Chapter 15
Alvina does not see Daryl for two whole days. It is an October miracle—albeit a miracle we are a little concerned about.
“So his hair is totally normal?” I say in disbelief, resting against a scratchy bale of hay at the top of the hay bale mountain.
Dominic’s confirmation is accompanied by a sigh when it filters down the line. “I checked today in between jobs. His hair isn’t bleached at all.”
It’s Friday evening, and I am wiped out from hosting an elementary school field trip at Bugelbach’s.
Despite my exhaustion, though, my grip tightens on my phone.
I extend my legs, wiggling them to get the blood flowing, because I’ve been up here for a while.
There’s enough room on this top platform for several people, but I’m the only one now that Bugelbach’s has closed for the day.
“Well, Alvina stayed inside at Nathan’s all day yesterday. But as of noonish today, her hair should be on its way back to normal,” I say. “She tried to get me to skip work yesterday so I could babysit her.”
The silence from Dom reminds me how strange this will have sounded.
“I just meant—she likes to be taken care of when she’s upset,” I say, but my voice is hesitant, and the evening breeze feels suddenly chilly against my heating cheeks. “Sorry, it’s hard to explain.”
My laugh is embarrassed and awkward, but Dominic’s isn’t. The gentle huff of amusement that finds me is soft but natural, and something relaxes inside of me—something I didn’t realize was painfully tense.
“You don’t need to explain,” he says. “So what next?”
I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t have anything to say; I’m too surprised.
We’ve had that conversation before, the conversation about weird things my mother does. But it’s never gone so smoothly. Dominic never moved on when I struggled to find words; he wanted to understand what she was like, or why I humored her.
And every time I failed to clarify, I died a little inside, a combination of humiliation and embarrassment and defensiveness I couldn’t explain.
“Berkeley?”
I startle at his voice intruding on my thoughts.
“Yes,” I say automatically. I clear my throat past the inexplicable lump trying to grow there, because it is absolutely ridiculous to be tearing up over something like this.
Completely insane, and uncalled for, and unwanted.
So I clear my throat again, more aggressively this time, and then take a deep breath. “Yes,” I repeat.
“Next steps. Let’s figure them out.”
“Right. Okay. Good.”
“I think we can assume they’ll go back to being attached at the hip.”
“Better than attached at the lip,” I say absently.
Dominic lets out a snort of laughter, and I wince when I realize what I’ve said.
“Unfortunately,” Dom says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were attached at both the hip and the lip.”
“Me either.” I tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “Do they have plans for tonight?”
“No—I do know that much. My dad’s working late.”
I hum thoughtfully. “Tomorrow is Saturday. Prime date night. Let’s figure out if they’re doing anything then, and we can go from there.”
“Sounds good.” An awkward silence falls, one I feel keenly as a pang in my chest, and then, at the same time, we both speak.
“Well—”
“I guess—”
Another silence, even worse than the one before.
“Okay,” Dominic says abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah,” I say with painful relief. “Okay. Later.”
I don’t wait for any response from him; I pull the phone away from my ear and end the call with a forceful jab. Then I exhale and slump back against the prickly hay bale.
Why was that so uncomfortable?
But the answer jumps into my mind without having to think: Because talking to Dominic is beginning to feel more natural.
And for Dom and I, natural always included things like “Love you” at the end of phone calls, or plans for when we would meet next, or terms of endearment.
But we don’t say those things anymore. We don’t automatically make plans. We’re treading in unfamiliar territory.
I sigh and stand up, brushing the straw off my clothes and out of my hair. Then I descend the hay mountain and drag myself to my car, my feet heavy as my exhaustion grows.
The drive home is quick, and when I spot Alvina’s car in the driveway as I pull around back, I begin my preparation.
It’s always good to be prepared when encountering Alvina. This process involves deep breaths and reinforcing any patience that may have slipped throughout the day.
I enter the house through the garage and toe my shoes off in the laundry room, because they’re dirty and dusty. A tantalizing scent is coming from the kitchen, and when I hurry in, I find Nate at the stove, stirring a large saucepan full of red sauce.
It should be noted that Alvina does not cook, which is how I knew Nathan was the one I’d find here.
“Do I get some of that?” I say. I give him my most winsome, most sisterly smile when he looks over his shoulder at me, and he snorts.
“If you go take a shower first,” he says before returning to the pasta. “You smell.”
He is not wrong.
“Where’s Alvina?” I ask him, and he grunts, jerking his head toward the family room.
I trail through and spot her on the couch, her legs crossed as she watches some sort of reality show that appears to involve lots of women and lots of Botox. Her hair is brown again, and she doesn’t look up at me when she speaks.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she says, waving one airy hand in my direction. “You do smell. Go wash, won’t you?”
“I’m going,” I say. “Your hair looks much better.”
“It does,” she agrees. This is what gets her to press pause.
The blonde woman on the screen freezes mid-shout, and Alvina turns to me.
“They did a good job, I think.” She smooths her hands over her hair.
“It was so horrid before. Daryl saw it just briefly before I rushed home”—she titters—“and of course he said it looked lovely, but really, what do men know?”
Oh, sweet Daryl.
“How did it change colors?” I say, and nerves spike in my chest. The last thing I need is my mother getting suspicious.
But to my relief, her wrinkle-free forehead puckers into a wrinkle-free frown.
“I’m not certain,” she says. “Daryl thought maybe the shampoo had gone bad, but I don’t think that happens.
Maybe I used something of his daughters’?
He threw the bottle away, anyhow.” She gives a shrug and turns her eyes back to the screen. “Go wash up, dear.”
I head for the stairs, but before I leave the room, I say, “Are you guys doing anything fun tomorrow?” I hold my breath as I wait for her answer.
“We’re going on a drive up to the Ridge to watch the sunset,” she says—words that send my heart plummeting. “Daryl says it should be lovely up there.”
The Ridge. They’re going to the Ridge—Make-Out Ridge. And at sunset? It will be beautiful and romantic. They will look at each other with dreamy eyes and everything will feel just right, because Autumn Ridge in the fall has that effect.
I hurry upstairs and take a lightning-fast shower; then I text Dominic.
Me
Our parents are going to MAKE-OUT RIDGE tomorrow evening.
At sunset.
Dominic
That’s not good.
ME
It is not.
I think this is going to be a “ruin the mood” moment.
Any ideas?
Dominic
Actually…yes.
If you’re up for a drive?
I stay up late checking over a batch of creative briefs that one of our editors submitted last minute.
It takes longer than I expect, because it’s a batch of twenty done by a new hire, and I have to correct most of them.
Once I’ve updated my time sheet, I set my laptop aside and burrow beneath my covers.
Thanks to Alvina’s snoring, however, I sleep very poorly. I arrive at Bugelbach’s in a zombie-like state the next morning, just in time for the Saturday morning rush.
I make it to my lunch break through sheer willpower alone. My smiles are porcelain and ready to crack; my chipper, let’s-have-fun! attitude is manic. I am a sleep-deprived loon.
But I’m a self-aware sleep-deprived loon.
And I know that I will not make it the rest of the day without some reinforcements.
So I call in the cavalry, and like rescuing angels, Ari, Liv, and Liv’s bodyguard—Tate Walker, brother of Dom’s friend Bennett—arrive fifteen minutes later, caffeine in hand.
“Here you go,” Liv says, passing me a massive styrofoam cup of Dr. Pepper. She’s looking a bit wary, and Tate is close by her side.
“You are beautiful,” I say as I jump up from the bench where I’ve been waiting and snatch the drink from her. “You are goddesses. All of you.”
Tate looks skeptical about this, but then he shrugs and drifts off to a nearby bale of hay, settling with ease and keeping an eye on us.
“The corn dog stand only has bottled water,” I say as I down half the soda in ten seconds flat.
“No good,” Ari says, shaking her head and tucking some dark hair behind her ear. “We’ve got your back.” Then, when I continue to gulp my drink instead of answering, she laughs. “I guess it’s been a long day already?”
“A long few days.” I sit back on the bench and scoot over so they can join me, and then I tell them about the shampoo mishap.
“And Daryl actually told her her hair looked nice?” Liv says when I’ve finished, her brows jumping with skepticism.
“Yes!”
“Maybe he really did think it looked nice?” Ari says, but her voice is unconvinced. She leans forward so she can see me from Liv’s other side. “Is that possible?”
“No!” I wail. “It looked horrible!” I set my empty cup on the ground between my feet and then let my head drop into my hands. “He’s so sweet to her!” I look up again, my tired eyes desperate, my voice deranged. “I don’t know—should we just let them date?” I pause. “Maybe he could fix her!”
Liv and Ari give this suggestion exactly the reaction it deserves: disapproving frowns.
I slump in my seat, sliding down the bench. “No, you’re right—you’re right. Okay.”
“So…what are you going to do?” Ari says, wrinkling her nose. She knows that whatever the answer is, it will be unpleasant.