slow, lagging behind. Luke hangs back to keep me company.
“You look great, Wills,” he says.
“Thanks, bud.”
“Anytime.”
We approach the reception hall. I see the spot on the lawn where Wyatt fell. Where Evan ran to him. Where I left them.
“It’s dope that this used to be a summer camp,” Luke says. “There’s, like, a nostalgia about it, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess…A lot of horror movies are set at summer camp.”
He laughs. “She got to you, didn’t she? Cass is such a bad influence.
Summer Camp Massacre 11. Bully one camper and the dude will come back for eternity taking his revenge on good-looking twenty-year-olds playing teenagers who somehow don’t notice they have no cell service until they’re getting killed off.
I’m always falling asleep during that shit, and Cass will be all, ‘Wake up, you gotta watch this part.’ And it’s the dude decapitating someone in a canoe. I can’t.”
For as real as it felt, my dream was pretty generic. It followed the tried-and-true horror formula. Except slashers tend to commit to a single weapon. My brain wouldn’t commit, though. Why would it? It’s not loyal to one violent means of dying. I’m afraid of everything.
“But Cass loves it,” Luke says, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“She used to watch them with her brothers growing up, so I think there’s a sentimental factor.
Connects her back to her childhood. Think that’s why she’s getting even more into it as we, you know.
Get older. And with Theo. She wants to stay herself. ”
“You’re a good husband, Luke.”
“Say that again on the record. Say it again with my wife in earshot.”
“I’ll be sure to mention it later. Slip it into conversation. But she already knows. I know she knows.”
“I’m making myself a martyr. I don’t dislike those movies,” he says. “But I like it better when there’s something supernatural.”
“Vampires? Werewolves?” I say, with instantaneous regret. I don’t want to accidentally summon any more horrors into my head. Into my life.
“Eh,” he says. “Something original. Or, like, I fuck with some creepy old-fashioned goth ghost shit. Haunted manors. That’s classy. Or if it’s a slasher more Freddy than Jason, you know what I mean? Gimme a murderer with some pizzazz. Je ne sais quoi.”
I know I’m the one who brought up horror, but now I’m desperate for a subject change. I look ahead and see the floral arches. “See that? Wow. So pretty.”
I can hear the live music. The married duo on piano and guitar.
Cass doubles back toward me. “Okay, Wills. You ready?”
Mismatched vintage couches—crushed velvet, floral damask, the leather two-seater.
A pair of Regency-style cane armchairs with cream-colored accent pillows.
High cocktail tables. Mini lanterns with flameless votives.
Retro silver Airstream. Familiar, yes, but all weddings look the fucking same. It’s Pinterest Live.
Ravi. White button-down, slacks, the Brooklyn Flea bomber jacket. I know him so well, I knew that’s what he’d wear. But…
Tanya. Tanya. Pink satin dress. Black ribbon choker. Black YSL bag. Straight out of a magazine. An absolute beauty.
An absolute nightmare.
I get my phone out. I open Google and type “intense prolonged déjà vu” into the search bar.
Temporal lobe epilepsy. Great!
Migraines with aura. Cool.
Stress and fatigue. Sounds about right.
Other neurological conditions. Yeah, why not?
“Willa Ann.” Cass is over my shoulder.
I drop my phone back into my bag. “You don’t want to worry about me? Then don’t worry about me. I’m not asking you to be my whole support system.”
She scoffs. “Where did that come from?”
“I’m just saying.” I wish I could walk away, but I can only hobble.
The woods are to my left, and I wonder if he’s there. The Eyeball Man. If he’s waiting, watching, biding his time.
I see you.
Cassie surprises me by taking my hand. She squeezes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I know it’s been a lot. I’ve been a lot. I’m not in my right mind. Obviously.”
She sighs. She’s an artist and it’s her medium.
I want to tell her that it’s not fair to resent me for needing her. I ignored my needs for so long, imploded, and now I’m actually asking for help and it’s too much.
But I can’t say any of this, at least not right now, because then I’m being self-centered. Making the wedding weekend about me.
Fuck it.
Only way out is through.
“To the bar?” I ask her.
“To the bar.”