44. Rickie
Rickie
"I just want you to know that I'm sorry,” my father says, both his hands on the wheel.
"You said, Dad. It's okay." Actually, he's said so about a million times in the last forty-eight hours.
It's Saturday, and my dad is driving me back to Moo U. I'd gone home with him after my dramatic court appearance—after I'd rolled the dice on a not-guilty plea.
The fact that it had worked, and worked immediately, is still hard to get my head around. My lawyer had been right when he'd guessed that the Halsey family didn’t want a trial. That Reardon had too much to lose.
But I still feel raw—like it was a horribly close call. It's as if I almost got into a serious car accident, and can't stop hearing the squeal of the brakes in my head, and can't stop seeing the terror in the other driver's eyes.
I’m not over it.
And now my father can't stop apologizing to me. And my mother can’t stop fussing.
When I'd told them what really happened to me—and Paul—they’d been horrified.
"I'm glad you sued them! They should pay for letting an animal run wild in a venerable institution.
" That's his new tune. Like I’m some kind of hero.
I don't feel like one, though. I feel like a loser. He'd wanted to drive me straight to the nearest hospital to have my nose looked at. "And you should sue the cop, too!”
But I'd turned down both those suggestions. I'd asked Dad to take me home instead, to my parents’ house, where I hadn't been since Christmas. I'd just wanted a shower and a bed.
My mother had cried over me. The broken nose didn’t help. I’d felt terrible for making her worry. But after my shower and a great meal and a full night's sleep, I let her take me to a doctor.
He'd pronounced my nose broken, and said to ice it. Quelle surprise .
But I'd stayed two nights with my parents, who were overjoyed. It seems they love me more now that there's a new villain in my story. I hadn’t fallen off a wall and wrecked myself. It was someone else’s fault. They adore this change in the narrative.
But I'm still the same old wreck who's sneaking back into town when Daphne won't be home. I don't know how to process all the harm I brought her. I haven’t spoken to her because she has my car, and therefore my phone charger. My phone died forty-eight hours ago.
And because I'm a damn coward.
But now I open the glove box of my dad’s car, and I find an old charger of mine in there. So finally I plug that sucker in. After ten minutes of driving, my phone reboots. I watch the apple glow on the lock screen as my phone wakes up and remembers itself.
I'm honestly afraid to look at my messages. It's hard to say how widely the inglorious news of my arrest may have spread.
And sure enough, my texts are brimming over with messages—most of them from people named Shipley. I see a text from Daphne, of course. My stomach actually rolls with the sight of her name. But there are messages from Dylan, too, and May. And even Ruth, and Grandpa.
That's the one I open first, because the stakes are low.
August Shipley: I heard you clocked Daphne's ex. I also heard he had it coming. That’s a real bad boy at work. Just remember that bones heal, and chicks dig scars .
Huh. So that’s one Shipley who doesn’t seem to hate me. But not the one that matters. I scroll again, finding frantic messages from Lenore. Uh-oh. I seem to remember leaving off in the middle of a conversation with her.
And, yup, she’s been blowing up my phone, sounding increasingly panicked. So I text back in a hurry. I’m sorry! I just got my phone back online. And that’s not the only thing. It’s been a hell of a week. But the good news is that my memory is suddenly coming back.
I swear it takes barely five seconds before she’s typing a reply.
Lenore: What’s the bad news? I’m afraid to ask.
Rickie: Oh boy. Don’t be mad.
Lenore: I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to listen.
Rickie: The bad news is that I was arrested for punching the guy who broke all my ribs.
Lenore: WHAT? OMG, After I make sure you’re okay I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!
Rickie: Didn’t you just say…?
Lenore: I lied. Why did you put yourself in that situation? Answer your phone.
It rings in my hand.
“Dad, I kind of have to take this.”
“Is it the girlfriend?” he asks.
“Actually, my therapist.”
“Ah.” I see his flinch, even though he tries to hide it. Because real men don’t see therapists, or train to become one. Real men fly aircraft. “Go ahead, son,” he says. Because he’s trying, I guess.
“Hey,” I say into the phone. “I knew you’d freak.”
“Did you put yourself in a dangerous situation?” she asks.
“Yes. I thought I could handle it. Or at least I hoped I could. But I was wrong.”
“You didn’t own your trauma,” she says softly.
“No,” I admit. “And it almost cost me everything.”
“Do you need to come and see me?” she asks. “I’ll make time for you. Even on a Saturday.”
“It can wait until Wednesday,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yeah—but I promise to call if I’m struggling.”
“This will be you someday,” she says. “Worrying about a patient when you’re supposed to be enjoying your weekend.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I agree. “But don’t worry about me, okay? Except for my broken nose, the bruises all over my face, and the split lip, I’m fine.”
She lets out a shriek, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid going deaf.
My father laughs in the driver’s seat.
“Rickie! Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m fine. I promise. But I am not quite the looker I was last week. This is going to cost me some applause on karaoke night.”
“I’m glad you can joke about it,” she says, her voice low. “But I’m still worried.”
“It’s just a setback,” I insist. “We’ll talk soon.”
She fusses over me for another minute, and then I hang up, exhausted. In truth, I feel wrecked. And it’s not just my face. I feel hungover—if not from alcohol, then from life. At least it’s Saturday, and Daphne will be at the farm. I don’t have to face her. Not yet.
“Tell me where to turn,” my father says, exiting the highway. “Let’s get you home. I finally get to see this house.”
You were always welcome here , I want to say. It was his choice to stay away from this place, because he didn’t approve of how I came to own it.
But for once in my life, I keep my trap shut. A guy can only fight so many battles on one day.
* * *
A few minutes later he pulls up in front of my house, and I’ve never been so happy to be anywhere in my life. “Come on in,” I say, climbing out of the passenger seat. “The house has good bones, and a new roof. The kitchen is stuck in a time warp, but I don’t mind it.”
“Cool roofline!” he enthuses. “If you ever want to sell, we could do a remodel of the kitchen.”
“I think I’ll just stay put.” Leaving Vermont is obviously hazardous to my health. And since I’ve somehow avoided becoming a convicted felon, I’m still hoping to apply to the PsyD program at Moo U.
I take my dad inside, and I use the last of my energy to give him a tour of the first floor. I let him crow about the moldings and the original wood floors.
“This is a nice place, son.” He rubs the oak bannister distractedly. “I hope you’re very happy here. I'm sorry I let shit come between us. None of it was your fault.”
“Uh, thanks,” I grunt, too exhausted to be more gracious.
“I’m serious. Let's not be strangers," he says. "Even if you do actually fall off a damn wall, Rickie. I don’t care anymore. I’ve missed you."
Oh, hell. I don't have the fortitude for more emotions today. “Thanks, Dad.”
He claps me on the back. "You look beat. I'm going to go so that you can get some rest."
"Yeah, okay." I hear a creak from somewhere upstairs. Must be the wind. "Thanks for the ride back to town.”
"Anytime."
I show him out. And the minute the door is closed, I sit down heavily on the staircase. I'm almost too tired to get up and head for my room, no matter how badly I want to see my bed.
Behind me, I hear another creak, and all the hair stands up on the back of my neck. "Keith?" I call out. But his car wasn’t in the driveway with the Volvo.
When I hear a footfall above me, I turn around fast. I'm startled to see that it's Daphne who's descending the stairs.
“Oh, hi," I say stupidly, scrambling to my feet. I'm so not ready for this.
"Oh God, your face ,” she whispers. “What happened? "
“It ran into a cop's fist. But it looks worse than it is.”
Her eyes get red as she descends the stairs. “They beat you?"
"It was one punch. That's what a dumbass gets for hitting the son of the most powerful man in Connecticut."
A tear rolls down her cheek. "You didn't reply to my texts."
Shit. I hold up my phone. “It was, uh, dead until exit 10. Charger was in the Volvo.” But I realize I’m just being a dick right now. “Daphne, look. I know I could have tracked you down. But I honestly don’t have any idea what to say to you.”
Her beautiful eyes narrow. “Maybe you could have begun by letting me know you're still alive?"
Shit . I guess we're doing this right now. I take a step backward, because I cannot reach for her. It would probably break me. And I have to get this out. “I failed you from the very start, right? No calls or texts when I stood you up. That’s kind of a pattern with me. I tell you that I’m the man for you, and then I let you down. ”
“Rickie,” she gasps. “There were a few extenuating circumstances. I wanted to tell you how happy I was that you pled not guilty. And that it worked. I’ve been waiting all day to see you. Don’t do this.”
But that’s the problem. I’m basically a toxin in her life. “Yeah, I rolled the dice in the courtroom, and it came up lucky. That was selfish. I would have dragged you into my mess.”
She shakes her head. “I wanted you to beat him. We were pulling for you. May said she’d tell you to go for it. But she wouldn’t let me come, too. She said you wouldn’t want me there. And anyway, I had to go speak to the dean. You want to hear what she had to say?”
Yes, yes I do . But that isn’t what I say. “I hope it’s all good things, Daphne. You deserve that. But I hope you understand that you also deserve better than me.”
After I get those difficult words out, I turn and walk away, finally reaching my room. Where I lock the door behind me.