15. Rickie
Rickie
Daphne hustles away from the truck, and I gather my things and cross the campus in the other direction. Outside the lecture hall, I take out the savory croissant that Audrey made for me and eat it slowly.
I guess it makes sense that Daphne and I corresponded before. If you’re doing a ride share with someone, you’d do that.
I’m just so tired of the big gap in my memory. I don’t even know what I don’t know. It’s exhausting.
After finishing my excellent pastry, I sit in the last row of the lecture hall and pull out my phone. While the professor talks, I search my phone for 802 numbers. There are a bunch of them. There aren’t any Daphnes. And the only Shipley is Dylan.
But eventually I find one for a “SHark,” which must stand for some blend of Shipley and Harkness. Who knows what nineteen-year-old me was thinking?
When I open it up, I find a conversation from fall of three years ago. It begins with a boring conversation about where to pick her up—at a gate on Elm Street. Then we negotiate a meetup spot for the ride home. It’s at the same exit as the ice cream place. Just like she’d said.
A chill snakes down my spine, even though I’m reading the dullest exchange of text messages ever written. It’s just that I know I’m the guy who wrote this. But I don’t remember, so it feels like someone else did it. My double. My evil twin.
Then I keep reading. We chat again ten days after our car ride.
RR: Have you given any more thought to my invitation?
SHark: What invitation was that again? I forget.
RR: Well played. Or maybe you get countless offers from men willing to stamp your V-card.
Wait, what? I read it again. And then I let out a groan.
The guy seated closest to me looks up from his notebook with a shaming glance. Oops.
But seriously. Two strangers shared a ride to college, and then I offered to take her virginity? The evil twin theory is looking pretty good right now. I read on, even though I’m a little afraid to.
SHark: There’s this thing called subtlety.
RR: Never heard of it.
SHark: [eyeroll]
RR: Look, I know I’m a bastard. And half the things I say are meant to get a rise out of people. But come to the house party anyway. I don’t actually expect a private party for two. In fact, bring a friend if it makes you feel more comfortable. We’ll all have a good time.
SHark: Does that mean you’re planning a ménage à trois?
RR: How many times did you have to type that before auto correct stopped turning it into something even dirtier?
SHark: OMG, three. But the only way you’d know that is by typing it a lot.
RR: Nah. I text in a couple different languages, though, and the results are often heinous.
SHark: *cough* Humblebrag *cough*
RR: Busted. But to answer your Q, I’m not expecting anything at all. I just think we could have fun. Whatever kind of fun you decide is your speed.
SHark: Maybe you’d rather find another date to this party. One who is more of a sure thing.
RR: Nah. Come with me to see this place. We’ll use summer as a verb. We might need to Uber you home, if that’s okay. But happy to pick you up before I get my drink on.
SHark: Okay, fine. I could use a little adventure. Text me the details?
RR: Will do tomorrow. Later, Good Girl.
SHark: Later Bad Boy.
Well, parts of that are embarrassing to read. But not all of it, I guess. I was only fifty percent asshole. And you can tell that I really liked Daphne.
Of course I did.
I keep scrolling, and it doesn’t end well. I text her a time and date for the party, and I tell her to look for my Volvo at the gate at eight o’clock. She agrees. But then, at eight fifteen on the established date, I see this:
SHark: Okay, you’re fashionably late. But I’m outside in a thin little jacket. Just saying.
SHark: 35 minutes, really? I’m starting to take this personally.
SHark: Okay… No call. I guess you found a more fun date after all.
Jesus Christ. What did I do? I reread the entire thing a couple more times, and it gets worse with every reread.
All this time I’ve been trying to seduce Daphne. I keep telling her we’d be good for each other. Stress relief, or some bullshit. Like I was doing her a favor.
But, nope. I’m the guy who offered to do that before and then left her standing around in the cold, waiting for my no-show ass.
Hell, when was this? It could have been really cold.
I hold my finger down on the last message to see when it was written. And the timestamp makes my heart seize.
* * *
That afternoon, I practically gallop into Lenore’s office. As I’m waiting for her door to open, I receive a notification on WhatsApp. It's a new message from Daphne.
Clever girl . She switched apps, probably hoping I wouldn't find our old texts.
Too late.
Daphne: Guess what? Mom says you and I are going to be on our own for dinner anyway. Seems everyone else has plans.
Let the healing begin.
Rickie: So we can have noodles, right?
It ought to make for an interesting dinner. Me stammering out an apology that’s two and a half years overdue.
Daphne: We might as well . It’s either that or we’re foraging for leftovers .
Rickie: Cool, cool. I know I’m only your dinner date of convenience but I’ll take whatever scraps you throw me .
Then I send her a GIF of a cute, begging dog. It’s just the opening foray into the round of groveling I owe her.
It’s not a date , she replies. Then she sends me a GIF of a door closing in a guy’s face.
Now that I know I deserve her wariness, everything makes so much more sense. No wonder Daphne doesn’t trust me.
I send back a picture of a dozen roses anyway. Because it’s hard to give up being the irritating bastard that I am.
When I sit down in the chair a minute later, Lenore asks me if I've made any progress on my homework.
“Oh…a little.” I’ve forgotten all about aversion therapy. It’s the furthest thing from my mind. “Yeah, I started thinking about it. I went outside at night, and lay on a blanket to put myself in the mindset of being exposed. But then I got distracted.”
“Another bear?” she asks.
“Nah. Daphne. But look—something weird just happened.”
I unlock my phone and show her the godawful texts I exchanged with Daphne all those years ago. And she winces at all the same places I did.
“But that’s not even the strangest thing,” I point out. “This Saturday night when Daphne was waiting for me? I’m pretty sure it’s the same one that I ended up in the hospital.”
Lenore’s eyes widen. “You think it is? Or you know it is?”
“Well, this was for the Saturday night of Open Weekend. I woke up in the hospital two days later. And they said I was injured at an off-campus party.”
“You were supposed to take Daphne to an off-campus party,” Lenore says slowly.
“Right.”
“ Wow , Rickie. Maybe you didn't stand her up at all. Maybe you got hurt and never read these texts!”
“Maybe,” I say slowly. The timing doesn’t quite work, though. Unless… “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure?”
“Can you pull my file and look at the oldest stuff in it? The date of my injury wasn’t really interesting to me before. But now—”
“Yeah, okay,” she agrees. “But I do remember that the medical stuff in there was super thin. The Academy didn’t send us much to go on. But I’ll try. No matter what, you’re not the kind of guy who stands a girl up without a good reason.”
“Aren’t I?” I lean back in the chair, and close my eyes. The usual blank wall greets me. And it’s just as frustrating as ever. No—it’s worse. A man is supposed to take responsibility for his actions. And I don’t even know what mine were.
I open my eyes again. “That's really seductive thinking, Lenore. Like—if I don't remember what happened, I get to choose. I can either decide that I was this dick who screws around with virgins. Or I can be this romantic ideal—the sleeping prince who broke seven bones and couldn’t reach out to the princess. That just sounds too convenient. Did you ever read Choose Your Own Adventure novels?”
“Sure.” She grins. “I liked that one with the unicorn. Sue me.”
“Well, I used to cheat. I’d keep my thumb in the page where I made the last choice. And if I didn’t like the outcome, I’d flip back and try again. That’s me right now deciding whether I’m unlucky or just a dick.”
“Now hang on.” She leans forward in her chair. “First of all, every kid cheated with those books. I had an elaborate system of numbered bookmarks so I could reverse any decision.”
I bark out a laugh. “I knew you were an overachiever.”
“Shut up. And second—you’re still no different from the rest of us.
Reframing your past is what everyone who sits in that chair is doing.
Every guy who’s telling me about his own failed marriage is trying to decide if he’s unlucky or just a dick.
You’re not that special. Nobody needs to forget his past to realize that it has several different interpretations. ”
“Oh, please. Like it wouldn’t be helpful to know what my intentions were?”
She smiles really sweetly at me, and it’s irritating as hell. “Rickie, look. You don't have to remember the events of that night in December to know who you are.”
“God, if you’re about to tell me to click my heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like home,’ I’m asking for my money back.”
Lenore belly laughs. But after she’s done, she gives me a wise smile.
“Look. We are all trying to survive our pasts, so we can live with ourselves in the present. Even if you woke up tomorrow remembering every minute of your lost year, it wouldn’t matter.
You can choose which Rickie you are. Just decide.
And whatever choice you make will be the absolute truth. ”
“Okay,” I agree, because that excellent speech deserves acknowledgment.
I only wish I believed her.