Chapter 9
I hit him with an oomph—his or mine, I’m not sure—as his arms close automatically around me.
I know it’s automatic because if he had a chance to think it through, he’d probably let me fall.
“Careful,” he says, his voice startled and breathless as he takes most of my weight. “Berkeley—get off me.”
“I’m not on you,” I say.
It’s a lie. I’m clinging desperately to his jacket, because my head is somewhere around his sternum now as I slide slowly down his body—in the least sexy way possible, I might add. I squeeze tighter as I try to find my feet, my hands clasping.
Dominic tenses at my searching grip. “I’m letting go of you.”
No! my body says.
“Fine,” my mouth says. My legs finally get beneath me, and I let go of Dom as he lets go of me. I only wobble for a second, and then I’m upright once more.
Unfortunately, there’s no graceful way out of what just happened. I don’t even try.
“Well,” I say, gasping for air. “So.”
“So,” Dominic repeats slowly, eyeing me with disconcertion. He adjusts his pointless backward hat a few times, still watching me. “Are you going to throw up again?”
I take inventory of my stomach and find things a little iffy down there.
“It’s possible,” I say.
“Then let’s find a storm drain or something,” he says, his expression turning grim. “I think my dad will question a trail of vomit on his lawn.”
“Storm drain.” I bob my head, panting. “Yes. Good.”
“Are we walking or running?”
I do another quick scan of my stomach. “We’re hurrying.”
I see him wince in the light spilling from inside, but he nods.
I’m not certain we could look any more ridiculous or suspicious as we walk-run our way out of the backyard, past the windows, past the sidewalk, and into the street.
My satin pajamas are still decorated in bursts of bright color, and my boots are still fuzzy, and at some point I will have to explain this outfit, because no one was supposed to know.
But Dominic knows. He knows exactly how stupid I look as I hurry down the road, dressed like a tropical explosion, my hand clapping over my mouth—and now he’s gesturing to the storm drain by the mailbox like it’s the finish line to a race and he’s my trainer—“Move, move, move! Go, go, go!”—and I’m hurtling toward that grate with speed I’ve never before shown in my life.
And I swear, as I reach the drain just in time, that an out-of-body experience occurs. I see the entire situation as though from above, hovering over my disgusting self, emptying my stomach into a storm drain while my ex stands nearby, a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.
What? I think as my body heaves and my vision blurs. This isn’t how you wanted to spend your night?
I lose track of time and space very briefly, as one does when one is throwing up into a sewer grate, and when I return to myself, my arms are shaky with the effort of holding myself up.
I collapse weakly onto the pavement, rolling onto my back and staring blankly at the night sky, wondering why no one has called the cops on us yet.
“I think,” I say with little puffs of breath, “I might be sick.”
“I think you might be right,” Dominic says, from much closer than I expected; I tilt my head to the left and find him right there, crouching on the pavement. He gestures to my cheek, where the thorn got me. “You know, you’re lucky that won’t scar.”
“What?”
He gives a nod. “In the olden days no one would have married a woman with a scarred face.”
My heart crumbles—dried mud in a tight fist, leaving nothing but dust. “Yeah?” I manage to get out in a weak voice.
He nods again, and when our eyes meet, he reaches out and pushes some of my hair off of my forehead. “You’re clammy,” he says, picking a few more strands of hair away. Then he presses his hand to my skin. “But I don’t think you have a fever.”
I swat his touch away with a weak arm. “Stop,” I breathe. “Stop being nice.”
“I’m not being nice,” he says, pulling his hand out of my reach. “I’m being normal, Berkeley. Now get up. You need to go home and go to bed with a trash can.”
The thought of going to sleep in the same room as Alvina pulls weak laughter to my lips; the memory of her perfume makes me nauseated all over again.
“Do you have any extra room at your house?” I say before I can think better of it.
“I have a shed,” Dominic says, his voice distracted as he stands up. He moves to my head and leans down again. “I’m lifting from under your arms. One, two, three—up.”
I lurch into sitting position. “Can I sleep in your shed?”
“What?” Dom says from behind me, snorting. The sound filters just above my ear. “Of course not. Come on.” He fits his grip more securely under my arms and lifts. “Up. Come on—there you go.”
I sway on my feet, but I don’t fall over, even as Dom puts a light hand on my back and begins leading me toward his truck—which, I see, is parked one house down from my own car.
“This is me,” I say, pointing, but he keeps moving.
“You probably shouldn’t drive right now.”
My shuffling steps come to a halt, and I sigh. “What are you doing?” I say as a wave of tiredness hits me. I twist around to look at Dominic, whose hand falls back to his side.
“What do you mean?” he says, but his eyes dart away from mine. In the light of the street lamp I can see how green they are; I can see the frayed edge of his backward hat and the waffle knit of his shirt.
“Did you read the letter?” I say instead of answering him.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Now’s not the time—”
“Did you read it or not?” I insist.
And his whole frame sags. He runs one hand down his face, but he still won’t look at me. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I read it.”
That crumbled, exhausted creature in my chest jumps. “And?”
“And what?” He pauses for a second and then goes on, “What do you want me to say? What do you want to hear?”
He’s not defensive or even angry—just tired. Like maybe he needs closure so he can move on, too.
“I want us to forgive each other and move on,” I say in my best firm voice. It’s not great, because of the vomiting thing. “I want us to forgive each other and go about our lives.”
But Dominic shakes his head, looking even wearier than before, and when he speaks, his voice is barely audible.
“You were never the one I couldn’t forgive, Reese.”
Dominic drives me home in total silence. I don’t ask any more questions, and he doesn’t offer any explanations. Once he drops me back at Nathan’s house, he takes my keys and returns with my car a few minutes later before walking down the sidewalk and disappearing into the night.
I throw up two more times and fall asleep on the floor of the bathroom, my cheek pressed to the cool tile. I’m woken at five the next morning when Alvina steps on me, shrieks, and flips the light on.
“Reese?” she says.
“Hnnnggg,” I say.
“You look terrible, sweetheart. Are you ill?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Take a shower.”
She leaves me to get on with it, so I wiggle-slither over the edge of the tub and then flop to the floor of the shower. I lie there for a second and hope I don’t drown.
I do have to admit, however, that I feel much better once I’m clean, minus the throbbing arm Alvina stepped on. I have no appetite to speak of, but I’m not nauseated any longer—just tired. If today weren’t the grand opening of the pumpkin patch, maybe I’d stay home, but since it is…
“All right,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror. My orange sweater makes me look like either a pumpkin or a carrot, perfect for the occasion, and my jeans and sturdy boots are comfortable enough to be moving around in all day. I pull my hair into a quick braid over my shoulder and call it good.
You know what was not good?
Last night.
I shake my head to ward off the memories, because I don’t have time to wallow, as tempting as it sounds.
I keep seeing, in slow motion, a vision of myself hurtling toward the storm drain to vomit while Dominic looks on. There was splattering and hacking and gasping.
There were fur boots.
With a shudder, I smooth my hand down my sweater and then head for the door.
The opening day at Bugelbach’s is everything Joe and I hoped it would be.
He asks how I got the scratch on my cheek; I change the subject.
Juliet Monroe comes to claim all of the billion pumpkins she’s going to need for the Fall Festival—they’ll look amazing—and Archer Kade comes by too, asking about deliveries for the Sleepy Holler event he puts on at Horseshoe Holler.
I try not to be obvious about it, but I do notice some sparks between them, if I were the kind of person to notice those things.
They’d be a gorgeous couple; Archer has an easy cowboy confidence, and Juliet has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
They only speak a bit, but she blushes when she sees him, and his eyes linger on her when she’s not looking.
Would it be weird to hide and watch them for a bit?
“Of course it would,” I snap at myself as I hurry away. It totally would. I don’t have time anyway.
Joe and I work up until the last minute to get everything ready, and when we open the gates at nine, a crowd of kids and their parents are waiting.
Something inside me glows with relief and happiness that people still appreciate this place after all these years.
Joe is thrilled too; he never says so, but I can tell he worries that what he does will become irrelevant.
Pumpkins will never be irrelevant, Joe. Autumn as a season brings in the bulk of our tourism in this town. I myself burn apple cider candles year round; I buy pumpkin pie the second it hits the shelves. I am as basic as they come, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
When early afternoon rolls around and I give myself a second to take a break, I traipse over to the corn dog booth and buy myself one.
This is done after a considerable amount of debate thanks to last night.
But I feel hungry rather than sick, and I can tell my blood sugar is low, so I decide eating would be good.
I go tiredly but happily over to the straw mountain, ducking under the makeshift fence and rounding the hay bales to the outside edge.
I eat slowly at first, taking small bites to see how they sit. When everything shows itself to be in order, I finish the rest of the corn dog and slump back against the hay bales.
As my body relaxes, I realize how exhausted I am, so I sit down instead. I inhale deeply, breathing in the dusty air and exhaling. It gives my mind a chance to slow down, but unfortunately, this means the events from last night have a chance to slip in again.
And although the mortifying parts are louder than the rest, it’s the quieter memories that filter back—the things Dominic said, the things we talked about.
The things we still need to do.
A breeze blows past as though pushing me along; I frown when a few strands of hair get in my mouth, spitting them out and looking like an idiot. Then I tuck them behind my ear, pull out my phone, and compose the message I know I need to send.
Me
Having discussed the letter I wrote, and after talking briefly last night, can I correctly say that we’ve both moved on and there are no hard feelings between us?
I’m proud of that text. It takes me several attempts to formulate. But all I get from Dominic is one word:
Dominic
Yes
He doesn’t even use punctuation. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to know what tone he’s using?
“Why does it matter?” I ask myself, resting my weight against the bale of hay behind me.
I don’t know the answer. I clear my throat and text back anyway.
Me
In that case, re: breaking our parents up, I think we would benefit from shared intel and working together. For that, I’d appreciate the chance to establish a few guidelines or rules, just to make sure nothing gets complicated between us.
Dominic
Why are you talking so formally?
Nothing will get complicated between us because nothing IS between us, Berkeley
That one shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It’s hard to set aside your first love, even if there are no feelings there anymore—and, like Dominic said, there aren’t. There are no feelings left.
Still. He doesn’t need to be rude.
Me
Fine. I still want rules in place. Humor me.
Dominic
If you get to make rules, I get to make some too.
Me
Agreed.
Can I call you?
My breath catches in my chest when I see the bouncing dots telling me he’s responding. Those dots bounce, and then they disappear; they show up, they disappear, they come back—
“Just say it,” I say when my anxiety is so high I’m starting to feel nauseated again. “Come on.”
As though he can hear me berating him through the phone, Dominic’s text finally pops up.
Dominic
We should probably just meet.
We need to make a plan and come up with some ideas anyway.
“A meeting. Okay. That’s fine. We can meet,” I breathe.
ME
I’m at Bugelbach’s until seven tonight
So it would need to be after that.
Or we can do another day soon
Dominic
I can swing by this evening
My stomach swoops—it’s that corn dog—but I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that we’ll be meeting on familiar ground.
ME
That works. I’ll see you then.
And with that I tuck my phone back in my pocket, stand up, and get back to work.