2. Daphne
Daphne
Rickie tells the story of the bear to a rapt audience at the dinner table.
Buttering my corn bread as he weaves the tale, I roll my eyes. A bear on our property is not a big deal. It's just a Tuesday.
“And it’s a huge bear, so I'm basically watching my life flash before my eyes.” Rickie gestures wildly. The motion makes his designer T-shirt stretch tightly across the lean muscles of his chest. His tattoos peek through the V-neck.
I hate myself a little for always staring at those tattoos. Before Rickie showed up in my life, with his snarky attitude and those piercing gray eyes, I never found tats attractive.
He’s not even my type. That’s what I keep telling myself. But he’s always catching me staring. It’s so embarrassing. Today he almost caught me taking a photo of him. Thank God he didn’t figure out what I was doing with my phone.
In my defense, the photo wasn’t for me. It was for my friend, Violet Trevi. She keeps asking me questions about the mysterious Rickie—the guy who stood me up my freshman year. Violet had to listen to me rant about it back then too.
Also, in my defense, the staring isn’t purely about sexual attraction. It’s also curiosity. I’d always wondered what happened to Rickie. Almost three years ago he made a big entrance into my life. Then he exited it just as quickly.
And now—this is the truly crazy part—he seems not to remember how we met, or the outrageous things he said to me. It’s probably an act. Maybe he never expected to see me again, and doesn’t want to admit that he blew me off. Or maybe I’m just that forgettable.
Ouch.
Rickie, however, is not easy to ignore. He’s magnetic. My family is captivated by his stupid tale about the bear, even if they’ve seen bears dozens of times before.
“See, I never planned to die before I could hike the Inca Trail, so as it stalks toward me, I’m pretty bummed…”
My family laughs like they’re paying guests at an exclusive comedy club.
“And I'm waving at Daphne, like, Saaaaaave yourself! ”
More uproarious laugher.
I’m so over it. “Can someone pass the apple jelly?” I ask.
But nobody does, because they’re all still listening to Rickie.
“Daphne runs into the tractor shed, so at least I have the satisfaction of knowing one of us will survive to eat that pie Ruth was baking.” Again with the hilarious laughter.
As if Rickie is the best thing that ever happened to them.
“And then Daphne reappears—like an avenging angel in cut-off jeans—and fires that gun into the sky. That’s when the bear gets religion.
He drops the bucket and waddles his fat ass off toward the woods. Funniest thing I ever saw.”
Everyone around the table wears a look of pure joy, from the youngest—my one-year-old nephew Gus, who’s sitting on my brother's knee—all the way up to Grandpa, who’s wiping his eyes with his napkin.
I’m irritated. But I get it. Rickie is both entertaining and magnetic. He’s got that X factor that draws people in.
Been there. Done that. I’m never falling for his charms again.
“The apple butter?” I repeat.
Only Rickie seems to register the request. He picks up the jar and passes it down my side of the table. And, damn it, I can’t help but notice the flex of his forearm muscles.
It's just unfair how ridiculously attractive some people are. He has the look of a European model between gigs. The slightly overgrown hair. The languorous body. The expensive clothes. Farm work seems to agree with him too. His color is better than when he arrived a couple weeks ago.
Not that I'm keeping track.
“So, listen,” my brother Griffin says, finally changing the subject. His eyes move from Rickie to me. “Can you head out tomorrow morning at ten? I’ll have the truck loaded.”
I’m just about to answer, when Rickie beats me to it. “No problem.”
My brother’s gaze swings back to our summer guest. “It's about an hour into central Burlington. There’s an alley behind the wine shop that can sometimes be a tight fit.”
“Hey, wait a second,” I argue. “ I’m the one who’s driving the cider into town. We had a deal.” Griffin assigned me the restaurant deliveries so that I could have a few hours to do some work for a social sciences laboratory at Burlington University, where I'm transferring in the fall.
“Oh, you’re both going,” my brother says.
“Why?” I demand. “I can do it by myself.”
“I’m taking a summer class that meets on Wednesdays,” Rickie says.
“A class? Can't you just Zoom into that?”
Rickie shrugs. “It’s better in person. And now I can help you make the deliveries.”
“That's nice of you,” my twin brother, Dylan, says without taking his eyes off his girlfriend, Chastity. They’re probably holding hands under the table. Or feeling each other up, maybe. Those two are like a walking hormone. I’m surprised Dylan can even follow the conversation.
“It’s no trouble,” Rickie says with a shrug. “I have things to do in Burlington. And I can check on my house, do a little shopping, that kind of thing.”
I take a bite of my cornbread so that I won’t say anything rude. But I’m not happy about this development. Not at all.
In the first place, Wednesdays in Burlington are supposed to be my escape day. Solitude is rare when you have a big family.
And now I’m supposed to ride an hour each way with Rickie and his flirting eyes?
God, he’s nice to look at, but I don’t want to spend more time with him. It’s hard enough sharing a bathroom for the summer. And it’s already a lot of work to avoid him in my own home.
What the hell will we find to talk about in the car?
* * *
I guess I’m going to find out. At ten the next morning, when I come outside with my backpack, the truck is already loaded with liquor crates, and Rickie is seated behind the wheel of Dylan’s truck.
“Here’s the manifest,” Griffin says, handing me a folded sheet of paper. “Easy deliveries. Enjoy your day.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, heading toward the passenger seat. I guess I won’t be listening to the audiobook I’d planned for these Wednesday trips.
I climb onto the seat beside Rickie and shut the door. He smells good, damn it. Like some kind of spicy, exotic cologne. Lovely . An hour alone with a man who once stood me up, and then forgot I existed . Just what every girl craves.
“If you drive there,” I say by way of a greeting. “I’ll drive home.”
“Nah,” he says, putting the truck in gear. “I got it. Both ways.”
My blood pressure spikes. “It wasn’t a request . Women drive, Rick.”
“I’m sure you’re a great driver, baby girl. But I told Dylan I’d get you and the booze safe to Burlington, so that’s what I’ll do.” He puts on the radio and guides the truck down our long driveway. “So, what are you up to in Burlington today?” he asks, unaware that I’m silently planning his murder.
“Working. A job. Once a week.” My answer is as friendly as gunfire. Most people don’t want to hear about public health research anyway. It’s nerdy.
We roll on, and the cab is so silent that I can hear each ping of gravel the tires are kicking up.
I know it’s my turn to ask a friendly question, but I just don’t have it in me.
I have exactly one summer to untangle all the knots in my life.
It’s not going very well. And stress has ruined my ability to make small talk.
“Hey, can you stop so I can check the mail?” I ask as he slows at the end of the drive to turn onto the road.
“Sure, gorgeous.” He brings the truck to a halt, and I try not to roll my eyes. He probably calls me that only because he’s forgotten my actual name.
I climb out of the truck and open our mailbox. There’s a dairy barn catalog in there for my twin brother, so I leave that alone. Dylan cares about two things—goat farming, and getting naked with his girlfriend. Not at the same time though.
Quickly, I sift through a stack of envelopes, looking for my name.
I’m waiting to hear if I got a fellowship that will help me pay for my last year of undergrad.
It hasn’t helped that I made the sudden decision to transfer from Harkness College to Moo U, and I applied for funding at the last minute.
This is what happens when you make a mess of your life.
There’s one envelope in the mailbox with my name on it, but it’s the wrong shape, and it’s from the wrong school.
So when I get back into the truck with Rickie, I’m staring at a big square envelope from the Harkness School of Public Health.
Now what do they want? In spite of my withdrawal from the university, I must still be on the mailing list.
Rickie heads down our country road toward the highway, while I tap the envelope on my knee.
My curiosity wins out eventually, and I slit the envelope open with my thumb.
Inside I find an expensively printed invitation to a party in September.
Tour the Future , it says, inviting me to a formal celebration for the new wing of the public health building where I did research last year.
At the bottom of the fancy cream-colored card is a short list of benefactors who will be thanked at the reception. In the very center is a name I’ve grown to hate and fear. Senator Mitchell Halsey . The Halseys are a big deal in Connecticut. A huge big deal.
And I’m the idiot who got stars in her eyes when the senator’s son started flashing his blue eyes at me. Last year was like a slow motion disaster. It began with those blue eyes, and it ended with the realization that I had to leave Harkness if I wanted to graduate at all.
Reardon Halsey was an upperclassman with a research job in public health, just like me. I thought we had so much in common. I believed him when he told me that we were meant to be a couple.
He lied to me. He lied to a lot of people, actually. But I’m the only one who figured it out. And when I tried to call him on it, he barely took a breath before threatening my entire academic future.
There’s a note scrawled on the bottom from Dean Rebecca Reynolds, my former advisor. Daphne, we already miss you! My door will always be open to you . ~RR