24. Rickie
Rickie
I raise my head off the quilt. I hardly know what day it is, let alone the time. But I hear voices outdoors. They’re drifting in through the window, which is only opened a crack.
Waking up isn’t easy, especially when the afternoon’s disasters come back into sharp relief.
After Daphne left my bedroom in a hurry, I’d locked the door and then sat down on the bed, burning up with humiliation.
I discarded the condom I hadn’t needed. And when it began to rain, I closed the window most of the way and then fell into a dead sleep.
Now Thursday dinner is underway, and I’m still only halfway conscious.
Shit .
I rise and take a little care getting dressed. I put on a nice linen shirt and my best pair of shorts. In Vermont, that’s practically black tie. I brush my teeth and tame my slept-on hair.
And when I look in the mirror, I’m startled by how sharp the guy looking back at me appears. I mean, I’m a good-looking man. That’s a given. But the guy in the mirror looks solid. When in truth, I feel like a hot mess.
This afternoon, a door slammed, and I’d practically lost my mind. Who does that?
I grab my flip-flops and descend the stairs toward the laughter and the voices.
When I exit the kitchen door, I see that I haven't even missed dinner. A very long dining table has been arranged in the grass. It’s set with real dishes and silverware.
Running down the center are a parade of mason jars.
In every other one are flowers from the garden that I’ve helped weed.
And there are candles in the alternating jars, burning where the wind can’t knock them out.
A dozen or so people stand around on the grass, drinks in hand. The rain showers have knocked a lot of the humidity out of the air, so it's a beautiful night for an outdoor dinner party.
And I feel nothing. Like I fell asleep and never fully woke up. Like I forgot how to feel alive.
“Hey, there he is.” Dylan taps a frisbee against his thigh. “What happened to you this afternoon?”
“I took a nap, and it almost killed me.” I cross to where he’s standing. Nearby, Chastity is chatting with Daphne’s cousin and the cousin’s boyfriend—the guys we saw at the noodle shop.
“Want a beer?”
“Of course.” Dylan fetches one from a metal tub full of ice, and opens the top with a church key in his pocket. “Thanks.” When I close my hand around the bottle, the sensation of the icy glass against my palm is the first sign that I might eventually be alive.
I take a refreshing sip as my gaze wanders around the lawn of its own volition. But I don't see Daphne anywhere. What the hell must she be thinking right now? I came at her like a beast today. I talked a good game. And then I got spooked, and couldn’t close the deal.
My face heats at the memory of jumping away from her on the bed, like I’d just been tasered.
Then I collapsed on the bed, panic crushing my chest. I was instantly clammy, as if someone had drained all the life out of my body.
My heart had raced so fast that it honestly felt dangerous.
All I could do was lie on the bed and try to remember how to breathe.
“So what did you guys do today?” Dylan asks. “You and Daphne.”
“Why?” I bark.
Dylan shrugs. “Chastity and I came in after the rain, and there was nobody at home. Those pies were just sitting there on the table, you know? I feel like I deserve some recognition for not sampling.”
I make a shocked face. “Hands off my pies. Who knew those took so much work? And I’m no good at rolling them out, so your sister literally pried the rolling pin out of my hands and forbid me to touch the crust.”
“Daphne? Nah.” Dylan snickers.
“Then your mom took your grandfather to some event in town. And the wind was kicking up, so it didn’t look like a good gardening day. So we were going to have sex but then we said nah.”
Dylan snorts then shakes his head, just like I knew he would. “I know you say these things to freak me out, but it doesn't really work on me. You’ll have to try Griffin.”
“Good to know.” I swig my beer. “Actually, it started raining, and then I turned into Rip Van Winkle. What did you do all day?”
“Drew a bunch of diagrams of the Abrahams’ fields. Googled crops and acreage. But then the rain chased us back into the bunkhouse for some recreational activities.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Planning out your future farm makes you horny?”
Dylan shrugs, smiling. He was always a happy guy. But he and Chastity are #squadgoals. Seventy years from now they’ll be that ancient couple who’s still holding hands in the grocery store.
I’ll be lucky to be alive in seventy years. And forget having a partner of my own. I’m such a wreck.
“Dinner is served!” Ruth Shipley clinks a spoon against the mason jar several times. “Line forms to the right of the buffet!” She’s such a goddess. I hope she finds a man who makes her happy. Nobody with that much love to give should be alone.
“Does your mom have a date tonight?” I ask, spotting the mustached man at her elbow.
“Yup. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“I bet.”
Dylan chuckles as I follow him to the back of the food line. “Daphne wants to run a background check on him. She says she doesn’t trust men with mustaches.”
“I’d better stay clean shaven, then.”
Dylan ignores this comment. And a moment later I finally spot Daphne coming out of the cider house with a brown jug in her hands. She carries it over to the table. Her eyes flick just once in my direction.
But her friend—I think Violet is her name—gives me a long stare and then a big smile that could truly mean anything. They’ve obviously been discussing me.
Uh-oh . The old Rickie didn’t mind being the subject of female speculation. But the new one is a wreck, apparently.
“Oooh, guacamole,” Dylan says, handing me a plate. “These tacos don’t stand a chance.”
The dinner looks glorious, of course. I make myself a full plate and follow Dylan and Chastity to the table.
“Check out Grandpa,” Chastity whispers. “He has two dates!”
Sure enough, I spot Grandpa Shipley at the head of the table, a woman on either side of him. He looks to be telling a story, and they’re both laughing.
“Go Gramps,” Dylan says. “If he stays out all night, I’ll give him a standing ovation at breakfast.”
Yup. An octogenarian has more confidence than I do tonight. What the hell is my problem?
I take my first bite of the spicy black bean and corn salad that Audrey prepared. And, wow, it’s amazing. I feel the first hint of optimism that I’ve felt tonight. Then I eat a pulled pork taco with lime and guacamole, and it does more good things to my attitude.
Feeling eyes on me, I glance up to catch Daphne sneaking a look from down the table. I wink at her, like the old Rickie would have done.
I miss that guy. I really do.
* * *
After dinner, Dylan plays a few fiddle tunes for the crowd. Then his grandpa asks for a turn on Dylan's instrument, and he happily hands it off.
“Smoke?" Dylan whispers to me. "It's the last of our stash."
“Sure."
I follow Dylan around to the far side of the cider house, out of view of everyone else. “Oh, look,” he whispers. The old picnic table we’re heading for is already occupied by Daphne and Violet. “Maybe you should sit next to my sister’s tasty friend.”
“Why? Daphne is the hot one.”
He laughs like I’m joking. “Evening, ladies. Can we smoke here in peace? Or will Daphne rat me out again?"
Daphne flips up her middle finger without even glancing in his direction. "It was one time," she says. "And you totally had it coming."
"Did you?" I ask Dylan.
"Probably," he mumbles, throwing a leg over the bench and plunking down beside his sister.
I sit down across from Daphne, and she gives me a smile that’s a little bit shy.
“What did he do?” I ask her.
“Well, I was trying to plan a surprise party, and he told the birthday boy! There are kindergarteners who are more capable of keeping secrets.”
"I didn’t realize ," Dylan argues.
“Because you don’t listen,” Daphne fires back. “Ever.”
He pulls a baggie out of his pocket, and begins rolling our last joint. ”Eh. I like parties, but I hate planning things. I probably tuned you out so you wouldn’t ask me to make a contribution.”
I snicker, because that sounds like Dylan. “Whose surprise got ruined?"
"Zach's," Dylan says, pulling a lighter out of his pocket too.
"The farm hand?"
“Yeah, he used to live here. Daphne was hot for him for, like, forever." He lazily flicks the lighter. I glance up at Daphne as her face pinks up.
Huh. No wonder Dylan is the frequent target of Daphne's revenge plots. He does not give a fuck what others think of him, and he is probably incapable of understanding why his sister would. But Daphne guards her heart more closely.
“So how'd you get even with this motormouth?” I ask her, hooking my thumb toward her evil twin.
Her smile is very satisfied. “I handed his stash of weed over to Mom, with a lengthy document on the perils of pot on the teenage brain."
“Good one. Shows concern, but also infuriates the target. I’ll give you an eight out of ten.”
“Wait,” her friend Violet says, her eyes appraising me. “What would make it ten out of ten? How evil are you?”
“It’s a fair question. Eight is a solid score, of course, but I took points off for not going the extra distance.
I would like to see Daphne mixing in a few grams of oregano, to ruin the stash and make the crime look worse than it is.
And adding some cases of White Claw, to question not only his values, but his taste in manly beverages. "
Dylan laughs. Then he offers the joint to the table. "I know Daphne won't partake, but maybe Violet is more fun?"
The look on Daphne's face is murderous now, but Dylan doesn’t notice.
Violet takes the joint between her fingers, but then hesitates. “Do you trust the dealer?” she asks. “Our friend had a bad experience once.”
“Yeah, I do, because we grow our own,” Dylan says.
“It's not even illegal,” I pipe up. “Six plants each, under the new Vermont law.”
Dylan holds up a hand and I high five him.
Daphne looks heavenward. “You can take the boy off the farm, but he’ll just grow pot in his garage.”
“I think I like Vermont,” Violet says, taking the first puff. “But give your sister a break, maybe? I don’t think future public health officials are into pot as a rule.”
“Not for anyone in their twenties, and only medicinally,” Daphne says sweetly. "Science is so damn inconvenient sometimes."
She has a point, but that shit feels medicinal tonight. I’m on edge, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I stretch my legs out under the table and capture one of Daphne’s feet with mine. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Tell me more about Vermont,” Violet says. “What’s it like growing up here?”
“Let’s see,” Dylan says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Everyone knows how to drive in the snow. And you never really have to dress up for anything.”
“This is accurate,” Daphne agrees. “Don’t bother wearing nice shoes, they’ll just get trashed. And don’t bother washing your car. That’s what rain is for.”
“Everyone has sex in a pickup truck,” Dylan adds.
“Huh,” I say slowly. “I can confirm this is true.”
“But you drive a Volvo,” Daphne points out.
“It was her pickup truck.” I shrug, and everyone else laughs. “It’s universal.”
“It’s not,” Daphne mutters.
“No?” her brother asks, looking amused. “Eh, never mind. I don’t really want to know.” He moves on, telling us a story about chasing his goats away from a patch of poison ivy. But I’m still thinking about truck sex with Daphne.
We shoot the shit and share the joint until it grows tiny, and until Chastity pokes her head around the corner of the cider house. "Dylan! Come and help me serve dessert."
"Sure, baby cakes." He hands me the remains of our joint. "Don't miss me too much.”
"Why would I? It's easier to hit on your sister when you're not around."
"You're hilarious." He hauls his long frame off the bench, chuckling. Then he lopes off after Chastity.
"Nobody believes me," I mutter. Then I press my hands down on the table and lean over, bridging the distance between Daphne and myself, and kiss her.
For a split second she is frozen with surprise. But her mouth softens after a moment, and I kiss her slowly. It’s not indecent. But it isn’t quick, either.
And when I sit back down, Violet stares comically between us. “Well, that happened.”
Daphne is blushing all over the place, but I don’t embarrass. Not over a kiss, anyway. I stub the last scrap of the joint out on the metal table frame and toss the evidence into the wet, tall grass.
“Are you sure you want me to stay over tonight?” Violet asks teasingly.
“Of course,” Daphne says quickly. “You can stay in my room with me. Or maybe May’s old room, if we can find the air mattress.”
“I’ll stay in your room,” she says. “We can bunk together. Unless you plan to sneak out in the night. I saw at least two pickup trucks in the driveway. Or, wait—isn’t Rickie’s room right across the hall?”
She grins, and I do too, for a second. But I can’t actually sleep with anyone in the room, and Daphne probably knows that.
So I feel glum again anyway.