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 theBreaking Badhouse 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 issuesfor 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 onone 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.
