Chapter 11
I don’t tell Dominic where to meet, but he finds me there anyway.
It’s a bench swing right inside the entrance to the farm, worn wood with fake strands of fall leaves woven around the arms and back.
Dom arrives with the wind. His shoulders are hunched, his hands shoved in his pockets against the gusts that whip my hair, and his shuffling steps carry resignation. No baseball hat today, but the work boots are present.
He eyes the bench for a brief second before sitting next to me. I’m sure he’s thinking, like I am, of the last time we sat here; we were six years younger and halfway in love, falling more with every second.
A lot has changed since then, of course. But when Dom settles next to me, I can still smell the faint scent of wood shavings I’ve always loved, even with my leather bag propped between us.
Maybe I should have sat somewhere else.
“Let’s get started,” I say instead of letting the past rise between us.
I don’t speak loudly; I don’t need to. Bugelbach’s is now closed; I know for a fact that Farmer Joe is on his way to the Maple Bar for a celebratory drink.
The only sounds to be heard here are the wind and the gentle creak of the swing.
The sky is turning an orangey pink as the sun begins to set, and it’s unfortunately beautiful.
In general I prefer ugly skies when sitting next to the man I once loved, just to keep things from getting unintentionally romantic.
Of course, that’s the problem, isn’t it? When you’re in love, every sky is beautiful.
“Okay. Rules,” I say, clearing my throat. “Like I mentioned earlier, if we’re going to be working together—”
“We don’t have to work together,” Dominic reminds me, and I’m glad he’s going along with the conversation rather than attempting awkward greetings. His voice is calm rather than accusatory as he continues, “I said I’d do it.”
I ignore this, because if we’re going to destroy our parents’ happiness, I think I should be involved. “If we’re going to spend time together, we should have some rules in place.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I launch in.
“The first and most vital rule,” I say, holding one finger up, “is that we operate in absolute secrecy. No one will know that we’re doing this, especially our parents.”
Dom knows perfectly well that what I really mean is my mother, but he’s merciful enough not to call me out. He just waves one hand—a hand that crosses into my airspace, by the way, and far too close.
“Fine,” he says as he commits this nonexistent but very serious infraction. “Next.”
“Next,” I say, holding up a second finger.
“We will maintain firm boundaries. Regardless of our past, we’ve both moved on.
” I feel overly bold saying this, my voice confident to the point of defiance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dominic’s nod of agreement, so I force myself to go on.
“Now we’re coworkers. We will behave as such.
This includes manners and cordiality as well, I would like to add. ”
“Good,” he says. He folds his arms, and when I glance at him, he raises his brows. “Is that all?”
“I—yes,” I say lamely.
“Great. My turn.”
“What—”
“I reserve the right to act without consulting you,” he says briskly. “I reserve the right to sabotage our parents’ relationship in ways that might hurt your mother’s feelings, because frankly, I care more about my dad and myself than I do about her.”
Harsh, but fair.
“You may not show up at my house unannounced—”
“Why would I do that?”
He doesn’t answer; he just goes on with his list. “And lastly,” he says, hesitating a second too long to be casual. “We will not discuss the past unless we mutually decide to do so.”
The past is a beast I’m incapable of wrangling, much less defeating, and flirting with memories won’t end well. So I give him one firm nod.
“Absolutely,” I say. “No discussion of the past.” And definitely not before I’ve invested in some waterproof mascara.
“Good,” Dom says. “Let’s figure out a plan, then. I cannot watch my father’s midlife crisis spiral into an impromptu marriage and the resultant heartbreak.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say distractedly, now looking through my bag, “I think all of the Post-Dad Husbands were past the heartbreak stage when they finally got out of their marriages.”
When Dominic doesn’t answer, I look up to see an incredulous expression on his face.
“Why would that make me feel better?”
I shrug and return to my bag, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen that can write in six different colors. It doesn’t work very well, but I click the orange ink into place—orange for pumpkin patches!—and then start to take notes.
1. Boundaries
2. No talking about past
3. Secrecy
4. Cordiality
5. Don’t go to Dom’s house unannounced
I scoff at this last one, because I would never.
A little huff of laughter sounds from next to me, so familiar and beloved that I freeze, my head swiveling to look at Dominic a millisecond later.
A tiny smile is playing at his lips. When his eyes meet mine, though, it disappears, and he clears his throat, his gaze dropping back to the pad of paper.
“What was that?” I say.
He clears his throat again and points to my list. “Nothing. Let’s plan.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
Now he rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”
“What do you mean, of course? You’ve laughed at me before.”
“I wasn’t,” he insists. He reaches up to adjust a baseball cap that he’s not wearing; I’ve seen the motion hundreds of times, and his hand falls awkwardly back to his lap before he speaks again. “Your handwriting is still bad.” It’s more of a grunt than words. “That’s all.”
And despite the blustering wind and the fading sun, my cheeks heat. “We said no talking about the past.”
“I tried to move on,” he points out, his posture easing as he shrugs. “You kept asking.” Then he reaches over and taps the notepad on my lap. “Come on. We don’t have all night.”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to read my bad handwriting?” I say.
But he snorts. “Plan. We need a plan.”
“I do have some thoughts,” I say. “For Alvina’s side of things, anyway.”
“I’m listening.”
“Right, okay. So.” I scoot to face Dominic better.
“The number one thing she hates is nagging. Oh, no,” I say quickly when I see his raised eyebrows.
“No, she loves doing the nagging”—he nods, understanding back in place—“but she doesn’t like being nagged, especially about very valid things.
She’s not interested in changing her ways. ”
Possibly because of his new promise of cordiality, all he does is hum rather than give a verbal reply. He runs one hand thoughtfully over his scruff, his eyes growing distant. Then, after a second, he nods.
“My dad’s a rule follower,” he says. “And he thinks things should be done a certain way—a proper way. If he knew about Alvina’s drinking, it would probably be a turn-off.” He pauses and then shoots me a hesitant look. “Would you call her alcoholic, specifically, or…?”
“It’s hard to tell,” I admit. “She drinks a lot, but she functions well in most respects. Her dysfunction comes from her—her personality, I guess.”
He stares at me.
“Yeah,” I say, hearing everything he’s not saying. I don’t let my shoulders curl in, but I don’t let myself defend her, either, even though that’s my first instinct. “It’s not great. I wonder if we could set something up so that Daryl thinks he’s helping her. She would hate that.”
“You could talk to him.” Dominic scuffs the toe of his boot over the straw-strewn gravel and dirt, causing the swing to sway and the chains to squeak. “It would require some bending of the truth.”
I take a deep breath and say the most honest thing I’ll say all day: “I’m not sure you could comprehend how much I’ve lied for my mother. If this is what it takes, I’ll bend the truth.”
Dominic is quiet for a second. Then he says simply, “All right. What would that look like?”
And I’m almost disappointed with myself for how quickly the answer comes.
“It would probably need to come from me, and I’d basically tell him that Alvina doesn’t like to talk about it because she’s embarrassed, but she’s trying to cut back on her drinking, so he should help encourage her.
” I pause as one major problem occurs to me. “Of course…”
“Yeah,” Dom says grimly. “He would take that seriously, and I don’t want to make him feel like her sobriety is his responsibility.”
“Right,” I say with a sigh. “Yeah. Okay, nix that.”
Silence falls as we both think. I run through possibilities in my mind, but strangely, they’re difficult to pluck from the ether. Dominic is next to me; it’s been a long day. And, perhaps, I am less of a planner than an on-the-spot doer.
“I’m struggling,” I finally say, and as though I’ve given him permission, Dom sighs.
“Me too.” The breeze ruffles his hair. “We do need to try to keep them apart as much as possible. Ruin the mood, kill the vibes, whatever.”
I am so capable of ruining moods. I can kill vibes.
In this capacity, I will shine.
“Speaking of ruining vibes…” I say slowly. “How does your dad feel about appearances?”
“What?”
“Like, the way he looks.” I put one hand on top of my head. “His hair. Does he care how it looks?”
Dominic frowns, an expression that’s beginning to get lost in the fading light of the day as the pink sky turns to dusky purple. “I don’t think so, no.” He pauses. “But I’m not sure I want to know why you’re asking.”
“Alvina likes things neat and attractive,” I say.
“Shocking.”
“Hush.” Inspiration is coming to me, something that would be horrible but undoubtedly effective. “I wouldn’t want to traumatize your dad. But if he really, truly doesn’t care about his appearance…”
“He dyed his hair blue one year when Emma arranged a family Halloween costume for all of us—”
“I have so many questions,” I break in, my eyes widening. “What were you? Did you dye your hair blue? Are there pictures?”
“It was Dr. Seuss themed because Emma’s a librarian, and I did not dye anything any color,” Dom says flatly.
He does not answer the question about pictures, I notice.
“Stay focused. All that was to confirm that he’s not concerned about appearances.
” His eyes jump over my face. “I, however, am growing very concerned.”
“What if we put bleach in his shampoo?”
This blurted-out suggestion sits between us for a solid five seconds before Dominic speaks, and when he answers, it’s one incredulous word:
“What?”
I nod. “Like in Matilda! Well—” I pause and then admit, “I haven’t actually read the book.
But in the movie, she puts bleach or something in Danny DeVito’s shampoo.
He looks absurd. It’s completely dumb, I know,” I hurry on before Dominic can say anything else.
“I know. It’s totally stupid. But thus is the bottom of the barrel in which we find ourselves.
If we don’t want to tell them we dated—”
“We don’t,” Dom says firmly.
“And I suppose it won’t work to tell your dad how difficult Alvina is—”
“He is a believer in giving everyone a chance,” Dom cuts me off again, his voice grim now. “Even if their past is against them.”
“Very churchgoing of him,” I say with a nod. “But that leaves us with the sole option of breaking them up ourselves, and ridiculous measures might be needed.”
Dominic’s boot goes back to kicking gravel, a rough exhale escaping his lips.
“All right,” he says. “Okay. I can’t believe I’m saying this.
But…I could probably put some bleach into his shampoo.
” He raises his brow at me. “And your mother would be bothered by that? Her boyfriend suddenly having bad hair?”
“Sadly, yes,” I say. “She really, really would.” I gesture at my face as a bitter laugh escapes me. “She doesn’t even like her daughter to have acne.”
Dom opens his mouth, his eyes darting to the spot where my blemish patch was. But he doesn’t say anything; he just snaps his mouth shut and looks away again. Silence falls for several seconds until finally he directs his gaze at his lap and speaks.
“How has it been? Living with her, I mean?”
I shrug. “About like you’d expect. I’ll survive.” Then, because the opening is there and I want to know, I add, “Where did you say you were living? How long have you been back here?”
Dom shifts uncomfortably and rubs one hand over his head. His gaze flicks to me briefly, his brows jumping. “Are we talking about the past already?”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my voice casual. “I was wondering what you’ve been up to. How you’ve been. We don’t have to—”
“Nah,” he cuts me off, and his posture eases.
He leans back, folding his arms and staring off at the sea of pumpkins across the gravel path.
“It’s fine. I came back here pretty much right after”—he pauses, a sticky silence—“pretty much immediately. I lived with my dad for a while and then bought a cheap little place off First. It needed a lot of work. So I fixed it up. Ben helped. It looks good now.”
I nod slowly. “You’re great at all that—working with your hands and whatnot. And you enjoy it?”
“I do,” he admits. “Much more than I ever enjoyed sitting at a desk.” Then he glances over at me. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
This is such a normal conversation, full of normal questions and normal responses, but it feels like a layer of my soul is being peeled back, or a line of defenses is being slowly lowered.
Even so…it’s nice, chatting.
“I still work for the same company. No degree,” I add, because it’s better to get that out of the way, given what happened between us.
“But I’m a project manager now. It pays well as long as I keep my work load up.
I’m here too,” I say, gesturing around us at the pumpkin farm, “for the month of October.”
Dominic’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Berkeley loves a pumpkin patch.”
“Berkeley does love a pumpkin patch,” I agree.
Silence falls again, and he sighs. Then he stands.
“Well, I’ll keep you updated, I guess,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets once more as the swing sways. “About our parents. Keep an eye on the two of them. I’ll do the same.”
I give him a nod, even though he doesn’t see it; his back is to me.
I’m expecting him to walk away, but for a few seconds, he hesitates, hovering where he is, halfway in motion—then his body sags, and he mumbles something I don’t hear under his breath.
With nothing more than a vague wave over his shoulder, he plods toward the entrance.
I’m left alone in the falling light, wondering what he said, and trying not to care—trying to remind myself of number two on our new list, No talking about the past. I amend it in my mind: No thinking about the past.
But it’s difficult on quiet evenings like this, when memories rise gently and pleasantly, when swings creak and sway and lull.
I shake my head to dislodge the spell.
Maybe in the future, Dom and I would do better to meet during the day.