Chapter 20
I try to keep hold of the autumn magic in the air when I return to Bugelbach’s after my discussion with Dom, but it’s difficult. I feel a little like one of the warty gourds I usually find so endearing—warped and splotchy inside, trying and failing to be a regular pumpkin.
“I’m not sure that makes sense,” Liv says when I call her after the pumpkin patch closes and everyone has left for the day.
“I know,” I say glumly, the bench swing creaking softly as I sit. “It doesn’t make sense at all. But it’s still how I feel.”
“And you are totally allowed to feel like that. So…” she continues slowly, “do you want to tell me what’s going on? You and Dominic argued?”
I haven’t told her exactly what happened, only that Dom and I talked earlier and it didn’t go well. Liv would happily listen to all my woes, but she has enough going on as it is—I don’t want to add more to her plate.
Of course, underneath all those reasons, one more burrows nastily beneath my skin: I think I’d be ashamed to admit what Dominic and I talked about.
“I wouldn’t call it an argument,” I say with a sigh. “There are some things we don’t see eye to eye on.”
Even though you know he’s right, says a little voice in my mind, and my heart sinks.
“Everything will be okay,” Liv says, maybe sensing my desire to change the subject. “Worst case scenario, you, me, and Ari can move to Alaska and start our own commune.”
“I would die in Alaska,” I say, frowning. “Do you know how cold it is up there?”
“Somewhere warm, then,” she says, and a reluctant smile comes to my lips.
“Deal. Our own commune, somewhere warm.”
We say goodbye and hang up, but I don’t leave right away; I stay on the bench. I swing my legs and stare aimlessly at the hay bales across the gravel lane, and the entire time, my head swirls with questions I don’t have answers to—riddles without solutions.
In the end, all my tired mind can settle on is that too many rubber bands stretched around a pumpkin will not snap themselves—it’s the pumpkin that will explode.
“Go home and go to bed,” I mutter to myself, standing up and leaving the swing swaying gently behind me. “You’ve looked at too many pumpkins today.”
Tuesday is more of the same, minus visiting the ongoing festival in the middle of the day.
There’s also an added migraine, one that pulses painfully behind my right eye until I take the migraine medicine that gets rid of it.
I’m fairly certain the headache is caused by my nighttime tossing and turning, not to mention the floor I’ve been sleeping on.
I don’t hear from Dominic, and like the spineless slug I am, I’m glad. Dom has always had a way of asking questions I had to answer, questions I didn’t let myself think about because of how sticky they were.
But with Dom, keeping my head buried in the sand won’t fly. Not completely, anyway.
Why must he encourage me to be a better person? Why can’t I wallow stagnantly in my comfort zone?
I snort as I tromp over the straw-strewn gravel, a large pumpkin in my arms, dirt smudging my overalls.
It’s been a more hands-on day at Bugelbach’s, because we’re moving some of our stock around.
Musclewoman I am not, so it’s slow going, but we do get it done, and after that I’m able to sit down and rest.
In rest, my mind turns to my mother, and Daryl, and Dominic. Those three are impossibly tangled together, and no matter how I think about it, Dom is right—not everyone will be happy, regardless of what happens with the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
I don’t want my mother to date Dom’s dad. Everything in me repels that idea, because it’s wrong. It’s just wrong. If anyone will be together, it will be me and Dom—
“Stop,” I say severely when I realize where my thoughts have strayed. I press my back into the prickly bale of hay I’m seated against, trying to bring myself to my senses. “No. Stop.”
But that’s the real reason, isn’t it? That’s what I’m trying to ignore. If Alvina marries Daryl, Dom and I will be stepsiblings. And as stepsiblings, any far-off future for us would be difficult, if not impossible.
But if Alvina finds out I’m trying to ruin her relationship, she’ll be so, so angry—and when Alvina holds a grudge, she’s punitive. Add in the fact that she genuinely seems to like Daryl, and the equation becomes more complicated still.
“Maybe I should talk to Liv and Ari about that commune,” I say.
A child running past slows down and gives me a weird look as I talk to myself, so I snap my mouth shut and try to look like I’m busy.
Which is true! I’m very busy. I have a lot to do.
And that’s how the rest of my day goes: talking to myself like a weirdo, moving pumpkins all over the place, and keeping the farm orderly while Archer continues to ferry people to and from the festival.
The hours stretch on, and if I had a feather bed, I would collapse onto it with abandon when I returned to my storage room set-up that night.
As it is, I’m working with a sleeping bag, so I move a little more carefully.
My hair is still damp from the shower I snuck at Nathan’s house after work, but I don’t mind; my body aches after the day I’ve had.
It’s about nine-thirty in the evening when I receive a text from Dominic, and it comprises three words only: Where are you?
His name on my phone screen causes a little jump in my veins, excitement and worry and trepidation. I bite my lip at his question, and I glance around the storage room, at the looming shelves and my sleeping bag and my camp light.
Then I lie through my teeth.
“I’m at home,” I breathe as I text him back.
But why is he asking? We haven’t talked to each other since our conversation in the alley yesterday. It’s not even that we’re not speaking; we just…haven’t spoken.
There’s a difference.
A distant roll of thunder outside echoes the worry bubbling in my chest. I don’t know why Dominic is reaching out now, but given the time of night and the odd question, something might be going on.
Has Alvina brought Daryl to our house, maybe? I can’t picture Nathan letting that fly, but he could be out. Or what if they’re having a romantic evening somewhere else, laughing and bonding deep down in their souls?
What if they’re making wedding plans?
She could be happy, part of my brain says.
You could be heartbroken, the other part says.
Another boom of thunder echoes, followed by the steady start of rain—gentle at first, then heavier.
And despite my concern, I find my lips curling into a smile. I burrow down into my sleeping bag, listening to the downpour on the roof and relishing the cozy atmosphere.
I’d give anything for a fireplace and a fuzzy blanket.
I pull up Dom’s phone number and then call him to ask what’s going on. We’ll have to smooth out yesterday’s conversation sometime anyway. I’m not particularly excited, but I’ve let things sit all day.
I clutch the phone tighter in my hand. “You’re a strong woman,” I say, even though I don’t feel like a strong woman.
Being on iffy terms with Dominic is not quite like being on iffy terms with anyone else. It’s a bur against my skin.
But although the phone rings and rings and rings, he doesn’t answer. When I hang up and try again, there’s still no response, so I sigh and plug my phone in, pushing it aside and flopping back onto my pillow.
I drift in and out of sleep for a while, lulled by the sound of the rain but troubled by my swirling thoughts. I’m not sure how long I stay in this half-awake state, only that I’m jerked unpleasantly out of it with a jolt.
I sit bolt upright, my heart jumping into my throat as I listen. For a moment I only hear the downpour, but then a sound filters toward me, and I realize what’s happening.
Someone is knocking on the door—pounding on the door. I hear it over the rain, three thuds in quick succession.
I scramble out of my sleeping bag and grab the lantern, hurrying out of the storage room, down the tools aisle, and to the shop entrance.
For a brief second, a long rectangle of light from the street lamp outside streams across the floor; it’s obscured into shadow when a dark, looming figure moves in front of the glass, and I almost scream.
Someone is out there.
“Berkeley.” The call is faint, but relief floods through me when I recognize the voice. I unlock the shop door and fling it open to reveal Dominic, standing on the doorstep and looking like a drowned man back to life.
His chest heaves choppily as he holds his arm over his head like that will calm the storm, and his eyes rove over me, lingering on my tropical pajamas as rain blows into the shop. “Are you living here?”
“I—” I break off, embarrassed to be found homeless by a man I absolutely do not love anymore. “So what if I am?”
Dominic pushes past me and into the store, and I hurry out of his way, closing the door behind him.
“What are you doing here?”
But he doesn’t answer. He looks at the puddle he’s brought in with him, water dripping all over the place, and then turns to me. “You’re actually living here?”
“I asked if I could use your shed,” I point out, keeping my voice steady. “And you said no.” Then, because I can’t help it, I add, “Very rudely.”
“I didn’t—” He looks bewildered as he goes on, “I didn’t think you were serious.”
“Well, I was,” I say. I pause, my brows furrowing. “How did you know I was here?”
Dom’s entire sweatshirt seems to slump, hood and all, as he sighs. “Rosie told me you came by the other day, looking for a place to stay. I checked at your house and you weren’t there—”
“How come you can come to my house unannounced but I can’t go to yours?” I say, indignant.
He doesn’t answer my question. “Get your stuff,” he says wearily.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Get your stuff,” he says again. When I stare blankly, he goes on in a tight voice, “You can’t live in the storage room of a hardware store, Berkeley.”
Then he brushes past me, except he’s sopping, so it’s less of a brush and more of a squelch. He trudges wetly down the aisle, his shoes squeaking, and I hurry behind him.
“What are you doing?” I call. “Hang on. What are you—wait!”
He’s barged into the storage room and flipped on the light, revealing my current living space in all its pathetic glory: a squashy sleeping bag, an open duffle bag with jeans and underwear hanging out, and my phone plugged into a dusty extension cord.
I lunge for the underwear as Dominic stares at the setup.
“We said boundaries, Dom,” I say loudly as I tackle my duffle bag and shove everything back inside, pushing my cardboard box of memories to the bottom so he won’t see. “Boundaries! We made a big deal about it—there were rules! Stay out of—”
But my words turn into a yelp of protest when Dominic steps further into the room and grabs the plastic bag I’ve been using as a laundry hamper.
“Leave my clothes alone!” I say.
“Then get them yourself, unless you want to go naked,” he says, tossing the bag to me. I miss, and my dirty clothes go flying.
“This is not boundaries!” I all but wail. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you move,” Dominic says calmly, and I freeze.
“What?”
He sighs, and even that simple motion sends a few extra water droplets onto the floor as he continues to drip. “Do you or do you not want to live here?” he says.
I snatch a dirty shirt from off my sleeping bag. “It’s obviously not ideal—”
“And do you want to go back and room with Alvina Berkeley?” he goes on.
“Clearly not,” I say stiffly as I ball the shirt up and stuff it in the plastic bag. “She wears too much perfume—”
“Which gives you headaches.”
“And she won’t let me turn on white noise—”
“So you have to listen to the snoring.”
“And I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”
The words explode out of me, louder than I expected. My heart thuds in my chest as my hand tightens around the blue jeans I’ve just yanked off the floor.
In the resulting silence, accompanied only by the steady drip, drip, drip of Dominic’s water-logged clothes, a flash of raw understanding passes between us.
Then Dom nods, picks up my duffle bag, and shoves it into my arms. “Take this to the truck,” he says.
I continue to stare at him.
“It’s not like we have all night,” he goes on when I don’t move. “Pick up the pace or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and take you myself.”
“Take me where, exactly?”
A violent crash of thunder sounds overhead, so loud the shop itself seems to quake, and Dom looks around before muttering under his breath—something about Don’t have time for this.
Then, without any more warning, he hauls me into his arms, bridal style. I gasp and clutch the duffle bag hanging from one hand, slinging my other arm around his neck so I don’t fall.
“Put me down—no, don’t drop me!” I say quickly, and he scoffs.
“When have I ever dropped you?”
We both still at this, an awkward pause curdling the space between us.
He recovers first, lurching out of the store room and down one of the aisles. He pushes the door open with his foot and launches the both of us out into the downpour, his head ducked against the rain, and pushes through the wind, around the building, and to his truck.
“Well?” he says loudly when we reach the Ford. “Get in.” He starts to put me down, but I cling tighter to him.
“No,” I yell so I can be heard. “You cannot just pick me up and force me out of my living quarters—”
I break off with a yelp as he resumes his grip and lifts me again, his expression somewhere between annoyed and businesslike.
Then he proceeds to drop me into the bed of his truck.
“The bed?” I screech as he rounds the front with my bag and gets into the driver’s seat, tossing the duffle over to the passenger side. I scramble forward and bang on the cab window. “This is illegal—”
“Don’t fall out!” he yells back, words I barely hear.
I call him a name I’m not proud of.
He whips around to look at me through the little window, but he’s clearly not offended; he just gives me a tsk, tsk as he shakes his head.
“Dominic! Dom!” It’s no good; my words are drowned out in the roar of the engine and the deluge of rain. “My sleeping bag! What about my sleeping bag?” But I yelp when the truck lurches forward—
And off into the night we go.