Chapter 13
By the time Hayden sends his “here” text, I’ve convinced myself to pack another three pairs of underwear. Five days away means at least twelve pairs of underwear, in case I shit myself twice every single day, and then some for options .
I pack a nicer pair just…uh…in case.
Hayden steps out of his car, popping the trunk and taking my bag for me.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I shrug. “Better.”
What I won’t admit is how the sight of him in a waffle knit Henley has made me feel exponentially better.
I tried to sleep through the worst of my illness, but doped myself up on DayQuil enough to keep our production schedule moving forward. Even when I made it back home, we spent most of our time on the phone or FaceTime discussing the next episodes and our weekend away. I woke up this morning able to smell, and my voice sounds less like it went through a meat grinder. I’m glad Hayden never caught what I had. Both of us down is DEFCON 1 at this point in the season.
“Good,” he smiles. “You’ve got some color in your cheeks again.”
When I slide into the passenger seat, there’s already an iced coffee in the cup holder for me. Some painful traffic on the 405 leads us to even more painful traffic on the 5. Hayden tells me to fear not: he has a riveting podcast about the secrets of the Vatican Archives I simply need to hear.
We inch out of traffic as the verbose narrator tells us of a conspiracy about three little Portuguese children who were told creepy-ass prophecies by the Virgin Mary. Hayden’s attention is equally split between the road and the podcast, and he occasionally gasps when some real dramatic tea is spilled, though I suspect he knows all of this already.
“Does the Vatican really have the world’s largest collection of porn?”
He shrugs. “Allegedly.”
“Do you think they’d let us in? We’re…journalists. In a way.”
His eyebrow rises, one arm propped on the window. “I do not think ‘journalist’ is the best word for what we are.”
“Meh.”
“Though, there must be some fourteen-year-old boy with a larger porn stash.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
He glares across the front seat over the frames of his sunglasses. “You’re typecasting.”
“What? Typecasting you as the awkward virgin conspiracy theorist? Never. That’d be totally unoriginal of me. I am sure offering to tell someone about Project MKUltra gets everyone into bed with you. Who could ever turn down that dirty talk?”
His eyes roll, but a smile tugs at his lips. “You know, everyone has a different type of dirty talk, and that’s okay.”
“…You wouldn’t actually talk about conspiracy theories during sex, would you?”
My cheeks feel hot because I’m not sure if the prospect of hearing about Project Blue Book while getting laid is a turn-on or a turnoff. “If someone asked.”
“ Has anyone asked?”
“No, not yet.”
“Yet?”
“Not…it’s not like there’s been a girlfriend in recent years for me to ask.”
I wonder if there’s been anyone in recent years, any awkward Tinder dates or one-night stands when he first got to LA. He says he hasn’t dated , but hookups are different. As we move closer to a tipping point, these are the things that occupy my mind.
“Right. Well, I’ll give a heads-up to the next girl you sleep with.”
Part of me hopes it’s me. His eyes drift from the road to me, then focus back on the curves in front of us rather than the ones on my body. There’s a glimmer of hunger in his eyes, and if he keeps looking at me like that, he can talk about whatever the fuck he wants in bed.
We stop for gas north of Bakersfield. We’ve worked our way through two whole podcast episodes about the Vatican Archives and their alleged porn stash, and Hayden agreed we could take a break, since it was a lot to take in. At least when someone else was talking, we didn’t have to confront the tingling attraction that’s made his mid-tier sedan feel stifling. I’m at least glad I’m not driving. I’ve spent most of the ride watching Hayden drive and being unreasonably turned on by it—the sharp angles of his hands, one in his hair, the other on the wheel; the sunglasses that he thinks hide all his looks over at me resting on the bridge of his nose.
I’ve agreed to pay for gas, so I handle filling up while he uses the bathroom and purchases more snacks for the road. Hayden returns with two water bottles, a bag of Twizzlers, and a small bag of chips. As we load into the car, he hesitates over the gearshift.
“Can I talk to you about something?” he finally says.
“Sure.”
He fiddles with the keychains on his keys, dangling from the ignition. He spins a small alien head around several times.
“My mom lives in San Francisco.”
I know this already, but this isn’t a fact. It’s a question.
“Okay. Do you want to take a detour?” I ask.
“I think I have to.” He rubs the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “I’ve been putting it off, and if she knows I came up here and didn’t even…I don’t know.”
“Yeah, we can take some time to go see her,” I agree without question. To be fair, any extra time we build into our trip is less time I need to spend in the woods getting eaten alive by mosquitos. I imagine Hayden’s mother has a house in the city with actual walls and beds.
I imagine she would at least have a mosquito net.
He nods slowly. “Thanks. We could cancel one of the nights at our San Jose hotel and stay with her instead. Do dinner, you know.”
We linger in silence. I worry about spending a night in Hayden’s mom’s house. It’s like the first sleepover at a new friend’s house. I might not know where the bathrooms are or end up stuck in awkward chats with his parents if I wake up first.
Finally, a signal kicks back into his phone and the soft indie beats Spotify playlist we’ve been listening to fills the car.
“Do you not want to see her?” I ask over the song.
“I do. I just…My mom and I aren’t that close. I mean, I see her every few months, and I saw her back at Christmas, but I don’t imagine she’ll be thrilled to hear that I am here…to…uh, hunt Bigfoot.”
“Most women do want to come before Bigfoot.”
He finally looks up, with a laugh. “That’s fair. I think she’d be okay if Bigfoot wasn’t on the list at all.”
“Does she not support the show? I mean, your dad was the Master of Horror. Can she really be that shocked that you’re into this stuff?”
“Okay, to be fair, they did get divorced.” I let him take his time with his words. “I don’t know. She’s never warmed up to the idea of her only kid hunting monsters on the internet. Or talking about them on a podcast.”
I try to imagine Hayden doing something different with his life, and it is hard. Even if it was a passion project while he had some pencil-pusher job, I can’t imagine a world where he isn’t hunting for monsters in some capacity. He’s been lucky enough to make it his whole job.
“With my degree,” he says, “I think she hoped I’d produce music or go into postproduction and that I was maybe turning a corner when I moved to LA. And to be fair, I did audio for some short films and freelanced a bit, but those were jobs . Never my job .”
“Well, won’t she feel silly when we make this show huge and have, like, ten seasons of hunting monsters.”
He fakes a tired smile, like even thinking about the visit is wearing him down. He doesn’t need to take off his glasses to look far younger now. There’s something so pleading and childlike in his eyes. “She’ll be perfectly nice to you, I think, but there might be some backhanded compliments thrown our way. I’m used to them, but—”
“Hayden,” I say, “I can handle a backhanded compliment from a middle-aged white lady just fine.”
“I know, but—”
I cut him off, my hand clasping over his on the gearshift. “I won’t take offense. I just…I care that you’re okay.”
Finally, as our fingers weave together, the shaking in his hands stops and he looks away.
“I’m sorry for burdening you—”
“It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay.”
It’s not like Hayden to share things like this with me, and now I know why. He’s scared that I’ll take it all on my shoulders and that it’ll weigh me down. But he’s the first person to take on someone else’s pain.
His thumb brushes across the back of my palm. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, leaving me to speak up.
“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I’ll be there the whole time.”
Somehow, this settles him. “Okay. Thank you.”
He hesitates before driving, and I can tell his head is still somewhere else. I unlace my fingers from his. I want to lead him someplace that hurts less.
“Isn’t there one more episode in that Vatican series?”
He nods.
“I want to know what they know about the apocalypse.”
“No, you don’t,” he laughs.
“I do.”
Finally, he sighs, opens his phone, and hits Play.
?
?
I might be coming around on a lot of things, but I highly doubt I’m going to come around on Fresno Nightcrawlers. While Hayden insists it is possible that little creatures who look like white culottes are viable cryptids, I’m mostly convinced this is a case of kids in weird ghost costumes.
Yet, I still climb out of the car as we reach Fresno and follow him. We’re going to be spending most of the weekend in the woods, so I suppose I need to microdose nature where I can. We’re in a park, I think. Central California constantly reminds me how little there is up here. In the dark, it’s hard to make out much more than brambles, the occasional skeletal tree, and—in the distance—a suspicious-looking bridge. Oh no, I hope we’re not going there.
“Remember,” Hayden whispers. “ Pants .”
“They wear white before Memorial Day?”
“ And after Labor Day!”
“Absolute deviants.”
He slides a flashlight into his jacket pocket and clutches our night-vision camera. I think about our conversation in the car earlier, and I’m happy to see the light coming back into Hayden’s eyes. I never thought something could dim him so quickly, but evidently, his mother does. I might not know the full extent of it, but I know tomorrow night will not be easy for him.
For weeks, we’ve been talking about this trip. We’ve plotted our drives, our hunts, our accommodations. He’s always stumbled over his words as our conversations circled around San Francisco. Now I know why.
I feel compelled to try and alleviate whatever pain I can. So as much as I don’t want to wander into this weird park after dark, I follow. At least I’m not alone, and hopefully Hayden likes me enough to fight off some woodsy demon for me.
The spring air is crisp, and I bury my hands in my pockets to keep them from freezing off as we trek across the open land. There are no signs of Nightcrawlers or any other creatures lurking about. Nevertheless, Hayden peeks behind every tree, and tells me to beware of something called a Hidebehind.
“It’s how lumberjacks go missing,” he explains.
“Oh no, you better be careful. All you’re missing is an axe.”
He frowns. I hear the ringing in my ears way too loud, punctuated by the rustle of leaves. I am vulnerable to all forms of attack here. Bugs, bears, Nightcrawlers.
“I don’t like nature,” I lament.
“It’s good for the soul.”
“Lyme disease is not!” Though, the trees and bushes are not particularly thick here. I’m only in real danger if I fall into one of them, which is a distinct possibility.
Hayden reaches into his backpack and tosses a can my way. I fumble for it, the aluminum clinking against a rock on the ground. He chuckles, shining the flashlight on me as I reach for it. My fingers brush through brambles, leaves, and something horrifically squishy. Then, finally, bug spray.
“Don’t say I never do anything for you. You fear Lyme disease and I provide.”
“My hero,” I grumble behind him. “You know, I did some research on these peculiar pantaloons, and it is weird that the first sighting of them—this guy was recording CCTV footage and then filmed the monitor with a camera and ‘accidentally’ deleted the original footage.”
Hayden tilts his head like he’s a curious puppy and I’ve thrown him a bone here. “You researched it?”
“Of course. I am a thorough bitch. It seems like a pretty good way to get shitty footage that’s hard to debunk.”
“You believe in Fresno Nightcrawlers, don’t you, Hallie?”
I shuffle the leaves beneath my boots. “If I was going to start somewhere, I would not begin with Fresno Nightcrawlers.”
“If you were going to start believing in something, what would it be?” he asks. “I just want to know what your jumping-off point is, Nonbeliever.”
“I don’t have one,” I lie. I will never admit it, even if my life depends on it, but I am struggling less and less with Bigfoot existing. It isn’t completely unreasonable for a bipedal primate to live in the woods or for a snowy version to live in the Himalayas.
I do not, however, believe Bigfoot is an alien.
“One day,” he groans.
“Never.”
He turns and glares with a teasing look in his eyes. I think of the way Hayden looks at me a lot. Each coy glance is another opportunity to spar with him and prove I’m just as smart and capable as he is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he likes it. He comes alive when I push and poke and make him work for it.
This time, he steps closer and rests his hands on my shoulders. My eyes jump to the curve of his bottom lip, the soft pout that forms as he studies me. The woods smell like wet grass and rain, but all I can smell is him: the sharp tinge of amber and whiskey, and I think of how his hair will probably smell like lemon verbena tonight (if his theory holds), and I suddenly want to curl up close to him and take it all in.
It’d be so easy for him to run his hands up my shoulders, fingers brushing my neck. I imagine him tilting my chin up and doing what I secretly wish he’d done on the playground. I worry that my rejection has made him feel scorned, and he may be afraid to make another attempt, but I’m running out of reasons to stop myself.
For the first time in years, parts of me don’t feel like they’re under lock and key. I’m not as scared of what he’ll find. Maybe my mind is elevated like a horny MKUltra experiment, or maybe I’ve found someone who is looking for answers and not ammo.
His throat bobs and his eyelids hang heavy, like he could shut them and sink into this moment with such ease. So could I. I’m not even thinking about bugs right now, and I am always thinking about bugs when I am outside.
The air is full of static around us, like another touch will send electricity rattling all over my body, and I want it to. He’d be the best shock of my life. He has been the best shock of my life. I feel him like radioactive particles running through my blood, like I’ll never settle. It feels like it’s killing me and sparking me back to life all at once. It’s the first time I’ve wanted to believe in something in so long.
I can still sense his body more strongly than I should when he pulls away, and I know it’s my own fault.
“Onward, Nonbeliever.” Hayden orders us toward a bridge in the middle of the woods.
“I don’t want to climb on that.”
“A whole-ass train drives over it. I don’t think we will be the ones to break it. Come on. We have a vantage point here.” Hayden flashes his flashlight like a laser pointer and I’m Cthulhu trying to chase it. I don’t take the bait, but again, I follow. I step in something squishy and whimper as we approach. I am excited to be on solid ground. Wood is nice. Wood is way better than mud. Then I remember termites exist.
Hayden finally stops dead center on the bridge and sits, shrugging off his backpack. His flashlight floods up to me as I pace warily toward him. Like a true gentleman, he slips off his jacket and sets it on the ground beside him so I don’t have to sit on the moist wood. I slip my legs between the bars on the bridge and look out into the darkness. The moon casts a glow over us, enough for me to see him and any Nightcrawlers we happen to find.
“So, we just sit and look for pants?” I ask.
“We could play I Spy.”
“I spy with my little eye—something green.”
Hayden rolls his eyes. “It’s nature. It’s all green.”
“Sometimes nature is brown.”
“Right. That bush?” He points to the closest bush.
“Damn.”
“You aren’t even trying. I could do better with my glasses off.”
“So take them off,” I laugh.
He does as I ask and passes them to me. I feel like I’m holding such an integral piece of him, like the bad guy in Scooby-Doo holding Velma’s glasses out of reach. I hold the frames up to my eyes and stare out at the land in front of us. The lenses are so thick, and the world blurs to a canvas of muddy blacks and blues and sprays of green. I turn to him. The frames hardly fit on my face, sliding down my nose.
“Jesus, you really can’t see anything, can you?”
“I told you.”
But I can still make out the sharp figure of his body—the dark blues of his jeans and the chestnut browns in his hair. I can still see his coy smile, and—for once—he’s taking advantage of my lack of vision in the same way I always take advantage of his. I can linger on the pinch of dimples in his cheeks or the way his dark eyelashes brush against his skin when he closes his eyes. Right now, the world looks blurry and messy to both of us, but we can both still see what’s important.
And, more than that, I can still hear him breathing like it’s the loudest thing in the world, and as I wiggle closer to him, our legs brush together. Neither of us pulls away. Every touch is an occupational hazard. Washing my hair, sleeping in his bed, curling up beside him, our hands weaving together in the car. Every single touch convinces me that all I want is more.
“Hayden, I…”
“I know. It’ll be hard for either of us to spot Nightcrawlers this way.”
The shock of his hands coming to the sides of my face rattles my entire body, and I lean into him, one hand resting on the waffle knit of his Henley. I feel every breath, and I can’t stop myself from curling my fingers around the fabric and pulling him closer. He swallows loud enough for me to hear, and his thumbs brush along my jaw. One of them is dangerously close to my pulse point, and he must know how hard my heart is beating.
He’s so close, and I can hardly look away from his lips. Pressure builds in my chest, like something is sitting on me, smothering me. This is the most dangerous part of a crush—the limbo that hangs between action and inaction, like dry brush in fire conditions. Anything could ignite it and burn right through us.
I’m out of excuses and full of screaming want—for Hayden’s lips, the taste of his mouth and bites of beard and every press of his body. As he removes the glasses from my face, there’s a split second I can see him failing to talk himself out of this. His tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip. In my head, I see myself sinking my teeth into it, my fingers knotting in his soft waves, kissing the slants of his neck until he moans my name. Then, when he slides his glasses back onto his face, there’s another split second of calm before we shatter the illusions in both of our heads and lean in.