Waylaid

by Sarina Bowen

  “Oh j-jeez,” she stammers. And then she lets out a gasp, and a long, sweet moan, before collapsing against my body.

  “Nice,” I whisper, holding her snugly. It isn’t easy for Daphne to set aside her control. I know this. We breathe into the stillness, our hearts thumping together. My dick is as hard as one of the fence posts I worked with today in the back meadow. But I don’t even mind. It makes me feel alive.

  I lean in and kiss her swollen lips again. Slowly.

  And then my phone lights up on the blanket, pinging with a text. Twice.

  Daphne pulls away suddenly.

  “Ignore it,” I say.

  But she doesn’t. She removes herself from my embrace. The damn phone pings again. And then I hear a screen door slam in the distance. “Rickieeeee!” Chastity calls. “Are you out here?”

  Daphne slides off my lap and stands up, looking flustered. She plucks her backpack off the grass.

  “Hey now.” I rise on unsteady legs. “No need to bolt.”

  “But we…Actually, just me. I—” She gulps.

  I bite back a smile. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.” The words are like machine gunfire.

  “Are you going to play poker with us? Sounds like Dylan and Chastity are still up after all.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She hitches her pack onto one shoulder. Then she looks down at herself and straightens her skirt with frantic motions. “I’ve…got to go.”

  “You look fine. Perfect, actually.” I lift my hands to her hair and smooth it out of her face. Then I place a soft kiss onto her cheekbone.

  She lets out a breathy sigh and hurries away toward the house.

  I watch her go, feeling both wistful and victorious at the same time.

  For days after our epic makeout session, I barely get within ten paces of Daphne. This is her choice, not mine. She chooses chores at the opposite end of the farm from wherever I'm working. She sits at the other end of the dining table.

  A less confident man might worry that he'd lost his touch. But she’s still sneaking looks at me, and I see how it is—the poor girl just can't handle the indescribable hotness that arises when we’re near each other.

  So I’m patient. Again. And after three days, I finally run into her in the upstairs bathroom one night when we both pick the same moment to brush our teeth.

  "Hey there, stranger,” I say, leaning against the door frame.

  "Hey, McFly, she says, bending over the sink to spit.

  "I could swear you’ve been avoiding me."

  She dries her mouth. “Yup. Absolutely.”

  Her honesty catches me by surprise, and I laugh out loud. “Okay, usually people lie about that."

  "Why, to save your ego? That thing is made of titanium.”

  She kills me. “Fair enough. But I still don't know why you'd avoid me. Seems like you should come back for more.”

  “Sure, no problem.” She folds the hand towel and sets it primly back onto the bar. “But I only get drunk about twice a year. Does December work for you?”

  “Huh. And here I thought you were a woman of science.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” She picks up her hairbrush and frowns at me in the mirror.

  “There’s a flaw in your logic, baby girl. If I was only attractive to you when you're drunk, then you wouldn't have to avoid me when you're sober.”

  She rolls her eyes in the mirror as she begins to brush. Now that I know how soft her hair feels between my fingers, I definitely need more.

  “I think you just can't handle the hotness,” I say.

  “Of you?” she sniffs.

  “No baby. Of us. There's something there, and you like to pretend there isn’t.”

  Daphne is finished with her hair, which is a shame, because I was really enjoying living vicariously through that brush. “I’m just being smart. You and I are a terrible idea.”

  “Why? Give me three reasons.”

  She holds up a finger. “One, I gave up men. Second, we're roommates, and that’s awkward.”

  That’s true, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

  “And three, I gave up men.”

  I snort. “Are you into women?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bummer. There goes that threesome I was planning for us.”

  “Too bad.” She stalks past me and leaves the bathroom.

  Although I see her checking out my bare chest in the mirror as she goes. Her mouth might be telling me that it’s not going to happen. But her eyes tell a different story.

  Fourteen

  Daphne

  And then it’s Wednesday again. Another chance to impress my new colleagues. And another hour-long ride in the truck with the man who makes me crazy.

  I grab my computer bag out of my bedroom and put on my game face as I descend the stairs.

  “Ready for another delivery?” Audrey asks, bouncing Gus on her hip in our kitchen. “It’s a big one this time.”

  “Am I ever going to taste this perfect brew?” Rickie asks. He’s parked against the counter, wearing another one of those V-neck T-shirts that shows me a peek at his tats. The same ones I rubbed my body against this past weekend, like a cat in heat.

  God, just kill me. I can’t believe I did that. The man says a few sweet words to me and tells me he wants a kiss. And what do I do? Climb on top of him, slobber all over him and then ride his hand until…

  Yikes. I’m never drinking again. And as Audrey describes today’s deliveries, I feel the prickly heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. And we’re not even on the road yet.

  “Sorry about the timing,” Audrey is saying. “But it’s a bar, not a restaurant, so they’re not open for deliveries early in the day.”

  “We can do that one on our way back,” Rickie says. “Daphne likes to work until five anyway. We’d get there at maybe 5:45?”

  “That’s perfect,” Audrey agrees.

  “Take,” Gus says, lifting his chubby little arms. I expect him to reach for me. But he’s reaching for... Rickie of all people.

  I feel you, little man.

  “Oh, I think he likes you,” Audrey says. “Sorry, Gus. They’re on their way out.”

  “Take,” Gus demands. He gives Rickie a devastating, chubby smile.

  To my surprise, Rickie plucks the chubby toddler out of Audrey’s arms and pops him onto a hip. “You’re a little devil, aren’t you?”

  Gus laughs and pokes a finger against the tattoo that’s visible on Rickie’s chest.

  “He’s smitten,” Audrey says.

  Aren’t we all, kid. Aren’t we all.

  “Strap in, Gus,” Rickie says. “The rush hour traffic is headed outside. Ready?”

  Gus waits with wide-eyed fascination.

  “And we’re off!” Rickie shouts, then he sprints for the door, a giggling Gus holding on tightly. A moment later they appear out the window, where Rickie is galloping around the driveway with Gus in his arms.

  “What’s that on your lip?” Audrey asks.

  “What?” I touch my lips. There’s nothing there.

  “Oh, it must have been a little drool.” She cackles. “You have a thing for him, don’t you?”

  “Shhh,” I hiss. “You’re not funny. I do not have a thing for him.”

  “Sure you don’t,” she whispers back. “How could you not? He’s so hot.” She waves a hand in front of her chest, as if cooling herself.

  “He’s not my type,” I grumble.

  “Oh my God, he is exactly your type. Smart enough to keep up with you. Great taste, but not a snob. And that body.” She lets out a low whistle. “You need to get on that.”

  I follow her outside, knowing she’s a hundred percent wrong. I need to stay off that. And every other man, too.

  The three delivery crates are already stacked neatly into the back of Dylan’s truck. Audrey hands me the manifest. “Have fun today,” she says with twinkling eyes.

  “Thanks,” I grunt.
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  “I made you these for the office,” she says, opening the back door to reveal another pastry box. “Spinach and feta croissants. There are five of them in there, plus a separate one for Rickie.”

  “Hey! Thanks!” Rickie says, carrying a flushed Gus over to where we stand. They’re both panting. “You’re the best, Audrey.”

  He isn’t wrong. “Thank you, Audrey. That is really nice.”

  She takes Gus from Rickie, and he goes to start the truck. When he’s out of earshot, she turns back to me. “I know that starting over is hard,” she whispers. “We’ve all done it.”

  I look down at my shoes. This isn’t my favorite topic. And now I know I haven’t been doing such a great job of hiding my stress. Yay.

  “Maybe someday you’ll tell us why you have to start over,” she continues. “But either way, I’m here for you.”

  “Thank you,” I choke out.

  “No problem. Have a good day at your new school. Play nice with the other kiddos.”

  “I will.”

  Rickie stops at the post box for me again today.

  And, wow, I finally get the piece of mail I’ve been waiting for. But I’m too chicken to open it. So I shove it into my backpack and stress over it instead.

  Rickie isn’t stressed. He hums along with the radio as we cruise up highway 89. “I have a big idea,” he says.

  “Oh do tell. I love your big ideas. They never end up embarrassing me.”

  “Huh.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “I’m feeling the cool breeze of irony in that statement.”

  “You’re a sharp one.”

  “Embarrassing you isn’t a goal of mine, Shipley. And I don’t think you should be embarrassed about wanting my hot body.”

  I snort, because who talks like that? Even though I do want his hot body, and I hate myself a little for it.

  “My big idea, since you asked—“

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well you should have. My big idea is that we go out to dinner in Montpelier after we make the delivery.”

  “Why? Dinner is free at home.”

  He shoots me another look. “Because it would be fun. And different. Besides—your brother and Chastity are going out tonight, to a drive-in movie.”

  “Which really just means they’re going to have sex in a new location,” I grumble.

  “Right. But my point is that it’s going to be another nice summer night. We could sit outside somewhere, have a beer and some food. There’s a noodle shop in Montpelier that’s barking my name. It’s been a while since I had cold sesame noodles and crispy duck.”

  That does sound delicious. But I have so many questions. “Do you mean… like a date?”

  “Absolutely,” he says.

  “But we’re not dating,” I point out. “I’m not dating anyone right now.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll let you sort out your own semantic arguments. But I’d like to take you out for dinner. What have you got to lose, anyway?”

  “Besides more of my dignity?”

  He laughs. “You know, it kills me that I can’t remember meeting you the first time. Were we super polite to each other? Or was it just as snarky?”

  “Snarky from minute one,” I admit. “You were nice to me, but I couldn’t figure out how sincere it really was.”

  He looks over to me again, and his expression is filled with so much warmth that I’m taken aback. “I was sincere,” he says, before turning back to watch the road. “Not that I remember it. But I just have a feeling.”

  My heart thumps like a bunny rabbit’s. But then you stood me up. I keep that detail to myself. My dignity is in enough jeopardy already. And it’s not like he can explain himself. He doesn’t even remember meeting me.

  I don’t have room in my life for warm glances and dinner invitations. Rickie is very distracting. And I cannot let myself get distracted.

  “So?” he asks. “Dinner? It will be like an hour-long vacation. Have some noodles with me, Shipley. It won’t hurt. I swear.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll text my mom and see what she’s planning. If she has big plans for dinner, I wouldn’t want to bail on her.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “Ask her, then.”

  Fine. Whatever. I pull out my phone and send a message to Mom.

  But she hasn’t answered by the time we finish our first two deliveries in Burlington. That’s not unusual. She’s a busy lady.

  “Oh well,” I say, feeling relieved. “Maybe we should have given her more notice.”

  “Maybe,” he says as he pulls into a parking spot near the School of Public Health. “Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll text you to check in later.” He pulls out his phone and looks at me expectantly.

  “It’s…” I pause, because it’s just occurring to me that we’ve texted before. Shit.

  “It’s what?” He’s waiting.

  “I think I have your number already. I’ll check. And I’ve got to run.” I grab Audrey’s pastry box, leaving Rickie’s pastry behind in its own bag. Then I open the truck’s door and hop out.

  “Wait, really?”

  “Really.”

  And now he’ll realize he can look for those old texts. And he’ll know that he stood me up, and that I failed to mention it, because I was embarrassed about that too.

  Lovely. That’s the problem with secrets. They never stay buried.

  “See you at five,” I say. And then I run for it.

  Fifteen

  Rickie

  Daphne hustles away from the truck, and I gather my things and cross the campus in the other direction. Outside the lecture hall, I take out the savory croissant that Audrey made for me and eat it slowly.

  I guess it makes sense that Daphne and I corresponded before. If you’re doing a ride share with someone, you’d do that.

  I’m just so tired of the big gap in my memory. I don’t even know what I don’t know. It’s exhausting.

  After finishing my excellent pastry, I sit in the last row of the lecture hall and pull out my phone. While the professor talks, I search my phone for 802 numbers. There are a bunch of them. There aren’t any Daphnes. And the only Shipley is Dylan.

  But eventually I find one for a “SHark,” which must stand for some blend of Shipley and Harkness. Who knows what nineteen-year-old me was thinking?

  When I open it up, I find a conversation from fall of three years ago. It begins with a boring conversation about where to pick her up—at a gate on Elm Street. Then we negotiate a meetup spot for the ride home. It’s at the same exit as the ice cream place. Just like she’d said.

  A chill snakes down my spine, even though I’m reading the dullest exchange of text messages ever written. It’s just that I know I’m the guy who wrote this. But I don’t remember, so it feels like someone else did it. My double. My evil twin.

  Then I keep reading. We chat again ten days after our car ride.

  RR: Have you given any more thought to my invitation?

  SHark: What invitation was that again? I forget.

  RR: Well played. Or maybe you get countless offers from men willing to stamp your V-card.

  Wait, what? I read it again. And then I let out a groan.

  The guy seated closest to me looks up from his notebook with a shaming glance. Oops.

  But seriously. Two strangers shared a ride to college, and then I offered to take her virginity? The evil twin theory is looking pretty good right now. I read on, even though I’m a little afraid to.

  SHark: There’s this thing called subtlety.

  RR: Never heard of it.

  SHark: [eyeroll]

  RR: Look, I know I’m a bastard. And half the things I say are meant to get a rise out of people. But come to the house party anyway. I don’t actually expect a private party for two. In fact, bring a friend if it makes you feel more comfortable. We’ll all have a good time.

  SHark: Does that mean you’re planning a ménage à trois?

  RR: How many times did you have to typ
e that before auto correct stopped turning it into something even dirtier?

  SHark: OMG, three. But the only way you’d know that is by typing it a lot.

  RR: Nah. I text in a couple different languages, though, and the results are often heinous.

  SHark: *cough* Humblebrag *cough*

  RR: Busted. But to answer your Q, I’m not expecting anything at all. I just think we could have fun. Whatever kind of fun you decide is your speed.

  SHark: Maybe you’d rather find another date to this party. One who is more of a sure thing.

  RR: Nah. Come with me to see this place. We’ll use summer as a verb. We might need to Uber you home, if that’s okay. But happy to pick you up before I get my drink on.

  SHark: Okay, fine. I could use a little adventure. Text me the details?

  RR: Will do tomorrow. Later, Good Girl.

  SHark: Later Bad Boy.

  Well, parts of that are embarrassing to read. But not all of it, I guess. I was only fifty percent asshole. And you can tell that I really liked Daphne.

  Of course I did.

  I keep scrolling, and it doesn’t end well. I text her a time and date for the party, and I tell her to look for my Volvo at the gate at eight o’clock. She agrees. But then, at eight fifteen on the established date, I see this:

  SHark: Okay, you’re fashionably late. But I’m outside in a thin little jacket. Just saying.

  SHark: 35 minutes, really? I’m starting to take this personally.

  SHark: Okay… No call. I guess you found a more fun date after all.

  Jesus Christ. What did I do? I reread the entire thing a couple more times, and it gets worse with every reread.

  All this time I’ve been trying to seduce Daphne. I keep telling her we’d be good for each other. Stress relief, or some bullshit. Like I was doing her a favor.

  But, nope. I’m the guy who offered to do that before and then left her standing around in the cold, waiting for my no-show ass.

  Hell, when was this? It could have been really cold.

  I hold my finger down on the last message to see when it was written. And the timestamp makes my heart seize.