Chapter 27
The Journal of Daisy D. Stiles - Eleven years ago
Itold Ms. Riccardine that I’m no longer interested in scholarships or colleges outside of driving distance to Merrymount. When I let her know I was pulling out of early decision in NYU, she didn’t even try to hide her disappointment.
I don’t blame her. I’m disappointed, too.
I was going to tell August, but I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing the disappointment on his face. Aside from Ms. Riccardine, he’s been my biggest supporter. He wants me to go. He thinks I’m still going.
Little Red Riding Hoe
girls night game night at my place tonight. be there or be fucking square
Margot
What sort of games are we playing? What should I bring? Is this a sleepover?
Little Red Riding Hoe
i’m supplying the games. bring literally just yourself. yes plz sleepover
Little Red Riding Hoe
and no more questions
Me
What if I have plans?
Little Red Riding Hoe
cancel them
Little Red Riding Hoe
i’m not kidding
Well, that’s rather aggressive, even for Red. But I respond telling them I’ll be at Red’s a little after five and decide not to give it much thought beyond that.
I don’t really have the mental capacity for much else. I still feel like shit, and I’m so beyond over it. I’m not sure what else to do besides beg urgent care for a high dose of Zofran. I’ve been avoiding going to the doctor, but Gus’s fuse of patience for my refusal to do so shortens by the day.
He barely lets me out of his sight, constantly asking if he can do anything (he can’t) or if I feel better (I don’t). It’s not just the constant nausea either, it’s the hot flashes, and vivid nightmares, and fatigue even when I’ve slept over ten hours.
I’m like ninety-nine percent sure I have, or rather had, some sort of wild food poisoning/flu combo that wiped me out and now my body is trying to recover. My period has been weird too, extremely light where normally I’m bitching about the amount of monthly blood loss.
It’s taking a lot longer than I would prefer to get over whatever the hell has infected me.
I was supposed to put together baby shower favors together with Margot, but I canceled in fear of getting her sick. I suggested she leave everything on the porch, and I swing by to scoop and assemble at home—or at August’s—but she said there was no need to risk getting my germs on the gifts.
But I can’t possibly be contagious anymore, if I ever was.
“I’m going to Red’s tonight,” I tell Gus, who’s busy tinkering away with an old rocking chair he pulled down from the attic.
“Uh huh,” he half acknowledges me, lost in his project.
This is a project of his that he hasn’t really said much about but which has taken up most of his free time today.
When I woke up, August was already out here on the front porch, poor rocking chair taken apart and laid out on the floor for his inspection.
I shuffled out here with two hot cups of coffee, a blanket, and my phone to catch up on riverside socials and watch him work.
This is one of my favorite versions of us. Where we can be together but not, letting ourselves be consumed by our individual interests in the comfort of doing them alongside someone else. Where we can just be us. Whatever that is.
Safe.
Because even when I was most angry and the mere thought of Gus made my insides boil, he’s always been safe.
At some point, we’re going to have to let the dam of our secret break.
Before we can do that though, we need to address what’s actually going on between us.
We’re not even having sex. We’re like…cohabitating to some degree.
There is a laundry list of things we need to go over.
I know I don’t have a solid answer as to what this all is, so I don’t expect August to.
For right now, this safe middle ground is good enough for us.
I stand to head inside and change into something more appropriate than a pair of Gus’s sweatpants and one of his sweatshirts, both swallowing me to the point where I look like a walking blanket.
It’s a standard outfit for following Gus around when he insists on still spending as much time in the frigid outdoor air as he can, not caring that it’s officially cold as shit season.
“So, just to reiterate, when I leave here in a couple of hours, I’m going to Red’s house, and I will be fine at Red’s house,” I emphasize my intended location again so hopefully it sinks into the subconscious part of Gus’s brain, and I won’t have to repeat myself again when he gets all worried as I’m heading out.
Gus finally lifts his head. “What’s going on at Red’s?”
“Girls’ night. Sorry, you’re not invited.” I smile, looking at the pink of his cheeks from the chill, another one of his knit beanies pulled down over his ears, the folded piece sitting perfectly on his brows. He looks so cute and cozy right now.
“You’re feeling up for that?” Gus places the screwdriver he was using on the wooden floor of the porch, giving his full attention to me.
“August,” I exasperatedly sigh. “I’m fine,” I reiterate for what feels like the five millionth time. Bulldozery, hovering, caring, motherfucker.
I don’t pay mind to the way my insides flip at the thought of him doting on me. For one, it’d trigger the nausea. And two, I don’t need that—to be waited on. I never wanted that. I just—Fuck it. It’s nice, okay? It feels nice to be cared for.
But also, I’m fine. I wish he would accept that I’m okay, so he stops worrying.
“You’ve been saying you’re fine for almost two weeks now, and yet here you are, still looking like shit.”
“Real nice,” I scoff.
“I think it’s time you went to the doctor,” Gus says, ignoring my reaction to his insult.
“And I think it’s none of your business.”
“You’re my business.” Gus stands, practically puffing out his chest at his full height. He’s towering over me in a way that has me sucking in a breath. He presses the back of his hand to my forehead and then my cheek. It’s a routine he’s adopted that I’ve grown very fond of.
I lean into his touch and bask in the intimacy of his rough hands on my soft skin. I close my eyes and sigh when his hand creeps around to cup the back of my neck, and he pulls me into him, wrapping his other arm around my back. August rests his head on top of mine, and I swear to God, I melt.
“You’re a brute,” I say with no bite into Gus’s shirt.
“You’ve called me worse.” He chuckles. “Alright, will you at least let me drive you to Red’s?”
“Uh, no,” I quickly answer as I pull away. “I’m not explaining why you’re dropping me off. Besides, I’m not staying over, and I don’t need you coming out in the middle of the night to pick me up. I’ll be fine to drive myself home.”
Gus’s gentle smile breaks, replaced by an agitated scowl.
“Right,” he huffs. “Forgot about the fucking rules,” he mumbles, turning away from me.
“We’re not doing this right now,” I say, marching into the house after Gus.
“‘Course we’re not!” Gus throws his hands above his head, continuing down the hall into the kitchen.
“What just happened?” I ask, trying to recover.
He whips around to face me, and I practically skid to a stop to avoid crashing into him.
“It’s killing me, Daze. Whatever this is—” He gestures between the small distance between us. “I’m going crazy. You’re in my house, in my bed, in my head all of the time. The boys…I fucking care about Hunter and Chase. I care about you. But we’re playing a game, and I’m losing.”
“It’s not a game!” I argue.
“No, you know what? You’re right. I…I’m heated right now. Not at you!” Gus practically shouts. “Just…This is a lot, okay? I can’t have this conversation in this state.”
I take a deep breath in through my nose. I close my eyes and count to three, then five, then ten.
“Okay.” I open my eyes to see Gus, hat ripped off, one hand buried in his hair, face filled with so much emotion. “Let’s take the night. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can…We can talk. About all of it.”
“You promise?” he asks so goddamn earnestly that I think about throwing caution to the wind for a fraction of a second, lost in August Burton the way I feel like I’ve always been.
“I promise.” And I mean it. Tomorrow, we can lay it all out on the table and see what’s left when we’re done.
You know, I’m starting to think Red had an ulterior motive in inviting me and Margot over here tonight. Because hours have passed, food has been had, shit has been talked, and yet—not a single game has been played.
And I don’t think it’s a coincidence.
“We were promised games, Red,” I start. “And before Margot here passes out…”
“Hey!” Margot interjects, failing to stifle a rogue yawn. “Okay, fine. Daisy has a point,” she admits. “Sorry! I’m a sleepy girl! It’s hard work growing humans!”
“No one’s faulting you for that, Margot.” I lean over from my spot on the couch and squeeze her knee. “But I think our Red here has something up her sleeve.” I turn my gaze to Red who jumps up to run into the kitchen.
She returns fast with a plastic bag from The Store in hand. She holds the bag up dramatically and dumps the contents onto the coffee table.
Three boxes of pregnancy tests.
“Uh…” I start.
“Hate to break it to ya, Red, but I don’t think I need to pee on a stick to confirm my hCG levels.” Margot giggles.
“No shit, Margot,” Red scoffs. “But I wasn’t leaving you out of the fun! Pregnancy roulette!”
“What the hell are you going on about?” I ask.
Red looks taken aback. “You, Daisy Stiles, queen of the chronically online, haven’t heard of this trend?”
Now that I pause for thought, I have. Groups of women all take a test and squeal and flip out over their negative, or sometimes positive, results. It’s silly.
What’s even sillier is Margot being the first to reach for a box, peeling the cardboard flap back to pull out a stick.
“Well, I have to pee anyway. Be right back!” She shimmies herself to the edge of the couch and Red holds out a hand for her to balance.
Margot half walks, half waddles to the bathroom down the hall.