Waylaid

by Sarina Bowen

  Nothing.

  Boathouse party. USTSA Christmas party. Bash. Open Weekend.

  Nope. Nothing.

  I’ve tried some of these terms before, of course. But until now I never had the clue of "boathouse" before.

  Still, I try a couple dozen permutations and come up empty every time. If this party was a secret, or unsanctioned, people probably knew better than to label their selfies. What I need are names.

  I try my roommate's name. I’ve put him into a dozen internet searches before. Paul White boathouse party. As usual, I get some hits for a country music singer with a similar name. This time I also turn up a French impressionist painting called The Boating Party.

  Not helpful.

  So I plug in the one other Academy name I can think of—Daphne's horrible ex. Reardon Halsey Christmas party.

  I sit up straight as the screen fills with images. I choose a thumbnail at random, and get a photo of four guys in tuxes holding champagne flutes.

  I scan the faces, and bam. My gut clenches in recognition of the guy on the end. I know that face. I hate that face.

  Holy shit.

  Honestly, I need to look away from the screen for a moment and take a slow breath. My pulse is elevated, and I actually feel nauseated.

  My eyes flit back to the screen, though, because l've waited so long for this. A clue. Any clue to those lost months at the Academy.

  In spite of my pounding heart, I force myself to catalogue his features. He has shiny dark hair and brown eyes. He has an aquiline nose, and a strong but well-proportioned jaw. He's an objectively handsome prepster.

  And the internet is full of photos of him. His dad is a senator, and they're frequently photographed together. Daddy Halsey went to USTSA too, I note. There's a short piece in the Hartford Courant from four years ago, announcing the senator's son's acceptance into the venerable yet secretive program. “Training the next generation of officers, innovators and spies,” it reads.

  Or not, apparently. Because this guy turned up at Harkness with Daphne.

  Sure enough, when I search for Halsey at Harkness, his name comes up on that research study Daphne told me about. He's still listed as a senior research assistant, whatever that is.

  I search him six ways to Sunday, and it’s midnight by the time I realize how exhausted I am. And I'll be up at six o'clock to help Dylan in the dairy barn. I need to sleep.

  But first, I make myself look at his photo one more time. It’s another party pic, although I never did find evidence of a boathouse party anywhere. Halsey attends a lot of his daddy's political soirees.

  I look him right in the digitized eyes. He's smiling widely, his teeth white, his tie straight. He looks about as dangerous as a well-bred Golden Retriever.

  But I know better. And when I stare into his smiling eyes, I feel nothing but cold disgust.

  I get up and set the computer on Dylan's desk, and then shut out the light. Back in bed, sleep doesn’t come easily. I don't know what to do with this new information, because it really isn't information. It's just recognition. And dread.

  And that's Daphne's ex? What does that even mean?

  I bury my face in the pillow and try to sleep.

  It works. Mostly. But sometime before dawn I become aware of a presence in the room. My eyes flip open, and the guy is right there, lying next to me in bed, staring at me. And then he smiles, like it's all a joke.

  I try to lift my arms to push him off the bed, but I can't. I can't move.

  He grins.

  I open my mouth and howl out a tortured, strangled sound.

  It’s probably my scream that wakes me up for real. I sit up fast, alone in Dylan's bed, sweat pouring off me, my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

  “What the fuck was that?” I gasp into the dark.

  "Rickie?" comes a sweet voice. Then there's a gentle tap on the door. "You okay?"

  Yup. Daphne’s knock arrives at exactly the wrong moment. Story of my life. "I'm fine,” I call. “Bad dream."

  I do not get up and let her in.

  She doesn’t knock again.

  I start the day in the barn with Dylan, shoveling cow shit while he does the milking. I’ll never be a farmer. I’m not half as interested as Dylan, who’s at the other end of the barn chatting up the cows as he hooks them one by one to the milking thing.

  But as summer jobs go, this one is very low stress. We’ve got tunes on the radio, and after the milking I’ll be fed a huge breakfast. So it’s all good.

  Even after that horrible night, I almost feel normal. But I must not look it.

  “You look tired today,” Ruth Shipley says at breakfast.

  “Oh, I’m good,” I insist. “Just stayed up too late watching TikTok videos.”

  Daphne shoots me a curious glance. She’s probably wondering why I did some yelling in my sleep. On and off I have nightmares, usually about claustrophobia. Sometimes I dream about getting locked into a closet or a coffin. Lenore is always fascinated.

  But last night is the first time I saw a face in one of my bad dreams.

  And it was so vivid. I suppose I could pump Daphne for more information about Reardon Halsey. He left the Academy. I left the Academy. Maybe we did so at the same time. It could be important.

  But it probably isn’t. And I hate flying the freak flag in front of Daphne. What would I even say? I Googled your ex, and his photo made me almost puke. Please pass the maple syrup. Yeah?

  No.

  “What’s the plan for today?” I ask instead.

  Dylan drains his coffee cup. “You and Chastity are meeting Zach in the orchard for pest prevention. You’re hanging bait traps.”

  “Cool, cool. So long as you don’t use me as the bait, it’s all good. I’m kind of irresistible, so…”

  Everyone smiles except Daphne, who’s giving me another searching look. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s underscored with heat.

  I have no idea when she and I are finally going to get together. I just know that when it happens, it’s going to be spectacular.

  Twenty

  Daphne

  I don’t know how many times Rickie caught me staring at him this morning. Quite a few, I’m afraid. It was bad enough when I was only struggling with his raw sensuality.

  But it’s even worse now that I have Chastity’s whispered gossip playing on repeat in my head. Rickie never hooks up.

  First of all, that is incredibly hard to believe. I’ve never met someone more comfortable with his sex appeal. And secondly…never? Does that include kisses in the truck, and heavy make-out sessions on a blanket in the orchard?

  Because that happened.

  On my best days I don’t do all that well with uncertainties. But now they’re driving me crazy. After breakfast, my poor wandering eyes get a break when Rickie and Chastity head outside to hang pest traps in the orchard.

  The rest of us have a family meeting. That means Griffin, Mom, and Audrey run the payroll, and then we all talk about plans and expenses for the coming month. Even May drives out to the farm for a family meeting.

  “Where’d Dylan go?” I ask as we all sit down.

  “Here!” he says, sliding into his seat at the last minute. He hates family meetings, they make him fidgety. I’m not a huge fan, either, but I show up out of obligation, and also to help my mother plan Thursday dinner, which is a family tradition.

  “First order of business,” my mother says. “Tonight’s dinner will be served outdoors. It’s just too hot to have twenty people in the dining room.”

  She’s right, it’s going to be a scorcher. But the number sounds high. “Wait, how many chairs do we need?” I ask.

  My mother picks up her pen and starts jotting names down the margin of her legal pad. “Griff, Audrey, Gus, May, Alec…“ She keeps going, adding herself and me and Dylan and Chastity and Rickie. “No Zach tonight, but Kyle, Kieran, and Roderick are coming.”

  “That’s thirteen,” I say. “Plus Grandpa is fourteen.”

&nb
sp; “Is he bringing a guest?” Audrey asks with a smile. “I’ll just ask him.” She pops out of her chair and disappears into the TV room.

  When she returns a moment later, she’s shaking her head. “No guest?” my mother asks, pen poised above the paper.

  “Actually, he’s just not sure.”

  “I got a bit of a situation,” Grandpa says from the doorway. “It could be a plus one, a plus two, or a big fat zero.”

  “How’s that?” Griffin asks, looking amused.

  “Well, I’m trying to date Mabel. But she said she's too old to start over. And I think that sounds like horse-pucky.”

  My mother is still clutching the pen. “Should I write down Mabel as a maybe?”

  “Then I danced with Patrice at the twins’ birthday, just to give Mabel something to think on. And it backfired.”

  “Really,” Audrey says slowly. “Who knew that a blatant exploitation of a woman’s emotions could backfire?”

  He gives her a sour look. “Now she says I'm too much of a bad boy for her taste. Do I look like a bad boy to you?”

  “Yes,” says everyone at the table, in unison. It might be the only time we've ever agreed on anything as a family.

  Grandpa scowls. “I invited Patrice to dinner. But now Mabel is asking me what I’m up to tonight. She’s fishing for an invitation. It’s a very fluid situation. Anything could happen.”

  “Keep us posted,” my mother says. “We’ll assume Grandpa has one date tonight. That makes our grand tally about seventeen people.”

  “Fifteen,” I correct, because accurate data is kind of a sticking point with me. Oh, the irony.

  “We’ll be seventeen,” she says firmly, writing down that number and circling it.

  “Do you have two dates tonight, too?” Griffin asks.

  “I guess you’ll find out,” she says crisply.

  There’s an awkward silence at the table. Dylan and I exchange a glance. It asks: what is up with everyone today?

  “So,” Audrey says, her sunny voice puncturing some of the tension. “What’s on the menu?”

  “I was thinking we should have a taco bar,” Mom says. “Grilled chicken and slow-cooked beef, and a lot of toppings.”

  “Excellent.” Audrey claps her hands. “I can make a couple of sides. Mexican rice? Spicy black beans? Oooh—guacamole!”

  “Roderick is bringing that,” my mother says.

  “Even better,” Audrey chirps. “His guacamole is great.”

  “I can make sangria, and lemonade,” I offer. “But what about dessert?”

  “Pies,” my mother says. “We’ll make them after lunch. Will you help?”

  “Sure,” I say quickly. “No problem.”

  “Okay, on to finance,” Griffin says, opening a file folder. “I’m trying to decide the best timing for investing in solar. There’s a nice tax incentive that would cut down the cost. But the up-front expenditure is still kind of steep.”

  “How steep?” Mom asks.

  “The proposal is right here. But I haven’t seen this year’s tuition bills yet. Who’s got numbers for me?”

  Oh boy. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. I pull my financial aid award out of my back pocket and hand it to Griffin. “This came a week ago. They took their time.”

  Griffin unfolds the document, which he quickly scans. “Whoa. Why’s the cost so much more than last year?” He looks up. “Shouldn’t we be saving money with you at a state school?” His eyes dart from me to my mother.

  Mom just shakes her head.

  “No, unfortunately,” I explain. “They, um, just don’t have the same endowment as Harkness. Dylan’s full-time bills look just like mine.”

  “I thought that was because Dylan is a B and C student,” Griffin says.

  “You’re kidding right now, right?” my twin asks. “That’s not how financial aid works.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Griffin grumbles, scanning the page again, as if the numbers would change. “Is it because Daphne applied late?”

  “No! But thanks for asking,” I snap.

  “Hey!” He holds up two hands in surrender. “I just thought maybe there was a chance we’ll do a little better for the second semester.”

  “No,” I say, drowning in my shame. “The aid is just not as good. And I couldn’t determine that before I switched. Also, last year I got a fellowship. And, uh, this year they didn’t fund me.”

  Everyone stares at me with pity in their eyes. And I actually feel worse than I did last night when I finally dared to open the envelope.

  “Okay,” Mom says gently. “It is what it is.”

  “I could take out an additional loan,” I offer. “Just for this year. To replace those funds.”

  “But what about grad school?” Griffin asks. “That’s still your plan, right?”

  “I’ll, uh, worry about that later. I’ll be applying for other fellowships.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Griffin scans the numbers again and jots something down on his notepad. “I still am not a hundred percent clear on why you’re transferring. Actually, I’m zero percent clear.”

  “Griff,” my twin warns. Dylan hates conflict. “She doesn’t have to explain every decision.”

  “This was a big one, though,” Griffin says quietly. “Can I not ask?”

  Another silence follows, and everyone is staring at me. They’re all wondering why I spent my teen years saying I couldn’t wait to go somewhere more cosmopolitan, only to come running home a year before I received my degree from one of the nation’s most elite colleges.

  “It wasn’t the right place for me,” I say eventually.

  He sighs. “Okay. If that’s what you’re going with.”

  “Does it matter?” May asks. “What if I loaned the farm a couple thousand dollars, so you don't have to choose between the tuition and solar panels?”

  Oh hell no. “I’m not taking your money,” I say, and it comes out sounding way too sharp.

  May sits back in her chair, like I’ve just slapped her. And Dylan just shakes his head at me.

  So I’m the bitch again. Lovely. But I really don't want her paying for my mistakes. I have enough sister guilt, thanks.

  “Never mind,” Griffin says. Now that he’s stirred everything up, he wants to move on. “I’ll pause the solar until spring. Moving on to payroll… we have all the help we need right now, which is nice. Why is the bank account out of balance with QuickBooks?”

  "Rickie hasn't cashed his paychecks,” my mother says.

  "Ah," he jots down a note.

  ”Daphne, can you remind him?" Dylan asks.

  "Why me?" I squeak. Is it really that obvious that I spend way too much time thinking about Rickie, and his wicked mouth?

  Dylan gives me a look like I'm an idiot. “Because you two go to Burlington every week, where he banks?"

  "Oh, sure." I really need to just keep my mouth shut this morning. Where’s the duct tape when I need it?

  “All right,” Griffin says. “So everything is on track for the remainder of July and August, personnel wise. But I’m worried about September and October. Daphne, Dylan, Chastity, and Rickie are all back to school. We'll need bodies.”

  “Especially on the weekend,” Audrey adds.

  “Do we know anyone from church who’s taking a gap year before college?” my mother asks. “Recruiting was easier when Daphne and Dylan still had high school friends.”

  “This does get harder every year,” Griffin admits. “Kieran and Kyle used to give us hours. They’re both too busy now. Isaac moved away. I need a new plan.”

  “Chass and I will still come home on the weekends,” my brother says. “We’re both available for U-pick season. If the bunkhouse is full, we can stay in my room.”

  “I’m more worried that the bunkhouse will be empty,” Griffin says. “I’m going to call the guys at the agricultural extension and ask about hiring some Jamaican apple harvesters. I’ve never wanted to take on all that immigration paperwork
, but we really need a new play.”

  “I’ll come home on the weekends,” I hear myself offer.

  Everyone blinks. “You never do that,” Dylan says.

  “No kidding, I used to be three or four hours away. Besides, I’ll need a part-time job. Why should I work in a Burlington bookstore when I could be working at the farm stand instead?”

  “Okay. That’s helpful,” Griffin says slowly. “Thank you.”

  I can see that he doesn’t actually believe me. And that’s what I get for spending most of my teenage years telling everyone who’d listen that I couldn’t wait to get out of Vermont.

  We had family meetings when I was a little girl, too. My father liked to gather everyone around the table, and explain whatever changes he was making for the new season. He’d tell us about his choices—whether or not to regraft a set of trees, or whether or not to buy a new cow. Then he’d ask our opinions.

  “You choose, Daddy,” I’d always say. “I’m not a farmer.”

  My views haven’t really changed, but my circumstances have. And since I’m not twelve years old anymore, I understand that sometimes you just have to pitch in and help your family.

  They don’t believe me. They don’t trust that I’m sincere. That’s my fault too, I guess.

  So many things are.

  Twenty-One

  Daphne

  After the family meeting, I help Mom set up the tables and chairs outside for Thursday dinner. Then I take a basket of sandwiches and cold drinks out to where Dylan, Chastity, Zach, and Rickie are working.

  Today is a scorcher, so the men are all shirtless, of course. I will not ogle Rickie’s tattoos. I will not ogle Rickie’s tattoos…

  “Aren’t you going to eat lunch with us?” Chastity asks as I plunk the basket down and turn to go.

  “Sorry, I’m in the middle of…a thing,” I say as Rickie climbs off a ladder, his hot body glistening in the sun. He’s wearing a pair of steel-gray shorts, and that’s basically it. Just sun-kissed skin and lean muscle as far as the eye can see. “Later guys!”

  He gives me a smirk as I walk away.