Love and Other Conspiracies, page 9
“What? You have a least favorite of your dad’s books?”
“Well, no, but…” Finally, he breaks into a smile. It’s tired and half-hearted, but it’s a flash of the Hayden I’m growing to like. “It was the last one. He was so sick by the time it came out, we couldn’t even really celebrate the release. Still a bestseller. Most people don’t want to talk about the content, just that it was his final book. I don’t know. I like to think it was good because he wrote it, not just because he died.”
“Was The Out There his idea?”
“Kind of.” Hayden shifts in front of me, rubbing the back of his neck. My eyes trace along the inside of his bicep. I notice something new about his tattoos each time I study him. Today, it’s a small, odd-looking mermaid swimming in the waves around the ship on his arm. When I look up at him, there are words on his lips, but he’s weighing each of them carefully.
“I got bullied a lot as a kid. I’m sure that’s impossible to imagine.” His voice breaks off into a teasing laugh. As easy as it is to picture him far thinner with his big glasses, I hope anyone who messed with him realizes the kid they shoved around had a serious glow-up. “I was weird and shy and had a hard time making friends. Whenever I came home sad or upset, my dad would plan something for us to do that weekend. He’d rent a cabin in the woods for just the two of us and we’d go on these monster hunts.”
He slides his glasses over his hat, and it feels like a curtain rising before a Broadway show. He’s allowing himself to be on display. But this is not the quirky personality behind the microphone at all. Off mic and off camera, Hayden has a quiet presence. For all his height and muscle, he’s never once intimidated me.
“Now, of course, I know he was full of shit on a lot of these hunts. He’d tell me to be on guard for the Pope Lick Monster up in the woods of Massachusetts—”
“Absolutely foolish of him. Everyone knows the Pope Lick Monster—” I jest, leaning against the bookshelf with him.
“Resides in Kentucky,” Hayden glares, holding back a laugh.
“Of course.”
“But I didn’t know that when I was ten. It was the one time I felt like I wasn’t so weird after all. He always knew what I needed without me ever having to ask.” He twists at the watch around his wrist. “The podcast wouldn’t exist if not for him.”
“And we wouldn’t be here if not for him either.”
“Yeah.” This is the first I’m hearing about Hayden’s life outside of The Out There, and I want more. I want to understand everything about him because I’m constantly shocking myself with how much I’m liking every part of him. We couldn’t be more different, and yet…
The look in his eyes tells me he wants to say more too, but he doesn’t know how.
“So, how’d you go from hunting the Licking Guy to running a podcast?”
Hayden frowns. “Licking Guy makes him sound so nonconsensual. Eight years ago, when he first got sick, it was just the two of us. After their divorce, my mom moved to San Francisco with her new husband, so…We had this old brownstone in Boston that we lived in to be close to the hospital there. He had the LA apartment for when he came out here to work with his film agent. I was just starting college and I skipped the dorm experience so I could take care of him.”
“When you were eighteen?”
“Nineteen,” he corrects.
It’s still so young to give up the most exploratory years of life to care for someone else. It’s a sacrifice not many would make. It isn’t a sacrifice many could make.
“It’s still a lot.”
He toys with the bottom of his shirt, picking at a loose string. Today’s T-shirt is worn baby blue with two crows and the caption “Attempted Murder.” “ALS isn’t an easy way to die, but he made it for five years. I needed a job that let me work from home, so I did other audio engineering jobs remotely—student films, indie albums—until I started the podcast. I was only ever away from home for a few hours at a time near the end. I could always pause recording if he needed something.”
Hayden says it like it’s nothing. He says it with the same obviousness as when he talks about his more confident theories. There’s no doubt in his voice when he says it was the clear and easy choice to be at his dad’s beck and call.
“I’m sure he really appreciated having someone there to help him.”
“Yeah.” Finally, he breaks into a shy smile, rolling his eyes. “He’d always tell me to go out and have fun. Go to parties, fool around…do normal kid stuff. He’d threaten to hire temporary caretakers so it got me out of the house. It was like he hoped that, one day, I’d come home a drunk mess or get caught smoking pot.”
“Did you?”
“Not really. I mean, I’d occasionally take a night off to go out for drinks or spend time with my girlfriend. Even then, I was always waiting for my phone to ring in case a nurse would need me to explain something or something would go wrong. I never wanted to do anything that made it hard to switch gears if I had to.” Hayden’s glasses slide back onto his face. “So, sadly, no passing around a dirty bong in someone’s basement.”
“You weren’t missing much,” I assure him, but it doesn’t make up for years of time given entirely to someone else. Time he won’t get back. “It takes a strong person to do what you did. Your dad was lucky to have such a good kid.”
“I was lucky to have such a good dad,” is all he says.
“Do you think he’d approve of the direction the show is taking?”
He allows a crinkle of a smile to pass between us. Then he steps closer. “He’d approve of whatever made me happiest, so yeah, I think he’d like this. I think he’d like you, too.”
“Even if I don’t buy the spooky shit?”
He is so close, and I feel the same smothering sensation I felt in the hotel bar. It’s like drowning. His gaze just pulls me deeper underwater, and my heart races as he studies me. The silence is stifling.
He clears his throat. “Even if you don’t buy the spooky shit.”
I pass Hayden the copy of Phantom Lake, and he slips it back into place on the shelf just beside my head. He doesn’t back away just yet, leaning against the bookshelf and glancing down at me. My gaze flicks to his mouth as he bites on his bottom lip, then moves lower over his shoulders and biceps. I’m desperate to know if he’s thinking the same things as me—what my hair feels like between his fingers, what my lips taste like, what his body would feel like against mine. I’m just as terrified as I am hungry for what comes next. Just as I imagine what his hands would look like exploring my body, he jolts.
“Ow!”
A sad mewl comes from the floor, and Cthulhu’s fangs unhook from the bottom of Hayden’s jeans. I never anticipated getting cockblocked by a cat named Cthulhu, but “unexpected” is how I’d describe most parts of my life lately.
“That was super rude,” Hayden lectures the cat. “I feed you.”
We break apart as if none of this happened. Electricity fizzles out of the air, and Hayden snatches the book I was supposed to be hunting for before we got sidetracked. I dart back to the couch, feeling flushed and thinking that maybe watching the JFK assassination repeatedly will push these thoughts out of my brain. I put my head in my notebook, steadying my breathing before he speaks again. “And thanks.”
I look back up. “For?”
Hayden leans against the edge of the couch, flipping through book pages. I catch a subtle shake to his hands. Is that because of me? I look at my own hands. We match. “Listening.”
The word feels so heavy between us. Everything in my composure shrinks like a balloon deflating. I linger on how young he looks now. The beard makes him look a touch older than twenty-seven usually, but I don’t see that today. I see someone who gave up all their young adult years for someone else, whose late college nights weren’t just cramming for exams, but were filled with hospital trips and being ready to wake up and help at all times. Someone who’s completely selfless.
“Of course.”
“I don’t talk about it much, so sometimes it’s nice to…tell someone. There isn’t always someone to listen.”
It’s an admission in its own way, one I know Hayden doesn’t take lightly. What he’s said is far easier than admitting he’s lonely. His gaze hovers on me as I chew on his words.
“I learn a lot about people I don’t know from you, but it’s actually really nice to learn about you.”
Finally, it’s like we can both breathe again. Hayden’s eyes drift to the TV, where JFK is seconds away from being taken out by a “magic bullet.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet,” Hayden says.
The Out There
Episode #2: “The Magic Bullet Is Not a Blender”
On this week’s episode of The Out There, Hayden and Hallie dive into the JFK assassination. They break down the facts and the theories, from plausible to preposterous. Was it a lone extremist who killed the president, or something else?
HAYDEN
One of the more creative theories is that JFK was killed by the CIA.
HALLIE
That’s not that creative. See? I’m learning. There’s a “the CIA did it” theory behind almost everything.
HAYDEN
Sure, but the “why” is the creative part, and I’m not sure you’re going to buy it.
HALLIE
Try me.
HAYDEN
So in 1947—which is coincidentally the same year as the Roswell crash—President Truman established a secret organization of scientists and government officials and stuff to investigate UFOs. It was called Majestic 12, or MJ-12 for short. There were twelve people.
HALLIE
If there weren’t, they are super bad at naming things.
HAYDEN
In October of 1963, MJ-12 issued a letter to the members discussing some questions that “Lancer”—JFK’s Secret Service code name—had been asking that weren’t going to fly. They referenced a phrase—“it has to be wet.”
HALLIE
Gross?
HAYDEN
It means to kill.
HALLIE
Somehow, “kill” sounds better. The CIA is out here like, “we love when things are moist.”
HAYDEN
No one loves when things are moist. Well, okay…there are some times where it helps, but…
HALLIE
Have I told you today that I hate you yet?
HAYDEN
No, actually.
HALLIE
So, we’re moistening up the president. Go ahead.
HAYDEN
A month after the moistening, JFK was dead. The theory is that JFK was asking questions about UFOs and aliens and was planning to share what he knew with the Soviet Union. So…they killed him.
HALLIE
Why in the hell would JFK want to give info to the Soviet Union? How does that help anybody? He missed the whole Cold War unit of my sophomore year, clearly.
HAYDEN
Yeah, he must have been out sick that day.
HALLIE
What does JFK gain from buddying up with the Soviets?
HAYDEN
I bet the MJ-12 asked the same question. Then they decided to kill him.
HALLIE
Do you personally believe this?
HAYDEN
I find it compelling.
Chapter 9
“So, you’ve stayed in a haunted hotel before, but have you ever stayed on a haunted boat?”
The Queen Mary looks just like the Titanic: big black hull, tall smokestacks jutting into the cloudless California sky. I’m going to spend the next twenty-four hours pretending I’m some early-twentieth-century socialite, smoking fancy cigarettes and wearing the finest pearls. Mentally, at least. Physically, I’m wearing a pair of jeans, Doc Martens, and Skroll branded knock-off Ray-Bans from last summer’s company barbecue bash because I lost my actual sunglasses early this morning.
Meanwhile, Hayden’s sunglasses are the same shape, yet not ugly and branded. He wears them all too well, and I hate the way his arms flex as he hauls our bags across the parking lot.
“No,” Hayden confirms. “Never a boat. I hope that you provoking the ghosts doesn’t make them sink it on us.”
“Right? There’s totally not enough room for both of us on a door. How do I look?” I ruffle my hair to try and get ready for the camera, and my sunglasses slide off my face yet again.
Hayden pauses like I’ve caught him in a trick question. He censors himself before he can say anything. He bites one side of his lip. Like the night at the Roosevelt, I desperately want to know what he wants to say, but I’m also afraid of what it means.
“Very lovely.”
“Is that sarcasm?” I ask.
“Nope, not one bit.” He spits it out too fast and pivots even quicker, hitting Record on our camcorder. “Tell us where we are, Hallie.”
I spent the car ride memorizing facts about the ship and leaving the spooky stuff to Hayden. I explain a quick history of the ship, from its construction to its time as a troopship in World War II, and then renovation into a hotel as we make our way through the parking lot. We avoid filming other people, but as we step into the elevator, we certainly catch their attention. I can’t imagine why.
We’re a chaotic mess of two overnight bags, a large bag of camera equipment, and Hayden in a shirt that says, “The Birds Work for the Bourgeoisie,” which I do not understand. And I have blue hair. We take a few discreet shots of the lobby, still decorated like it’s from another time. Hayden confirms the room we are staying in—the most notoriously haunted one—and when the concierge raises her eyebrows, he follows up with, “Yes, we really do want the evilest room here.”
Hayden pats my head and assures me he’s making up for disappointing me at the Roosevelt. My hero.
With our keys, we trek down to room B340. The room smells of old carpet and wood, a faint twinge of must and salty sea air. The floors creak under each step as we move inside. Hayden stops dead in his tracks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing the spot on his back I’ve stumbled into. Hitting him is like hitting a brick wall, and that should not turn me on, but it does. I’m thinking about walking into him while half-dressed, and the touch of his bare chest beneath my fingertips.
Suddenly, his halting makes sense. The room is small, a main cabin with a dresser, a TV hanging from the wall, a small couch, and a very dinky bathroom.
And only one bed.
My lips zip together, eyes darting back and forth from the bed to the couch. There’s no way in hell either of us will fit on the couch, and the thought of sleeping in a bed with him sends a tingle down my spine and a sudden heat to the pit of my stomach.
“Oh,” is all he says.
“Yeah…”
Hayden steps farther into the room, setting our bags on the bed and looking to the couch. “I’ll take the couch. Or the floor or something. It’s no big deal.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I don’t want him to sleep on the scary carpeting or volunteer his spinal health for the cause, but I also worry about what it’ll do to me if we share a bed. It’ll smash the boundary walls I’ve tried to keep up between us.
“We can…figure that out later, I guess.”
“Sure, no need to worry about it yet.”
I can only imagine what the comments on this new video will look like. Based off our first episode, we have a fair number of fans wondering if we are together. Nora read the most entertaining comments at lunch one day, then promptly hunted to see if anyone had written fan fiction yet. I made her promise to never tell me if she finds any.
At the Roosevelt, we’d been in the same room, but not the same bed. Tonight, there’s a chance I’ll know what it’s like to sleep next to Hayden. I’ll feel the mattress move as he breathes or turns over. I don’t know how to cope with the feelings it might bring up. Because despite everything, something keeps drawing me closer to him.
When the Only One Bed shock wears off, we unpack, evaluating our gear and taking the camcorder, EMF reader, and audio recorder with us. We have an appointment to tour the ship at sundown and a bit of time to kill. Hayden and I do our own quick tour, posting photos to our socials that immediately garner more questions about our relationship. Neither of us wants to discuss the shippers.
On our private tour of the boat, we film the history and notable haunts of the Queen Mary and marvel at the gutted insides of the ship, cavernous boiler rooms, and hundred-year-old engineering, and I’m actually enraptured by it.
“I can’t believe that guy got crushed in a door,” Hayden says, recalling one of the tragedies on board we learned about on our tour. He arranges the camera on the tripod in our room. I film him with my phone for some B-roll. “Like, it seems like a bad way to go.”
“If you had to pick a way to die on this ship, how would you want to go?” I tease.
“Peacefully in my sleep, obviously.”
“That doesn’t count. You have to die badly.”
“You weren’t that specific.”
“I am now.”
“Oh, come on,” he groans, sitting beside me on the floor. Our knees brush as he crosses his legs, slipping his boots off. His socks have tiny ghosts on them. Oh heavens, it’s cute. The carpet is rough and tacky beneath my fingers. There is no way I’m letting Hayden sleep on the ground now. Not on this carpet. He will get fleas and bring them home to Cthulhu.
“Your accent’s out again.”
One of his eyebrows rises. “Is it?”
I nod. The harsh a’s and dropped r’s flare as we bicker, and I enjoy the lilts his voice offers in his frustrated moments. On the podcast and while we film most of our more straightforward content, he’s managed to cook it down to nothing. When we let loose, it feels like he’s showing me the most authentic parts of himself. Perhaps I like his accent for that reason more than anything else. He also looks criminally good in his Red Sox hats. That may be contributing.
