The Tale of Ryan Nunes

I started moving out of retrograde when I felt his fingers lace with mine under the dimming house lights in a room of steaming wallflowers. His hands were warm and so were mine, which they usually aren't. I didn't know the level of infinitely more complicated and aglow we were in equal proportion to each other. I didn't know how much our lives would entangle in a matter of hours while brushing elbows and singing our separate something's into the sky, well, the rafters of that jam-packed concert house. I think for the briefest moment we pretended we were in love - or maybe for the briefest moment we actually were, or in some strange nearly-fictional way we still are. I saw the way he looked right at me until a moment of hang time after I looked right at him. We'd been having two conversations at once for 72 hours, most of which consisted of no words at all. The conversation our voices had though, happens to be the kind most often left unspoken.

I fell in love for 4 hours with a boy from far away at a concert on a Thursday. He's a friend of a friend’s friend who I may never see again - but uncomfortably hope that I do. He sang the words in my ear - or maybe that was just his breathing - and held me like we’d met when we were 16. He held my hands. At the bar afterwards he asked every good question, never kissed me, and made better eye contact than I do. Blissfully innocent. Every now and again I ask the universe for a reminder that I am capable of feeling that same, strange feeling using all my birthday candles, 11:11’s, eye lashes, and yellow lights.

The one I had at 16 asked me to grow old with him when I was 17 left when I was 18 drank about me until I was 20 asked me to come home when I was 21 then he told me weeks later that he never loved me at all. The universe mostly just likes to remind me of him, but sometimes throws in a 6 hour romantic comedy when things seem especially grim. The Far Off Boy, The Free Skier, The Afrikaner Hippy, The Motorcycle, The One That Got Deported - all gently wrapped and added to the life story that I don’t actually believe. It’s too confusing. It’s too complex. I have to figure out climate change first anyway. But the Far Off Boy stumps me.

After the hours surrounded by music we relocated to a bar. I honestly could barely register the fact that my best friend was six feet away from me while this whole ordeal happened - I was more present than I've been in a long time. He would ask questions quietly and stare me down with a smirk I recognized from a time long ago until I remembered I was supposed to be answering, not just repeating the question back. "So you work on art in a barn and lived in Africa and Florida and now you're here?" The question sounded as lost as I've been this whole time, and we would both be in stitches before the end of the sentence. He would study my face with his mouth just barely open; on the verge of saying one more thing. I studied his face right back. I tried not to show any of my nervous tells that mean I actually want to be having a conversation - don't chew the tender chunk of your lip that houses both your anxiety and curiosity, don't do it or he might kiss you and then your life will be over again, said my terrified Ego to my Id. I tried not to let my eyes water and have to flutter my eyelids to keep out the freezing cold but did anyway. He closed his mouth, tightened his jaw, and smirked again in the way that has haunted me. He gave the tiniest shake of his head - bewildered as I was myself. Our tiny mannerisms had the loudest conversation in the room. It made it easy to just… spill.

I've met people that make it easy to spill before. But never one that makes my Ego and Id argue with each other about my mindless facial movements. They're all people that have taught me, and then took me under their wing. They're all like extra fathers or brothers I never had. None of them are young enough to be standing next to me when the sky starts folding in on itself. All of them want me to keep thinking as much as I do, as long as I can. "I… lost something, a long time ago. And now I just… be whatever I want to be and do whatever I want to do, whenever I want. Because I can. Because nothing else is that important, I guess… it's complicated" were the only words I could scrounge to throw out. He had just made the bullshit story of a heartbreak from hell fall out as the pure wonder that I've always been trying to explain.

I turned and sprinted in the direction of our ride home with my friend that I had left on earth, intoxicated more by thinking about what had just happened than the vodka and pickle back at closing time. Right now even, I remember his hand barely brushing the back of mine on the bar top and his leg warm and purposely against mine just below. Every contact surface and tiny space in between electrified - buzzing with the light that hides just inside our silent conversations. I think if we maintained too many points of contact - touch, sight, soul - for too long, lightning would be compelled to strike us. He reminds me of someone I used to know, but full. He's probably dangerous, just as dangerous as I am for him.

Laying in bed that night, barely making it under the covers before sleep struck me, I thought of the shame it was that I'd never see him again. He was challenging and kind all at the same time. He made me turn on the bedside light in the cave of my imagination and go have a look around.

"Football game, tomorrow at 8:00" popped up on my phone screen, damning the dream dust that was about to settle on my pillow. The phone vibrate settings are always more surprising when I'm about to sleep. A second came through as I squinted and typed the wrong password for the third time, the Far Off Boy would be there. I felt joy and dread and apathy all at the same time. The phone unlocked and unloaded the rest of my notifications. The only one being a new follower on Instagram - him. His feed was full of truly epic photos of wildland firefighting shenanigans, and a far ways down, a girl. I hadn't processed the comment that was said to me by his friend earlier that night as anything more than a sentence that floated in one ear and out the other but I heard it echo back in my skull that was starting to drain of alcohol: "there's a woman, hey there's a woman" I remembered from a moment after the concert following the herd out of the concert house. It wasn't a sentence at that moment but it was a sentence now: There's a woman.

The next 36 hours passed, armpits sweating and worrying this sparkling human had made a horrible alcohol-fueled decision and danced with his best friend's ex-girlfriend's friend while on a brief vacation, taking in a concert. I probably shouldn't go to this game, I thought. If there is a woman and I go, I'll either go and he'll be exactly as lovely as before or he'll be silent in a state of guilt for having voluntarily charmed (and been charmed by) me. Or it could be more complicated.

We got to the stadium and were surrounded by people milling around us in every direction - the kind of machine of moving parts and people that makes my stomach do backflips on a normal day. He had messaged me an hour earlier wondering at our whereabouts - whether we were going to be to the game soon. My stomach was showing off its new tricks and then they appeared right in front of us on their way to the bathroom. He looked at me and I looked at him and smiled and looked at the ground. How many times have you read that description in a book before? How many times have you felt that specific, razor sharp moment? I was saved from needing to decide whether or not to hug him by his momentum pulling towards the restroom. I waved and we climbed up the stairs into the world. We couldn't find space in the apparent, usual spot so we climbed higher and higher. I relished the split seconds of fear while moving from step to step before my weight would settle - where I would imagine flashes of losing my balance and falling backwards down the section of stadium seating. What's going to happen tonight, I kept asking myself, over and over. The boys popped onto the section landing, but turned into seats far below. His head turned to look in every direction. I redirected my gaze to the game - my first acknowledgement of it so far: please don't look, please don't look, please just watch the game, please don't lo--

"Oh, there they are! Come on let's go sit!" chirped my friend next to me, "Ah! He's definitely looking for you, come on!" she added.

"Nope, he can keep looking and see and they can climb up here, I am not going to voluntarily make this more complicated, I am morally compromised, my armpits are sweaty..." I began to ramble without looking away from the field.

"Oh my god, okay, well then I'm gonna go to the bathroom." she said. I told her this was a good idea, then she could pretend to be surprised on her way back up to me while I continued my formal protest. "Duh, why else?" she said - this is why she and I are best friends. The away team managed to keep the home team from getting a first-down, surprising based on the score so far; a sloppy game that doesn't demand my complete attention; a sloppy game that fosters my tendency towards distractibility. It started to take a long time and I pondered for a moment leaving and walking to my grandparents house, to my barn where I make all my art. The thought came and passed quickly, and then there they were to my right. I had forgotten to keep watch. My friend shuffled past, then him, his friend was a zombie level of drunk and stood like a statue on my other side. He sat next to me on purpose, shit, shit shi --

"We found you." he turned slightly with his hands in his pockets to smirk that smirk.

"You did, I was starting to think I'd been forgotten" I laughed with as much gusto. Stop being charming, you know too much already, piped my Id, or maybe my Ego, again. We hardly noticed the tension between both of our friends - ones with a complicated grey area relationship at the current moment. Their tension didn't disrupt our meandering chat over the game we definitely were not paying attention to. I finally remember looking back at the field when the marching band began - and suddenly we were talking about how I used to play all kinds of instruments and how he played the piano and this and that and it all just made sense. It wasn't difficult to talk, why is it so easy to talk to him this is going to be a mess? - went the broken record in my head. We were winning so badly at this point that I came back to reality immediately when someone said "alright so where to next? Out?"

"Yep, let's walk it's cold!" I said and jumped up. We moved through the chaos and I could always sense him right behind me, maybe even taking the same steps I had just vacated. We got through the tailgating and over to the gas station - making our way towards the pizza parlor. That line is so long. I thought, then realized I'd said out loud. His friend had already disappeared into the fray and my friend more in her own turmoil than the turmoil of the pizza line said "yeah lets just go downtown - can we go to the barn?" Oh that's a good idea - maybe he will think it's a little too odd and won't look at me like that and it'll all be better, I thought. To the barn we began to stroll. We walked in-step, the three of us, my friend and I bouncing back and forth explaining exactly what the Barn is to the boy under my skin.

No, there aren't animals. No it's not technically a garage. No it's not for farming. It's for art. And reading. And writing. And there's a bunch of random stuff inside to stay entertained with. Even with help this is all too dreamy to be explaining I can taste the story-book clichés falling out of my mouth, oh no. And he just kept looking. I said to try and change the subject that I wish I had pancakes, banana pancakes. "Banana pancakes?" he asked. It's like he knew that when we had walked from the bar to the game I had been playing Jack Johnson on my phone and dancing across the street - yup there's Jayden poking her head over to look at me this is one of those batshit crazy things, yikes. "Do you like Jack Johnson?" he asked a few thoughts beyond the banana pancake conversation; no more than 50 yards further down the sidewalk, though. I told him yeah. In my head I thought: I mean most people do, and I know banana pancakes brought you to that question but I know now that you definitely like Jack Johnson and that's good because I like him a little more than casually and unfortunately I think I like you a little more than casually and god damn it this is messy, isn't it?

And then we were in the Barn, giving the shy, grand tour I'd given to only family members, my best friend, already here, my most valuable mentor, and me. But he actually paid close attention. He kept his hands in his pockets as if his mother had taught him to politely look but not touch - but he'd point and ask good question after good question. I kept wandering, adjusting things positions, standing across the yawning room observing him observe my space, observing my friend sitting on the couch in her relationship grey area, trying to get his friend to meet us once we got to town. I came back out of my concern for her to find he had made it to where I stood. He always spoke quietly, right next to me - everything he said was meant for me: "What are all these poems from? You?" I explained how I've kept everything I've ever thought hard about - from school, journals, posters, pamphlets - and how I use them to keep thinking more. He ambled over to my shelf of supplies and my books.

If you've read the books on my bookshelf, you can pretty well formulate what kind of person I might be. But there are few people who have read my entire bookshelf. He had me explain what each book was. I volunteered, additionally, their plots, how I acquired them, why I liked them, while opening and closing, passing my hand over the pages with my old notes in the margins. I could see him peer at my comments on the pages, so I let that page hover open - and I would read whatever I had commented on aloud quietly and laugh. I couldn't stop being myself. Not around my books. He wrote down most of the titles: "are you actually going to read those?" I asked.

"They sound like the kind of books I always wish I knew about. They sound like they're important, and good. You're smart. I want to know why." Why does he have better answers than his already good questions? Why does he want to know? - chirped the voice in my head while I only offered a smile and turn on my heel. But I kind of want to tell him everything. Everything, everything. We got word we were to head downtown and go play video games at the Barcade - one of my secret hideouts for its grunginess. Normal people only go there to play a couple rounds of Frogger for the novelty of it, or jump on the Nintendo 64 and live a different life. I love it there because there's bright colors and chirping game machines, and bells ringing, and my favorite DJ in town playing tunes I could never have found that put a groove in my boots better than my usual. Another test - because the Barn didn't work. Or maybe it did. I'm starting to get confused.

I rushed in and grabbed a Montucky Cold Snack and changed out my dollar bills for quarters. I'm no good at any video games but I liked to try. I felt him over my shoulder again. We both felt his friend, returned from wherever, watching intently. We both went back to forgetting anyone else was around us. Floating to one game after another, nearly playing a rhythmic hide and seek between all the consoles at the pace of our continued GAME OVER's - where the game of hide and seek and hover and disappear, tag you're it, was the only one that actually mattered. We all sat down to play an old game from a generation we barely belong to, if at all. I could feel his warmth next to me, spreading from the left side of my body to my right with the same electricity as two nights before. I couldn't move away. I'm usually so cold. The game passed in front of my eyes, mostly glazed over while I analyzed every fidget and squirm that passed between our coats. There isn't enough time. He's going to leave. It's already messy - I could hear my Ego and Id screaming in unison, confused who was defending the heart or the head.

Our friends in their grey-area tango decided it was time to go onward. We wandered the streets that I only like at night or early in the morning as a pack. He and I in the back, bumping sides with each other every few steps, our two best friends ahead, the tension a wall between their military paces. At crosswalks he would almost turn to face me, and commit to putting a hand on my mid back, only enough to barely feel through my coat. He knows this is complicated too. What is going on? Who is she? - whispered my subconscious team for the final time. We passed briefly through the Dance Club, known by most of the paper white population as the Gay Bar, which yes, is true, but more importantly - the bar in town with Karaoke, real discotheque embiance, and highly protective gay men. Another of my favorite litmus tests, or anxiety exams for the straight men I trust enough not to react poorly to something foreign to them. My friend and I immediately disappeared to the middle of the floor, letting loose her objectively frustrating last few hours to some upbeat remixes of our favorite old indie favorites. I believe songs that play around you can be messages that you're exactly where you're supposed to be. I believe the DJ playing "We Are The People" by Empire of the Sun with even more beats that it already had for her and I to take a timeout was a message. It was a song that had made me dance since I'd first heard it, even in my steam-rolled state after my heart breaking forever ago. I believe music, and how it moves people in so many directions and dimensions, must be magical.

A sparkling streamer appeared in front of my face with the tail leading to his hand, leading to his arm, leading to his shoulder and trunk and there was his smirk. Not like the one I remember - a smirk all its own. He rambled about how he had been blessed by a man and bestowed this wand. My jaw opened barely while I stared at him and let him gush over the club, he doesn't find this uncomfortable at all - he's just dancing, he doesn't think I'm crazy - which I might be, he's full of magic too! And I closed my jaw and smiled a big smile, right at him. And he smiled an actual smile right back, his eyes reflecting the flashing lights as a panorama on their glassy surface. He didn't get further than an inch away for what feels like the entirety of the rest of the evening.

At closing time we wandered to the Alley full of art. Freak Alley. Everything I'll describe Freak Alley to be is likely what I said to him to explain what I like or don't like or get out of the artwork and the place it takes up. It has been one of my favorite places about this town since I was little, coming to visit in summers and for holidays. It is always changing, and always showing me something new. It gives me inspiration, sure - but it gives me clues about my life. A new quote painted over an older image telling me a metaphorical version of an answer to what I've been trying to figure out since the last time. Freak Alley is full of stories - and the walls can talk.

He was staring at a painting of a bookshelf full of revised, mostly melancholy titles: When Ryan Met John, Pretty Ryan, Forgetting Ryan Nunes, 10 Things I Hate About Ryan, Batman and Ryan, Sleeping With Other Ryan's - "Who do you think Ryan is?" he quietly asked me. I took a few moments to think about how I wanted to answer. By the look on his face he didn't know what the titles were referring to, other than Batman and Ryan. He didn't know that most are cheesy, complicated, cliché stories about love and loss and the likes and therefore couldn't extrapolate the theory that Ryan is someone's not-favorite person. I could sense the less glowing parts of me begging to spill. The one's where I have a bookshelf dedicated to my own Ryan Nunes. "You know, I don't know… But whoever he is, he probably really fucked up." I proceeded to explain the plots of each of the stories I knew to provide credibility to my theory. And then I dipped my toes in figuring out what his secret story of the woman might be: "I have a bookshelf of books that kind of tell the same story, just less obviously, and not on display for the world to know the name of my Ryan Nunes. And I've heard you might end up with a shelf about you soon..."

The words hung in the air for the longest moment that was likely no time at all. His eyes widened for a split second while he spilled out the word "probably, yeah..." but flitted back downward to gently kick the toe of my boots and smirk like he did. "It's… complicated," smiling as he stole one of my closing lines from the bar the other night. My moral compass should have been shrieking at that interaction. My moral compass is one I have full confidence in. In a normal instance, the moment a man - no matter how charming - is outed for some degree of wickedness, I sprint for the furthest possible location from them. I've been eaten alive by wickedness and do not need a few extra licks. But for whatever reason, his "it's complicated" sounds like the kind I can't even inch away from.

"That's fucked up" I said and I grinned. He slowly cocked his head to one side and grinned too. It is fucked up, I meant it. We knew that.

"You're very strange" he mentioned while redirecting his gaze to his shoes, eyes darting out of the corner of his eyes over at mine, still trained on him. Then mine floated up to the sky following our foggy breath into the cold air. For not having said anything I'd never been told by some sleaze bag at a bar or my laundry list of extra fathers and defensive brothers - this guy had really crawled right under my skin, surpassing every road block and trench with ease. Who are you? - the voice of neither my Ego nor my Id exclaimed from the peanut gallery in my brain. The tension between our friends had lead to a ride home being summoned to take Jayden and I home, and it was arriving so I took a moment to leave a dangling rope: "Whoever she is, whatever you're planning to do or say just promise me one thing..." and he studied my face while nodding in consent, "never tell her you never loved her - that's exactly how you end up like Ryan Nunes." I finished my request gazing at the stars while our driver closed in on the last two blocks.

"Is that what happened to you?" he asked. I could sense real concern in his voice. "It is, among other things - but it's probably the most important..." I told him what my Ryan Nunes' name was, is. As the car came and I leaned off the wall to disappear forever, he tugged my sleeve and said "I want to know who he is… Ryan, I mean," before releasing my sleeve to let my momentum continue forward. I slowly turned on my heels and kept my eyes locked on his, with a final wink and wave I got in the car and we went home. I didn't feel morose about not seeing him again, because I hadn't felt like we would never again speak. I didn't feel guilty about glowing in front of him because you can't possibly feel guilt for that kind of cryptic, bubbling saga of interactions - was all that even real?

I spilled the beans to my friend as we got ready for far too little sleep. She had been right about her feeling when she met him the year before while I was in Florida, finishing school. He may very well be one of my soul mates. A very important one. Telling her every detail I could remember, she took it all in with excitement. Going through my phone one last time there was a message, from him. "I want to know who he is" he had said. I typed that I would look into it and see what I could find out. The typing-bubble-of-doom appeared so I stared at the screen and waited: "You'll find the answer - seems like you already might know." I knew he wasn't leaving until the day after the next - I shut the lid on my moral compass and asked if he would be free for an adventure, locked the screen, and dozed off into mostly-forgotten dreams. There was a long one right before I woke up, where he and I were sitting and talking, side-by-side like we'd shown we're good at. I remember it being a good conversation, warm and fuzzy - but I don't remember what about. I wonder if he was dreaming about me too? When I woke up to take my friend home it was too early for him, a probably more sleep-inclined person to have responded. I didn't mention the pending adventure to her in the car, we were talking about his best friend breaking her heart. Broken-heart talks always come before curious-heart talks - that's friendship.

It was the morning twilight by the time we got to her house and the long wispy clouds were catching the first orange rays of light. She got out of the car and I turned in the direction of home, singing to the playlist currently running on my phone - I switch which one or start over all the time, I can't keep up with myself, there are too many good songs. I saw my screen light up and glanced at it at a stop light; a message from my friend, a few lines long ending in "so he's definitely awake now FYI." He's awake. I guess we'll find out about the adventure soon then. When I pulled into my driveway I yanked the break and flicked the engine off while reaching across myself to my phone. He had accepted the invitation to the adventure before we'd even gotten all the way to my friend's house. Does he like mornings?

The day moved rapidly from getting ready for morning time with my grandparents, to passing by the coffeeshop to drop in on a chat with an old teacher and good friend. I could tell my teacher could tell something was different about me than usual - not "off" because between him and I, I've been "off" for four years. I told him nothing besides the part where we had gone to the club. Not why or with whom. He was pleased I had left my barn, and I didn't want to jinx it. At grandparents' time, or, church, I sat up in the balcony and wrote everything I had on my mind about this boy and our conversations which has landed on a character named Ryan Nunes. I went home in no traffic and changed to go to the art museum with someone I had done illustrations for - and while it was splendid, it was everything I could do to not bring him and our impending adventure up. I got home again and changed once more into my coat and warmer socks while the sun set outside. It was time to figure out who Ryan is.

I picked him up and we decided the first stop would be the bookshelf again - we were on a quest, we had to search for clues. In my head I was always giggling like a kid playing in their imaginary world. It's likely impossible to truly solve the angst of whoever made this mural, but it feels exhilarating as an adult to even try. We pondered the wall, googled more thorough explanations of the original stories' plots, pondered how much of the surrounding paintings also belonged to the artist and scoured the layers of painted brick for identifying information. We came up with a few theories - the most essential being that Ryan definitely has something in common with Heath Ledger, the actor portrayed characters in 2 of the titles - it had to be. What would Health Ledger Ryan be doing? We figured he would be looking at the world from the top of the parking garage, so we went. And the questions about me and my Ryan resumed - it seems he always takes a while to warm up, and observe before grilling me for ideas I usually share with no one. We jumped on scooters they set up to transit downtown and I inhaled the wind chilled air as we made our way back to my car, to the next place Heath Ledger might be: the view point everyone and their brother likes to hike to. The place where your Ryan told you he loved you while crying because he was afraid to tell you - my mind appreciates me including that point, though it makes me cringe. We drove up as far as we could, and he reviewed what he had gathered of my life story so far while we navigated the turns through the hills. He would have gotten an "F" on the assignment due to lacking a lot of essential information - but the parts I had told him so far he identified perfectly, they just don't fit together without a very long story. We reviewed his, but he still left out the mystery woman.

We got as far as we could by car and strolled to the edge, letting our legs dangle and I told him the story of my Ryan Nunes, more thoroughly than I can remember ever telling someone before.

---

"I don't know, so maybe he's Ryan or maybe I am - he has plenty of reason to make a bookshelf about the Melancholy of Me if he wanted to. Most everyone took my side, that's what people do - but I still think he's a good person who didn't deserve to be crushed by the world for not loving me… I would make a bookshelf about that," I said to him finally stopping my gaze at the city lights splayed below. My eyes landed on him staring at me with a smirk and the sparkling eyes that I was growing entirely too fond of. And he asked more, good questions. I was ready for his turn - to explain who he, as future Ryan Nunes on the shelf of the broken-hearted, needed from me, the owner of a very complicated library. And he did. It was like hearing the plaintiff in my own tragedy calmly tell me the truth; the love wasn't there anymore; he'd known a long time; he was struggling to decide which is a worse guilt - breaking her heart by leaving, or staying and being in less than what he believes love ought to be in order to avoid collateral damage. We talked about just about everything - our electric bubble doing its best against the wind. You love each other and have no idea what to do with that - what an incredibly beautiful mess, I heard in my head as our voices got quiet. We kept playing tag by staring at each other and looking out at the lights - every time we would catch the other we smiled and let out a tiny laugh of air and started over again. It came time to take him back, to avoid turning into a pumpkin.

We pulled up to his friend's building and he asked "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

That's a really good question, given the last 4 days events, I think. I told him no. "I think that you're asking yourself some of the most difficult questions in the world that we never find the answers to - and none of them are questions you can ask someone you've fallen out of love with. And if you leave, a lot of people will think you are a bad person. It's not fair - but it's the truth. But no, I don't believe you're a bad person for a minute." He smiled - like I might be the only person left after the apocalypse besides him; I know it was that kind of smile because we both knew I was right. And I knew I had just forgiven my Ryan Nunes. He climbed out of the car in slow motion and lingered with his head in the door, staring at me. "It'll be okay, I promise, you'll know what to do," not knowing whether I was cheering for his broken heart or his woman's. "I'll see you... you do fascinate me," and away he went. Back to the place that is far away.