Chapter 29
I spend most of Monday working. When I get home from the pumpkin patch, I settle on the shed couch and do my online job.
I saw Dominic briefly this morning as he was pulling out of the driveway; we waved at each other and then went our separate ways.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since, but I’m anxious to hear what he says about our parents.
I don’t know how easy Daryl is to pry information out of, especially concerning blossoming relationships. Alvina will tell you everything you want to know and everything you don’t, mostly because she likes to feel like people are interested in her life.
Sighing, I settle back against the couch cushion and snap my computer closed. The sun is only just setting, but I’m unusually tired. So I make myself a ham sandwich, eat, and then watch TV on my phone for an hour before falling asleep.
It’s on Tuesday morning that Dom gets back to me. He calls while I’m in the middle of rearranging inventory—a fancy way of saying I’m moving pumpkins around.
“Hi,” I say, putting the phone on speaker and then setting it on top of the hay bale I’m next to. “What’s up?”
“You sound out of breath,” he says instead of answering my question.
“I’m switching up our pumpkin display.” I prop a large pumpkin against the hay bale and surround it with a few smaller ones, standing back to see how it looks.
“Well, I talked to my dad,” Dom says, and I momentarily forget about my display.
“Yeah?” I say, grabbing the phone and holding it to my mouth. “What did he say? How are they doing?”
“All I could get out of him was that he’s taking her to dinner on Monday. Someplace fancy in Burlington.”
I groan at this, slumping down next to the pumpkin I just arranged. “A fancy dinner? In Burlington?”
“Yeah,” Dom says, his voice grim. “So that’s not promising.”
I glance around at the empty pumpkin patch. We’re going to change our hours starting tomorrow, because no one is here. “You know what I’m realizing?” I say, trying to make myself more comfortable.
“Hmm?”
“Breaking a couple up is difficult.”
“It is,” Dom admits.
“Especially if you’re conscientious,” I go on. “Which we mostly are.”
“I recall some spying that happened a few weeks ago,” Dominic says now, and I can hear a faint smile entering his voice. “Peeking through windows. Would you call that conscientious?”
“But I wasn’t hurting anything. I wasn’t lying to anyone or doing damage, you know?”
“Yeah,” he says on a sigh. “I know.”
“I don’t want to puncture their tires or something, and even if I did, what would that do?
Basically nothing. They could still meet up for dinner somewhere other than a fancy restaurant in Burlington.
” I squirm as the hay makes my back itch.
“So what do we do? Tell them lies about each other? Show your dad all my mom’s diagnoses? ”
“Does she have official diagnoses?” he says, sounding interested.
“I don’t know,” I say. “And I’ve never asked. But I’d be shocked if there wasn’t something.” I clear my throat. “Anyway. Thoughts? About our parents, I mean. Not my mom’s medical history.”
“Because I do have thoughts about your mom’s medical history.”
A smile tugs over my lips at this. “I’m sure you do.”
“Well,” he goes on, “I think it would be worth it to tag along. Fancy dinners don’t usually happen for no reason.” Then, more casually, he adds, “You and I can grab dinner too, if you want. Watch them from across the restaurant or something.”
“Oh,” I say, straightening up at the idea. “I like that. I like that very much.”
A puff of laughter sends static down the line. “Let’s do it, then.”
“Also, I was thinking,” I go on. “Could I borrow your house this evening?”
“Why? Throwing a party?”
“A rager. Whole town’s invited.”
Another laugh, clearer this time. “Why do you need my house?”
I sigh and tell him the slightly pathetic truth. “Because my soul is tired and I’m sick of ham sandwiches. I want to make something delicious and take a bubble bath and watch a movie. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Yes to the cooking and the movie. Absolutely not to the bubble bath.”
“But it sounds so—”
“No bubble bath,” he cuts me off flatly. “I cannot handle you taking a bath in my house, okay?”
Welp.
“Fine,” I say, suddenly wishing for more of a cool breeze than this morning has provided so far. I fan my face. “Just a shower, then.”
“I have an idea, Berkeley—let’s stop talking about your bathing habits.”
“Deal,” I say, but the word is squeaky. “So…can I use your TV and kitchen this evening?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding relieved. “Watch a movie. Bake a cake. Whatever.”
“Are you going to be around?”
“Probably,” he says. “Is that okay?”
I shrug and then wince at the renewed itchiness of the hay. “Sure, if you don’t complain about my movie choice.”
“I’ve never complained about your movie choice.”
“I might play music while I bake,” I add.
“Go for it.”
“And I might dance around the kitchen, too.”
He pauses for only a second, and when he speaks, it sounds like he’s smiling again. “I can honestly say I’d love nothing better.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the twitch of my lips.
That evening at seven, I head across the lawn to Dom’s back door, two bags with everything I need swinging in my hand.
Before I can open the door, though, it lurches open on its own and reveals Dominic. He leans against the door frame, folds his arms, and narrows his eyes at me.
“It occurred to me after our phone call this morning that I forgot to make a few things clear.”
I smile blithely up at him and pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Is that so?” I say, subtly shifting the bags I’m holding to behind my back so he can’t see what’s inside.
I try to step past him into the house, but his arm shoots out and blocks my path before I can get in.
“Yes,” he says evenly. “I have some rules.”
I am the picture of innocence. “Rules?”
“Actually, one rule.” He holds up his pointer finger. “One. No onions.”
My fingers curl more tightly around the bags’ handles behind my back. “So. Actually. It’s funny you say that—”
“No,” he says firmly. “No. Is it that stir-fry you’re going to make? Berkeley, my house will smell for a week.”
“Not if you open some windows!” I say, dropping my innocent act. “And you have a stove fan, right? Probably? So I can turn that on and open the windows, and we can even keep this door open—”
“No. Onions,” he cuts me off, his eyes narrowing on me. Then his gaze drops suspiciously to where I still have my bags hidden. “Give me that.”
I attempt a backward shuffle, out of his reach, but he’s too fast. He takes one giant step down from the doorway and wraps his arms around me—not a romantic gesture but one that lets him pry my bags out of my hands.
A mostly silent struggle ensues, our bodies pressed together, and for two seconds our eyes lock, our faces inches apart.
I’m not sure if it’s his sudden proximity that startles me enough to release my grip, or if it’s my inferior strength; either way, he pulls the bags away from me and strides back inside the house without another word.
Very concerned about which bag he’s going to open first, I dart into the laundry room after him. Because while one of those bags does contain my cooking ingredients—and yes, FINE, onions are involved—the other contains things that are none of his business.
“Wait,” I blurt, scurrying past the washer and into the kitchen, reaching for the bag—
But it’s too late. Dom is standing next to his kitchen counter, and from inside one plastic bag he’s lifting a pair of underwear.
They are not sexy. They are not cute. They will not make him picture me in a tantalizing light.
They are white, faded to gray.
A little stretched out, with full cheek coverage.
And there is a hole at the waist band.
“Give me that!” I yelp before he can find the bra, which has been a trusty companion for years and looks the part. “Give me—that—” I yank the underwear out of his hand and then grab the bags.
He puts up no resistance; just stares blankly at the space where the underwear were dangling from his grip a second ago.
“If you would please erase the last thirty seconds from your mind,” I say, out of breath, “I will be about my business.” I swallow. “We may discuss the onions when I’m done upstairs.”
And then I march away, my cheeks flaming.
I shower quickly and use liberal amounts of my pumpkin pie bodywash, because I find the scent soothing, and I need to be soothed.
When I get out and see how red my face is, I choose to believe it’s from all the steam.
I put on a t-shirt and leggings, take a deep breath, plus one more when the first doesn’t work, and then I return downstairs.
My head is held high. My steps are confident. I am a woman who does not care that her ex saw her unflattering panties.
It’s fine.
Dominic says not a word when I reappear in his kitchen. He just holds up the bag of cooking ingredients I brought, raises his eyebrows, and waits.
“I will commit to using only half of one onion,” I tell him, because this is his house. “If you would prefer, I will even forego the onions completely. Your choice.”
He hesitates, his eyes on me, and then he gives a single nod.
“Half is fine,” he says. He jerks his chin at the cabinet by the oven. “Grab a cutting board. You do the onion. I’ll start on the peppers.”
I blink in surprise, but I do as he says, and together we begin cooking.
I turn my music on shuffle, letting the sound fill the space so we don’t feel pressured to talk if we don’t want.
Because I was telling the truth this morning—my soul is tired.
A weird thing to say, but undeniably true.
The monotonous process of chopping veggies and swaying back and forth to music is strangely calming.
It’s also very domestic, which tugs a little at the sutures I’ve been fiercely guarding.
It could have been like this, my mind whispers. Your life could have been like this. If you hadn’t jumped the gun and pushed for a relationship rather than waiting, things may have turned out exactly this way.
Because I was the one who did that damage. Of the stupid decisions we made, that one was mine alone.
And I find myself speaking before I can think better of it.
“I think we should tell them.”
Dom’s rhythmic chopping falters before starting again. “Tell our parents?” he says in a voice that’s too casual. “That we dated?”
I set down my own knife, committing to the conversation I didn’t mean to start. “Yeah.”
“No way.” Chop, chop, chop.
“Dom,” I say with a sigh, reaching over to turn off the music. The kitchen falls silent except for the sound of Dom’s knife.
Chop, chop, chop.
I try again. “Dominic.”
Chopchopchopchopchop.
Then silence, and then, finally, he plunks his knife down too. The yellow peppers look more like salsa by now, but I wisely keep this to myself.
“If we tell them we dated, we’ll have to explain,” he says wearily. “Everything will come out. Are you okay with that?”
His tone of voice tells me that he is not okay with it.
“It would be fine, Dom,” I say, but he shakes his head.
“You would be fine. But I wouldn’t. How—” He breaks off and then pins me with a look as bitter storm clouds gather, hands balling into fists at his sides. “How am I supposed to look my dad in the eye and tell him I got both of us expelled from college?”
And there it is. My breath catches at the truth of the matter, the words we’ve been skirting around—not as simple as he makes it sound, but ugly nonetheless.
“Well?” he prods. “How do I tell our parents that I ruined your life?”
It takes half a second for me to figure out why his words cut.
“Hey,” I say sharply, louder than I mean to.
“What part of my life is—is ruined?” I swallow and push away the image of my storage shed home, of my late nights doing dull work, of my mother’s scathing indifference.
“Maybe I’m not doing what I thought I’d do when I was ten, but what’s so bad about that? ”
The bitterness in Dom’s eyes clears, replaced by faint surprise. His tightened fists relax. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s a little complicated, but I have a great life,” I cut him off, tilting my chin up.
“I don’t have a house right now”—did Alvina even wonder where I’d gone?
Did she care?—“but I’ll get an apartment.
” I swallow. “I’m allowed to work an online job even if it’s not fancy. And I love—I love Bugelbach’s.”
“I know you do,” Dom says, softer now. “I didn’t mean—” His throat bobs. “I didn’t mean you shouldn’t love your life. Or that it’s not worth loving.”
“Because it is. It’s a great life.” I sound so stupidly defiant.
“It is,” Dom says quickly, taking a step closer. “Of course it is.” He pauses. “Maybe I’m being too hard on myself.”
I shake my head and force myself to take steady breaths, trying to get rid of the knot in my throat.
“You are, but that’s not what I mean.” I pause and then let the words out, rushing forward until I couldn’t stop them if I tried.
“I loved you, Dom, but you didn’t have the power to ruin my life.
” My inhale is shakier now. “Whether you dated me or loved me or even cared for me at all”—and she must care, right?
She’s my mother, and mothers care for their children—“I would have been fine.” My vision blurs as something breaks through, a bloom bursting through oppressive soil in search of the sun, until I repeat the words so loudly they echo throughout the kitchen, ringing into the silence: “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
I don’t know which one of us realizes it first—that I’m no longer talking about Dominic. But by the time he’s reached me, understanding is in his eyes. He pulls my hair away from my face where it’s stuck to my skin, then wipes my tears with swiping thumbs beneath my eyes.
“You will be,” he says as his hands continue to move over my face, my hair, aimless and smoothing and gentle.
“You are. You’re fine, sweet—” He breaks off as the endearment tries to slip from his lips.
“Reese,” he corrects himself softly. “No matter who comes or who stays or who goes. You’ll be just fine. ”
And he looks, for a second, like he wants to say more—but then he sighs, slides his hand to the back of my head, and tugs me closer, wrapping his arms around me in a hug.
Like a bird loves the sky, my heart says over and over, until it grows wings of its own that spread and take to the wind. Like a bird loves the sky.
It could be hours we stand there, or minutes. My tears slow as my numb body begins to thaw, until Dom tilts his lips down to speak in my ear.
“Go sit on the couch and turn on a movie,” he says. “I’ll cook. Onion included.”