Waylaid

by Sarina Bowen

  “Of course.” I turn to Karim. “Thank you very much for the tour. I look forward to working with you.”

  He has already regained his smile. “Same here. See you next week, Daphne. We’ll get started properly.”

  Clutching my stack of journals, I follow Dr. Drummond into her office. She shuts the door and takes a seat behind her desk. “I’m really pleased that you are able to come into town once a week during the summer. It will be nice for you to settle in before you take on a full course load.”

  “Not as pleased as I am,” I say, sitting ramrod straight in the visitor’s chair, my lap full of books. “I feel lucky to have found a place here, and I can’t wait to get started.”

  She picks up a paper clip on her desk and rotates it absently. Dr. Drummond is a white woman in her mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. She’s a little more glamorous than you usually see in academia, in her elegant silk blouse and interesting silver earrings. “Your transcript is impeccable. Very few young women can manage a dual BS/MA program. And your recommendations were all glowing.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I say neutrally. But my heart begins to pound the way it does any time I think about the mess I left behind at Harkness. If the truth got out, those recommendations would not glow. Not even a little.

  Someday I’ll make it right, I promise myself for the millionth time. I don’t want to carry this burden forever.

  “I have to say, Daphne…” She pauses, as my heart continues to pound. “It’s unusual for us to see a student who’s performing so well transfer from an advanced program like the one at Harkness to a state school. Not that we aren’t proud of the work we do here. But it’s not quite as glitzy or international. I did wonder why.”

  Right. I’d known this question was coming. And I’m prepared. “Maybe I’m not as enamored with glitzy or international as I used to be.” That’s certainly true. But the embellishments I offer next are not. “My whole family is here in Vermont. We have a farm, and several businesses. My brother started a family. A lot has happened since I decided at seventeen that I needed to be somewhere else.”

  She smiles, which is how I know I’ve been convincing. “There’s a lot to love about Vermont. I’ve tried to keep our focus as local as possible. Some of the enviro-agricultural topics may be familiar to you.”

  “Arsenic. Nitrogen runoff. Things like that?”

  “Exactly like that,” she says. “And my next grant application concerns air quality. I’ll fill you in more in September.”

  “I can’t wait.” I really do live for this stuff. I plan to do excellent work here. Dr. Drummond will not regret taking me on. And this job will make my grad school applications look worthy.

  “All right, Daphne. We’ll talk more soon. This summer you and Karim will help Jenn tidy up some data and set up some research queries, okay? And this fall we’ll get on to new research.”

  “Great. I’m happy to help,” I say. We stand, and I shake her hand with a firm grip.

  This is going to work. It has to.

  Okay, these research journals are really heavy. I lug them awkwardly back to the truck, where Rickie is leaning against the driver’s side door, reading a book.

  In German. That’s unexpected.

  As usual, I drink in the sight of him. Today he’s wearing another silky T-shirt, tucked into a pair of cut-off army surplus pants. On his feet are suede ankle boots. They’re not work boots. They look vintage. And there’s an earring in his left ear. It’s a very small hoop, which shouldn’t look masculine, but it does anyway.

  He closes the book as I approach, and tosses it through the open window, into the vehicle. “Ready to go? Looks like somebody hit the library pretty hard.” He hurries toward me, hands outstretched, as if to help me.

  “New department. I have to catch up,” I explain, hoisting the books up a little further in my arms. I don’t want his help. But one traitorous volume slips out of the stack and hits the pavement with a loud smack.

  Rickie picks it up without comment. He doesn’t try to wrestle the other journals out of my arms, either. He just goes back to the truck and climbs in, settling both our books on the seat behind him.

  Somehow I make it onto the passenger seat without dropping anything else. “How was your class?” It’s a feeble attempt at polite conversation.

  “Great. Fine. I like school, and I’m a shitty farmer, so it was like a vacation for me. How was the new job?”

  “Good,” I say quickly. “I mean—new jobs are hard. I have a lot of reading to do.” I smooth a hand over the journal on top of the stack, where an article about nursing mothers on food stamps is yelling my name.

  “All right. I’ll leave you alone to read,” he says, cranking the engine. “So long as we can stop for ice cream.”

  I’d forgotten about that. But I like ice cream as much as the next girl. “Sure. There’s a place just off exit 6B.”

  “Coolio. I’ll poke you when we get there.” He turns to give me a sexy grin.

  I feel the heat of that smile. It lands in the center of my chest. This is bad bad bad. So I look away. I flip open the cover of the journal and try to focus on the table of contents.

  Rickie probably thinks I’m a bitch. And maybe it’s even true. But I cannot get lost in another man’s smile. Been there. Done that. Not going back.

  I read all the way to the highway exit, but I only get halfway through the first article. It’s dense and full of statistical analysis that’s over my head.

  By the time Rickie rolls down the exit ramp, I feel the onset of a full-blown case of imposter syndrome. Dr. Drummond is expecting me to be sharp. What if they ask me to work on this type of analysis, and I can’t do it?

  “I see the ice cream place,” Rickie says. “But there’s no entrance back onto the highway. What the hell?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I mumble. “It’s three miles down a side road to exit 6.” I close the journal with a sigh. I feel so panicky right now. I’ve always tried to be the smartest girl in the room. But it’s all an act. I’m obviously the worst kind of dunce—the kind that can’t see her own mistakes until it’s way too late. (See: the last twelve months of my life.)

  Is it normal to have a midlife crisis right before your twenty-first birthday?

  Rickie rolls into the gravel parking lot of the Dreamy Creemee and puts the truck in a shady spot. He rolls down the windows before killing the engine. It’s getting toward dinner hour, so there aren’t many people here. Just a couple of moms pushing toddlers on the swing set.

  And I’m quietly having a panic attack in the passenger seat.

  I take a slow but shaky breath. Do I even want ice cream? Is there a flavor on that signboard that could take me out of my own head? I reach for the door handle, but Rickie stops me.

  “Look," he says. "About that time we shared a ride home from Connecticut...”

  “No,” I say forcefully. If he makes me relive that embarrassing experience, I might lose my cool. “Just forget it, okay? So what if you ghosted me?”

  His eyes widen. But my rant is only picking up steam.

  “None of that matters. I didn’t even blame you. And the only way I'm going to make it through this year is if I put Connecticut behind me, okay? Just leave it alone.”

  My voice cracks on that last word, and I realize that I might actually cry. Which is a thing I never do. But Harkness College was my dream, and I blew it. My damn eyes get hot and my throat constricts.

  “S-so just forget it," I squeak. “It's already in the past. It can just stay there.”

  Rickie's gray eyes are soft now. And they're moving closer. To my utter surprise, he leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips.

  So soft, my brain sputters.

  “Shh,” he says against my lips. His kiss is warm and unhurried. Like a ray of sunshine when you’re shivering.

  For once, my squirrel brain forgets to scurry. And I just let it happen. He kisses me again. It’s still gentle. His bright eyes measure m
e. I don’t know what he sees. But whatever it is, he decides he likes it.

  Those soft lips brush and press. Again. And I'm only human. Rickie's surprisingly tender kiss has caught me at a vulnerable moment. I lean in, experimenting with the slide and pressure of his mouth against mine. A sizzle of heat flashes across my skin. It’s the strangest sensation—as if he’s transferred an ounce of that devil-may-care attitude across the steering column and right into my soul. I drink him in, lips parted. Ready for him to take it further.

  But then it ends. Rickie sits back, his head cocked to the side, as if in deep contemplation.

  I’m bereft. “Wh-what was that for?” I stammer.

  I expect a smirk. But his expression remains soft. “You seemed a little freaked. So I brought you to an ice cream place on a hot summer’s day. But that wasn’t enough, apparently. You needed even more distraction. So I gave it to you. And I’m good at that. A real specialist.”

  Replying is impossible. All I can do is sit here and try to process that kiss. That lovely kiss.

  He really has some nerve.

  “Let’s get ice cream now, Shipley. You promised.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, as if he didn’t just rock my world, which was already rocking to begin with.

  I’m such a mess. But Rickie calmly waits for me to get out of the truck. He puts one hand lightly on my lower back and steers me toward the order window.

  Birds chirp and the sun shines and I feel lighter. If only for a moment.

  We lick our ice cream cones at a shady table. And I don’t mention the kiss.

  He doesn’t either.

  That night I hit the books again. I drag out my old statistics textbook, refresh my memory on some distribution properties, and finish reading that journal article.

  It’s midnight by the time I finally set aside my work to crawl into bed. The farmhouse is dead quiet. The only sounds come from my open window—the occasional deep-voiced bullfrog. Or the hoot of an owl. Sometimes we hear the howling of coyotes. But not tonight. There’s mostly stillness.

  A working farm always goes to bed early and gets up at dawn. I’ve never fit the farmer mold. I was that kid who stayed up too late reading, or daydreaming about traveling to teeming, foreign cities.

  During high school, I did as much farm work as everyone else. Maybe even more than my lazy twin. But at the same time, I was plotting my escape. I was the valedictorian of my high school class. I got the highest SAT score that my school counselor had ever seen. I figured out that the very best colleges had the best financial aid. So I set my sights on Harkness. It worked, too. My Early Action application was accepted during December of my senior year. A fat financial aid award followed.

  I’d done it. I’d shot the moon.

  Now here I sit in my childhood bedroom, preparing to transfer to the same public university half my high school class attends. I’m bitter about it. I just can’t let it show. My goal is to work so hard that everyone will be too impressed to question my motivation.

  Fooling people is easy, apparently. I know firsthand. Because I’m usually the fool.

  Right on cue, as I shut out the light, my mind goes immediately to Rickie. And that kiss. I still don’t quite understand what happened there.

  He’d kissed me when I least expected it. Who does that?

  And then I’d gone along with it. The boy is seriously seductive. There’s no arguing that. But seduction is dangerous.

  I try to relax against the pillow. It’s no use thinking about Rickie while I’m lying in bed. He’s just across the hall in Dylan’s childhood room, probably passed out in my brother’s bed.

  That’s why he flirts with me, I think. I’m conveniently located a few paces away. He’s horny. He’s lonely. And I’m right across the hall.

  I just wish I didn’t find him so attractive. All that male beauty is a little intimidating. Those tattoos. That golden skin and dark blond hair…

  Okay, stop it, I chide myself. Thinking sexy thoughts about him isn’t going to help. I usually think of myself as a strong, independent woman. A scholar. A crusader for women’s health. It’s painfully obvious that I don’t understand men. No—it’s worse than that. When I’m attracted to someone, I seem to lose the ability to see things as they really are.

  And when the right man seduces me—especially if he praises me—I somehow lose the capacity for rational judgment. Reardon had said I was pretty. He’d said, I need you so much. And I’d believed him. Every time.

  Hell, even if a man smiles at me, I’m ready to believe that it means something. That’s how I ended up carrying a torch all those years for Zach, our family friend. I thought his easy smile—the same one he gave everyone—meant more when it was aimed at me.

  Somehow my finely calibrated bullshit meter breaks when a man gives me special attention. My inner needy girl takes over, and I lose myself too easily.

  Today—in the truck with Rickie—I’d felt the familiar pull. Even afterward, watching him lick a chocolate cone while he tried to get me to laugh, I’d looked into those sparkly gray eyes and I’d wanted to believe.

  In what, I’m not exactly sure. Attraction is the devil.

  Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts drift to the afternoon. But who could blame me? Ice cream before dinner is about as wild as my life gets. That kiss was definitely a high point. And—even weirder—it worked. I felt calmer afterward, enjoying a maple creemee at a shady picnic table.

  I was actually sad to leave. Rickie handed me the keys to my brother’s truck and asked if I minded driving, because I knew the way back from exit 6B. It was a blessing, actually, because otherwise I probably would have spent those last few miles trying not to stare at him.

  An owl hoots outside, and I’m almost ready to sleep, when I suddenly remember something strange. That time we shared a ride to Connecticut, we’d met up at exit 6B to drive back to school. I’d gotten into Rickie’s car—without makeup—ready to hit the road. And I’d told him how to get back onto the southbound highway.

  But today, he seemed baffled about it all over again.

  I sit up in bed suddenly—as if this will all make more sense in a vertical position. But nope. It’s still strange. Rickie doesn’t remember our driving together. It wasn’t just me that he’s forgotten, either. It’s the whole trip. It’s the strange configuration of highway 89. It’s like he was never there.

  Like he’s a different person than that Rickie I met three years ago.

  I feel a chill down my spine. It doesn’t make any sense.

  Six

  Rickie

  The tap on my bedroom door is bashful. But I'm a psycho in the nighttime, so the sound is enough to startle me into wakefulness. I jackknife into a seated position, my book flopping off my chest and onto Dylan's quilt.

  Tap. Tap. It’s just a fingernail on the door. Quiet as a mouse. But my pulse is ragged nonetheless as I swing my legs out of bed and get up to face my midnight visitor.

  I unlock the door and open it to find Daphne standing on the other side. She wears soft shorts that show off plenty of thigh, and a tiny little tank top.

  No bra, my libido adds. There’s no denying that my sex drive has roared to life, like a long-forgotten engine that still manages to catch on the first try when you turn the key.

  But I step back like a gentleman and allow Daphne into the room. I close the door, just in case I'm about to get lucky.

  Although the look in her eye right now is not sexual. It's pure curiosity, with a side of anger. Daphne always looks a little angry. I may have an anger kink. Who knew?

  "You don't remember driving with me from Harkness," she hisses, her voice hushed.

  I circle the bed and then get into it, crossing my arms behind my head and leaning back against the pillows. "I told you I had a terrible memory," I remind her.

  "But you really don't remember," she repeats. “You don't remember the highway exit with no matching entrance. You don’t remember driving there at all.”

  She's right, and
I'd been willing to explain it earlier today. I was going to take Lenore's advice and spill my guts over ice cream.

  But then I'd kissed her instead.

  “Look,” I begin. “I know it's awkward. But it's not just you. I don't remember anything from July through December of the year we met.”

  Her eyes pop wide, so I don’t add that the following January, February, and March are a little hazy too. But I'd been on painkillers. And then I'd become dependent on painkillers, so I had to be weaned off them slowly.

  It was a long nightmare.

  “What? How do you forget six months of your life?" She plops down on the end of the bed.

  This is closer to another human on a bed than I’ve been in… Wow. There’s some depressing math. But she’s not here to fuck, she’s here to interrogate me. She's waiting for an answer.

  See, Lenore? This is the opposite of sexy. "I got injured at the Academy. Badly. Broken bones and a head injury."

  She blinks. "Like a TBI?"

  "Yeah." Although I rarely use that term. Traumatic Brain Injury. Gross.

  “And you just... forgot that semester.”

  "Right."

  A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. "But last fall you recognized me. When I showed up in Burlington, I walked in and my brother asked if we knew each other. And I said no, but you said yes.”

  This, of course, I remember perfectly well. “Yeah, I know. And then I said don't worry, you'll figure it out. And then you did."

  "Of course." Her cheeks pink up. “It took me a second. The context was all wrong. And you looked so different." She winces. “That was embarrassing. But your hair is so much longer now, and you weren’t wearing your uniform."

  "My uniform," I echo. I know I wore one. There's a photo of me from drop-off day, and I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with my dad in front of the campus gate. He's smiling like he just won the lottery. I'm decked out in a green wool jacket with gold buttons, a dress shirt, pressed trousers and shiny boots. Plus a cap.