by Sarina Bowen
“Drew a bunch of diagrams of the Abrahams’ fields. Googled crops and acreage. But then the rain chased us back into the bunkhouse for some recreational activities.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Planning out your future farm makes you horny?”
Dylan shrugs, smiling. He was always a happy guy. But he and Chastity are #squadgoals. Seventy years from now they’ll be that ancient couple who’s still holding hands in the grocery store.
I’ll be lucky to be alive in seventy years. And forget having a partner of my own. I’m such a wreck.
“Dinner is served!” Ruth Shipley clinks a spoon against the mason jar several times. “Line forms to the right of the buffet!” She’s such a goddess. I hope she finds a man who makes her happy. Nobody with that much love to give should be alone.
“Does your mom have a date tonight?” I ask, spotting the mustached man at her elbow.
“Yup. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“I bet.”
Dylan chuckles as I follow him to the back of the food line. “Daphne wants to run a background check on him. She says she doesn’t trust men with mustaches.”
“I’d better stay clean shaven, then.”
Dylan ignores this comment. And a moment later I finally spot Daphne coming out of the cider house with a brown jug in her hands. She carries it over to the table. Her eyes flick just once in my direction.
But her friend—I think Violet is her name—gives me a long stare and then a big smile that could truly mean anything. They’ve obviously been discussing me.
Uh-oh. The old Rickie didn’t mind being the subject of female speculation. But the new one is a wreck, apparently.
“Oooh, guacamole,” Dylan says, handing me a plate. “These tacos don’t stand a chance.”
The dinner looks glorious, of course. I make myself a full plate and follow Dylan and Chastity to the table.
“Check out Grandpa,” Chastity whispers. “He has two dates!”
Sure enough, I spot Grandpa Shipley at the head of the table, a woman on either side of him. He looks to be telling a story, and they’re both laughing.
“Go Gramps,” Dylan says. “If he stays out all night, I’ll give him a standing ovation at breakfast.”
Yup. An octogenarian has more confidence than I do tonight. What the hell is my problem?
I take my first bite of the spicy black bean and corn salad that Audrey prepared. And, wow, it’s amazing. I feel the first hint of optimism that I’ve felt tonight. Then I eat a pulled pork taco with lime and guacamole, and it does more good things to my attitude.
Feeling eyes on me, I glance up to catch Daphne sneaking a look from down the table. I wink at her, like the old Rickie would have done.
I miss that guy. I really do.
After dinner, Dylan plays a few fiddle tunes for the crowd. Then his grandpa asks for a turn on Dylan's instrument, and he happily hands it off.
“Smoke?" Dylan whispers to me. "It's the last of our stash."
“Sure."
I follow Dylan around to the far side of the cider house, out of view of everyone else. “Oh, look,” he whispers. The old picnic table we’re heading for is already occupied by Daphne and Violet. “Maybe you should sit next to my sister’s tasty friend.”
“Why? Daphne is the hot one.”
He laughs like I’m joking. “Evening, ladies. Can we smoke here in peace? Or will Daphne rat me out again?"
Daphne flips up her middle finger without even glancing in his direction. "It was one time," she says. "And you totally had it coming."
"Did you?" I ask Dylan.
"Probably," he mumbles, throwing a leg over the bench and plunking down beside his sister.
I sit down across from Daphne, and she gives me a smile that’s a little bit shy.
“What did he do?” I ask her.
“Well, I was trying to plan a surprise party, and he told the birthday boy! There are kindergarteners who are more capable of keeping secrets.”
"I didn’t realize," Dylan argues.
“Because you don’t listen,” Daphne fires back. “Ever.”
He pulls a baggie out of his pocket, and begins rolling our last joint. ”Eh. I like parties, but I hate planning things. I probably tuned you out so you wouldn’t ask me to make a contribution.”
I snicker, because that sounds like Dylan. “Whose surprise got ruined?"
"Zach's," Dylan says, pulling a lighter out of his pocket too.
"The farm hand?"
“Yeah, he used to live here. Daphne was hot for him for, like, forever." He lazily flicks the lighter. I glance up at Daphne as her face pinks up.
Huh. No wonder Dylan is the frequent target of Daphne's revenge plots. He does not give a fuck what others think of him, and he is probably incapable of understanding why his sister would. But Daphne guards her heart more closely.
“So how'd you get even with this motormouth?” I ask her, hooking my thumb toward her evil twin.
Her smile is very satisfied. “I handed his stash of weed over to Mom, with a lengthy document on the perils of pot on the teenage brain."
“Good one. Shows concern, but also infuriates the target. I’ll give you an eight out of ten.”
“Wait,” her friend Violet says, her eyes appraising me. “What would make it ten out of ten? How evil are you?”
“It’s a fair question. Eight is a solid score, of course, but I took points off for not going the extra distance. I would like to see Daphne mixing in a few grams of oregano, to ruin the stash and make the crime look worse than it is. And adding some cases of White Claw, to question not only his values, but his taste in manly beverages."
Dylan laughs. Then he offers the joint to the table. "I know Daphne won't partake, but maybe Violet is more fun?"
The look on Daphne's face is murderous now, but Dylan doesn’t notice.
Violet takes the joint between her fingers, but then hesitates. “Do you trust the dealer?” she asks. “Our friend had a bad experience once.”
“Yeah, I do, because we grow our own,” Dylan says.
“It's not even illegal,” I pipe up. “Six plants each, under the new Vermont law.”
Dylan holds up a hand and I high five him.
Daphne looks heavenward. “You can take the boy off the farm, but he’ll just grow pot in his garage.”
“I think I like Vermont,” Violet says, taking the first puff. “But give your sister a break, maybe? I don’t think future public health officials are into pot as a rule.”
“Not for anyone in their twenties, and only medicinally,” Daphne says sweetly. "Science is so damn inconvenient sometimes."
She has a point, but that shit feels medicinal tonight. I’m on edge, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I stretch my legs out under the table and capture one of Daphne’s feet with mine. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Tell me more about Vermont,” Violet says. “What’s it like growing up here?”
“Let’s see,” Dylan says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Everyone knows how to drive in the snow. And you never really have to dress up for anything.”
“This is accurate,” Daphne agrees. “Don’t bother wearing nice shoes, they’ll just get trashed. And don’t bother washing your car. That’s what rain is for.”
“Everyone has sex in a pickup truck,” Dylan adds.
“Huh,” I say slowly. “I can confirm this is true.”
“But you drive a Volvo,” Daphne points out.
“It was her pickup truck.” I shrug, and everyone else laughs. “It’s universal.”
“It’s not,” Daphne mutters.
“No?” her brother asks, looking amused. “Eh, never mind. I don’t really want to know.” He moves on, telling us a story about chasing his goats away from a patch of poison ivy. But I’m still thinking about truck sex with Daphne.
We shoot the shit and share the joint until it grows tiny, and until Chastity pokes her head
around the corner of the cider house. "Dylan! Come and help me serve dessert."
"Sure, baby cakes." He hands me the remains of our joint. "Don't miss me too much.”
"Why would I? It's easier to hit on your sister when you're not around."
"You're hilarious." He hauls his long frame off the bench, chuckling. Then he lopes off after Chastity.
"Nobody believes me," I mutter. Then I press my hands down on the table and lean over, bridging the distance between Daphne and myself, and kiss her.
For a split second she is frozen with surprise. But her mouth softens after a moment, and I kiss her slowly. It’s not indecent. But it isn’t quick, either.
And when I sit back down, Violet stares comically between us. “Well, that happened.”
Daphne is blushing all over the place, but I don’t embarrass. Not over a kiss, anyway. I stub the last scrap of the joint out on the metal table frame and toss the evidence into the wet, tall grass.
“Are you sure you want me to stay over tonight?” Violet asks teasingly.
“Of course,” Daphne says quickly. “You can stay in my room with me. Or maybe May’s old room, if we can find the air mattress.”
“I’ll stay in your room,” she says. “We can bunk together. Unless you plan to sneak out in the night. I saw at least two pickup trucks in the driveway. Or, wait—isn’t Rickie’s room right across the hall?”
She grins, and I do too, for a second. But I can’t actually sleep with anyone in the room, and Daphne probably knows that.
So I feel glum again anyway.
Twenty-Five
Rickie
Later, after the party is over, I pause in the upstairs hallway, listening. And I hear wild laughter from behind Daphne’s door.
I’m rocking a pair of low-slung athletic shorts and nothing else. But it would be rude not to say good night, right? I knock on the door.
“Yes?” Daphne calls. “Come in.”
I open the door and lean against the frame.
“Well hello,” Violet says from the bed, where she and Daphne are seated together, a laptop propped up between them.
“Evening, ladies. Maybe you could keep the giggling to a low roar? I need a lot of sleep to look this good all the time.”
Daphne tries to roll her eyes at me, but it doesn’t quite work. She’s too busy admiring me. So I cross to the bed and lean down, dropping a kiss to the top of her silky head. “Good night. Have pleasant dreams.”
“Oh, she will,” Violet says.
“You shut up,” Daphne mutters. “Night, McFly.”
“Night, gorgeous.”
I stride out of there without a backward glance. But as I’m closing the door behind me, I hear Violet’s next comments. “Christ on a cruller, that boy is hot. I’d be jealous if I weren’t so happy for you.”
“Shhh,” Daphne hisses.
I step away, grinning. But there’s no fist pump. No victory dance. I’m still a wreck, who locks his door on the way into the room. The chair mocks me from its place against the wall. But I don’t move it against the door. I stay strong.
Then I pick up my phone to text Lenore. Do you have any time for me tomorrow? I had a weird day.
Her response comes almost immediately, and I feel a little guilty texting her so late. Someday that might be me—the guy getting panicky messages from patients at all hours. Could you make it to my office at 10? I could give you thirty minutes.
Sure. I’ll be there.
Are you okay right now? Need to call me?
I’m okay. I promise. See you tomorrow.
Early in the morning I meet Dylan in the dairy barn. I shovel cow shit at top speed while he does the milking. “Hey, D? I need to go to Burlington at breakfast time. Sorry for the late notice, but I need a couple hours off.”
He pops up from behind a cow. “Yeah, okay. No problem. Is there anything wrong?”
“Nope. Just an appointment I forgot about. You need anything from town? You can text me if you think of something.”
“I’m good,” Dylan says. “You’ll be back for the afternoon? Griff wants to finish the pest traps and do some cleanup from that storm.”
“Yeah—I’ll be back around noon.”
“Hey Rick—cash your checks while you’re in BTV.”
“What?”
“Your paychecks. Stop by the bank when you’re done, and cash them.”
“I don’t really need the money,” I point out.
“Nobody cares,” Dylan says, patting a cow on the rump so that she steps a little closer to the milking machine. “Everybody who works here gets paid. Even if they flake off to Burlington on the hottest day of the summer.”
“I’ll be back for the hottest part of it,” I point out.
“Likely story.” Dylan gives me a careless smile. “You can make it up to me in beer.”
“Now there’s a plan. I’ll pick something up on my way back.”
“I got one more big idea if you want to hear it,” Dylan says.
“Hit me.”
“Let’s fuck off this weekend and go hiking.”
“Where?”
“I was thinking of the Presidentials,” he says. “Ever climb Mount Washington?”
“Yeah, once during high school.” The White Mountains peaks of New Hampshire are some of the best hiking in New England.
“Well, I haven’t,” he says. “If we hike up and take the railway down, it could be a day trip.”
I consider this. “We should probably stay in an AMC hut, right?” That’s what I did in the past. The huts are a really unique experience. They can each house a couple dozen hikers at a time in barracks-style rooms. For a reasonable fee, you get a bed, a blanket, a pillow and a hot dinner and breakfast. You bring your own sheets, and there aren’t any showers. But you can refill your water bottle and wash up in the bathrooms.
“I thought of that,” Dylan admits. “But there wouldn’t be locks on the, uh, bedroom doors. So we don’t have to stay up there. We could get cheap hotel rooms and do two different day hikes.”
Dylan doesn’t really have the money for a hotel room. And it’s just stupid that my strange sleeping habits are preventing me from going on the kind of adventure that I’d enjoyed as a teenager.
“Look, why don’t you see if any of the huts have space?” I ask slowly. “I can deal with a couple of nights of crappy sleep.”
Dylan tilts his head to the side, as if trying to read me. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I insist. It’s just dawning on me that this is exactly the aversion therapy setup that I’d been trying to envision. A room full of well-intentioned strangers sleeping on top of a mountain for adventure.
Maybe I’ll conquer this shit. I’m tired of being a mess. I’m so sick of me.
A couple hours later I’m sitting in Lenore’s office, feeling a little foolish. She’s waiting for me to explain my emergency.
Let’s face it—I just drove more than sixty miles because I got pissed off when my penis took a time-out when I was about to have sex.
“So just how weird was your weird day?” she asks into the silence.
“Well…” I clear my throat. “Maybe your hunch was right about me. That there’s something weird going on with me and sex.”
“How do you figure?” she asks.
“You know the dual control model of arousal? Accelerators and brakes?” It’s a dumb question, because of course she does. It’s like asking a shrink if they’ve heard of Freud.
“Of course,” she says. “Excitation versus inhibition.”
“My inhibitions are really easily triggered,” I say in a casual voice. But I don’t feel all that casual about it. “Yesterday we were, uh, fooling around…”
Lenore grins. “You and Daphne, huh?”
“Don’t get too excited. I mean—I did. But then all of a sudden I didn’t.”
“What triggered you?” Her expression is calm and open.
I trust Lenore completely, and therapy
is an excellent tool. But this is surprisingly hard to talk about. “It was just a door slamming in the breeze. It was loud, but completely understandable. But my dick didn’t care. I had, like, a full-on panic attack.”
“Tell me exactly how you felt in that moment,” she says.
“Uh, cold. Clammy.” I remember the way my sweat cooled into goose bumps. “And my heart felt jumpy. I was on, like, high alert. And I didn't want anyone to touch me.”
“Okay.” She folds her hands on the desk. “And how did that play out? Was it embarrassing? What did your partner do or say when this happened?”
“I was embarrassed. I still am. But it could have been worse. Daphne’s friend drove up a few seconds later, interrupting us anyway. So I’m not even sure Daphne noticed my…” I cringe.
“Dick deflation?” Lenore provides.
“Is that good clinical practice?” I yelp. “Putting words in the patient’s mouth?”
She merely shrugs. “I hate to break this to you, but losing an erection due to a moment of stress is perfectly normal for any man, at any time. Even a twenty-two year old Casanova. You know this already.”
“But it didn’t feel normal at the time,” I argue. “I felt like a basket case. I still do.”
“All right. So tell me why it feels like an important realization in your life, and not an instance of really unlucky timing.”
“Because I’m so—” I try to put it into words that don’t make me sound trivial. “My sleeping alone thing is already weird, and disruptive. You pushed me to think about why I don’t have sex anymore. And I can’t really explain it. Where’s the connection between head injuries and skittish sex?”
Lenore’s smile fades. “What if there isn’t one?”
“A connection?”
She nods. “Let’s just suppose for a second that your problems are larger than the brush-off I just gave you. Let’s suppose you’re experiencing a true sexual dysfunction. Why would you assume it’s connected to a head trauma?”
“Because that’s the thing that changed.” Isn’t it obvious? “Did you happen to read my file, by the way? I know it’s only been a couple days since I asked.”
