by Sarina Bowen
I still don't. But my first housing payment is due very soon. And now I have a fuller picture of the financial strain, plus grad school to consider.
"Rickie owns that house. I'm not exactly sure how. He doesn’t talk about it. But next year Dylan and I are only kicking in, like, a hundred dollars each every month. Rickie is covering the taxes by renting it out this summer.”
"One hundred dollars?" That can’t be right.
"That’s what he said. It covers heat and utilities. But Rickie says he doesn’t need to charge actual rent. So Dylan and I decided we're going to cover all of the grocery bills, too. Even if we’re always treating Rickie, it's still a whole lot cheaper than a dining hall plan."
"Wow. That's crazy. Rickie is crazy. He could get so much more than that."
"You’re not wrong. But the money doesn’t seem to matter to him. So think about it, okay? That fifth bedroom is pretty small, and there’s no bed in there yet. But if you were joining us, I would take that tiny room and use it as an office. Because, let's face it, I'm mostly going to be sleeping in Dylan's room."
I snicker.
“Yeah, I know," she says. "But we could tone it down if that helps."
“Tone what down?"
"The PDA, and the sneaking off early every night." She sighs. "I know we're a little much. But I don't want to be the reason you pay for a dorm room. I don't want to scare you off from a situation that could really help the whole family."
Yikes. "Chastity, you're not scaring anybody off. I promise. When Dylan mentioned the house to me, I told him no as a reflex. I didn’t want to crash anybody’s party."
"Oh," she says quietly. "But why would you assume you were? Dylan wouldn’t have suggested it to Rickie if he didn’t want you there."
"I suppose you’re right," I say, although I’m unconvinced. Dylan thinks I’m an uptight drag. He was probably asking out of obligation, and hoping I’d say no.
"Just think about it," Chastity says. "I think it would be nice."
"Too much testosterone in that house?" I ask with a chuckle. As it stands, she’ll be the only woman with three men.
"No, that’s not it. I just like your company. The world is full of cliquey women that I don’t understand. But you shoot straight every time."
"Oh," I say, taken aback by this compliment. It’s a really nice take on my overly direct personality. "Thank you."
"You’re welcome." Silence falls again, but only for a moment. "Hey, Rickie said that sometimes you get ice cream on the way home. Do I get ice cream, too?"
"Sure," I say quickly. "Why not?"
Twenty-Seven
Rickie
The sun beats down on my bare back as I kneel down to remove a white paper sleeve from the base of an apple tree. Dylan and I are making a sweep through the orchard, removing spent pest traps, and picking up any early drops and tossing them into a compost bin hitched to the back of a tractor.
“If we let ‘em lie there and rot, we get pests and disease,” Griffin had explained.
It wasn’t hard work, but the day was shaping up to be another scorcher. And I keep getting interrupted by texts from Lenore, who’s unhappy with me for canceling our appointment this morning. My phone chimes three times again in rapid succession.
“Problem?” Dylan asks from the opposite side of the same orchard row.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Let me just tell her I’m busy.”
“Sure, man. We need a water break anyway.”
I pull out my phone.
Lenore: Please check in. You were upset when I last saw you, and this seems like the wrong time to miss an appointment.
Rick: I’m fine. I’m just tired from a long weekend of aversion therapy. That didn’t go so well but I’ll tell you all about it next week.
Lenore: I thought we were going to *discuss* that plan before you put it into action.
Rick: I had an opportunity. 3 nights in AMC huts. No locks anywhere. It’s all about trust, right? And sleeping near sweaty strangers.
Lenore: That sounds like my version of hell. Did you make it all 3 nights?
Rick: Barely. I actually slept some the 3rd night. Not sure if that was progress or just exhaustion.
Lenore: Please check in with me tomorrow. I could make time on Friday again.
Rick: Next week. Regular time. I swear. Sorry for the cancelation.
I look up to see Dylan watching me. When I put my phone away, he tosses me a bottle of water. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Fine. There’s someone I usually see on Wednesdays in Burlington. She’s just pissed that I canceled on her.”
Dylan’s eyebrows lift a millimeter, which is basically as shocked as Dylan gets. “You got a girlfriend in BTV? No way.”
“Nah. It’s not a girlfriend. We both know I’m hung up on your sister.”
Dylan grins and shakes his head.
“My standing date on Wednesdays is with a therapist.”
“Oh,” he says. And there isn’t even a twitch of surprise at this little revelation. Dylan just rolls with it, as usual. “If you’ve got your phone on you, can you look at the weather? I didn’t think it was gonna be this hot again. It’s only noon.”
“Sure, man.” I pull out my phone and check. “The high will be eighty-eight today, ninety tomorrow.”
“Christ.” He drains his water bottle. “At least we got the cooler weather for hiking.”
We put the water bottles onto the tractor and Dylan drives the compost bin further down the row. Then we get back to work. My legs are sore from climbing three four-thousand footers in as many days. And I’m weary to the bone from lack of sleep.
Last night I got eight hours in the farmhouse behind a locked door. But it barely made a dent in my exhaustion. The AMC huts were—as I’d remembered—the perfect aversion therapy setup for someone who’s unable to fall asleep near others. Aversion therapy forces you to confront the things that freak you out. It’s supposed to prove to your psyche that there’s no reason to be afraid.
It’s controversial, because patients hate it. And many therapists hate it too. Who wants to make their patients cry or have a crisis?
On the other hand, it works. For example, teens who experience social anxiety often respond very quickly to aversion therapies that force them to engage with strangers in an otherwise safe environment.
That’s the idea, anyway. And it’s true that my nights in the various mountaintop huts forced me to confront my phobias. I felt twitchy even walking into that room to put my pack down on the bed before supper. There were eight beds—four sets of bunk beds built into the walls of the place.
Just looking at those bunks gave me a creepy feeling. “Can I take the top?” I’d asked as Dylan removed his pack.
“Sure,” he’d said easily.
I’d put my pack onto the top bunk and walked right out of there again. But a few hours later I’d found myself climbing onto that damn bed, dread pooling in my stomach. Even the creak of the wooden ladder made me edgy.
It didn’t make a lick of sense, either. The other hikers were chipper twenty-somethings like us, full of smiles and good manners. The bed was comfortable enough. And there was a cool mountain breeze blowing through the open windows.
But it didn’t matter. I lay awake for hours, listening to other people snore peacefully. They got their much needed rest, while all I got was angry.
Up until last week, I’d believed that all my troubles were the result of a physical injury. I’d felt stupid knowing that my own recklessness had upended my life. But it still felt like something that could happen to anybody. Just a dose of stupidity compounded by some bad luck.
Now I didn’t know what to think. What kind of trauma was so awful that I could have forgotten it just to protect myself? That’s ridiculous, especially when all I really want is to remember.
It was just a bump on the head, I’d insisted to myself at three or four in the morning.
But why then couldn’t I sleep? And what�
��s with the panic attacks?
There aren’t any answers for me in the orchard today. I take another dropped apple in hand and hurl it at the compost bin with such force that it bounces right back out again and hits Dylan in the ass.
He whips around. “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry,” I clip. “Bad bounce.”
He squints at me. And I must look half deranged, because he looks concerned instead of angry. “Are you okay today? You seem off.”
“I’m just tired,” I growl. “The whole sleeping near strangers thing didn’t really work for me.”
His face falls. “I’m sorry. It was a bad idea.”
“It was my idea to try it,” I insist. “And I’ll live.”
After a beat, Dylan decides not to worry about it. He turns around and picks up another apple.
God bless the Shipleys. Dylan is as solid as they come. Like his whole family.
I never should have gotten myself involved with Daphne. What a dumb idea that was. Who’d want a piece of this?
Bending over for the four hundredth time, I find myself thinking about her at work in Burlington. What's she doing right now? Plotting to take over the world, probably.
I smile like a fool. But then I remember the look on her face this morning when Dylan told her I wasn’t going to Burlington today. Disappointment.
That bothered me. I’m basically famous for disappointing her by now. Let's review—first I stood her up. Then I came on strong and freaked out in bed. It’s going to be a while before I can think about that afternoon without wanting to slink off somewhere and hide.
“Hey, Rick?” Dylan interrupts my self-recriminations.
“Yeah?” I stand up and face him.
“I gotta ask—are we still looking at a pretty low monthly rent in Burlington for this coming year?”
“Yeah, of course. Nothing's changed. I’m just asking you guys to help me cover the heat and the utilities. This summer’s renters paid the taxes.”
He tosses a stick into the bin. “Daphne hasn’t said she’s in. So you’ll have to do the math again, right?”
“Maybe?” I shrug. “I probably don’t need to, though. We’re talking small sums, here.”
“Okay.” Dylan rubs the back of his neck. “But you still haven’t cashed those checks? I'll take the low rent deal so long as you take a paycheck this summer. We're still coming out ahead."
"Yeah, okay. Fine." I turn around and crouch down to remove the sleeve from an apple tree.
“One more question,” Dylan continues. “I want to know if you think this is crazy. But what would you say if I told you I was thinking of proposing?”
My hand stops halfway to grabbing an apple out of the grass. My first thought is: that's ridiculous. You’re too young to get married. But after a few seconds tick by, I realize that Dylan’s situation isn’t the same as mine. And he doesn’t need to hear that kind of negativity from his friends.
I close my fingers around the apple and stand up. "Honey, I didn’t know you felt this way about me. I'm flattered but I don’t think I'm ready to take this big step with you.”
Dylan looks heavenward.
“Sorry,” I chuckle. “I’m a little surprised, but also not. Anyone could see that you guys will end up together. Why now?”
“Because I just don't see the point of waiting. And Chastity doesn’t really have any family of her own, you know? I want to give her that. She deserves to feel like a full member of the team.”
Well that’s just humbling. And now I’m glad I kept my trap shut. “Guess you'd better start saving up for a ring.”
“That’s actually the biggest kink in this plan,” he says with a shake of his head. “There's this jewelry store in Montpelier that uses all Vermont designers. I figure the rock doesn’t have to be huge if it's nicely done, right?” He winces.
“Dylan, this may come as a shock to you. But Chastity's not into you for your vast fortune.”
He barks out a laugh. “Okay, yeah. That's a good point.”
“It’s the same reason I don’t rent out those bedrooms for a profit. I’m not willing to share a house with just anybody. I need people around me I can trust.”
Dylan gives me a sideways glance, before plucking another insect trap off a trunk. “Someday you'll make a great shrink.”
“Let's hope so,” I grunt.
“Don't you have to log in for your class now?”
“Crap.” I yank out my phone and check the time. “Yeah, sorry. I’d better run.”
“Go on. I'll see you at lunch.” Dylan waves me off.
I grab my shirt and my water bottle and jog through the orchard toward the farmhouse. I make it up to my room on time, and log in before the professor starts the lecture.
While I'm waiting, I sign all three of the checks from Shipley Farms, then use my banking app to deposit them. It's about 2400 dollars all told.
That done, I settle in to listen. But the lecture bores me almost from the first minute. Maybe it's my piss-poor attitude, or maybe it's the on-screen disconnect. But my mind wanders, and I find myself searching the interwebs for a jewelry store in Montpelier that specializes in local artisans.
It's not difficult to find. So I call them up and purchase a gift certificate for a Mr. Dylan Shipley in the amount of two thousand dollars. And the moment the confirmation email comes through, I forward it to Dylan.
“This is for you, bro. And by the way—I finally cashed those checks.”
Twenty-Eight
Daphne
This week, Thursday dinner is at our friends’ house in Montpelier. Sophie and Jude like to host every few months, and the Shipley clan always caravans over there to make it happen.
But Rickie begs off and stays home.
There’s something up with him. I can tell. But I can’t seem to get him alone for a minute to ask. Whenever I walk into a room, he walks out of it.
He’s basically playing the same game I was a month ago. I avoided him like the black plague for the month of June, even when he smiled at me. Especially then.
I’m trying hard not to take it personally. My gut says that he isn’t suddenly tired of me—that there’s something else going on. Those dark smudges under his eyes are new, along with the weary look on his face.
But it’s so easy for all my old insecurities to sneak up on me. My heart is like our old Kubota tractor that’s always in need of repair. You replace one part on it, and something else immediately breaks.
And the fact remains that no man I’ve ever had feelings for has returned them with the same fervor. Never. And I’m starting to wonder if one ever will.
It doesn’t keep me from hoping. I follow Rickie with my eyes wherever he goes. On Friday afternoon I walk past the cider house where he and Dylan are supposed to be scrubbing out barrels in preparation for the first press next month.
And they’re arguing. So—like anyone with three siblings has learned to do—I stand beside the open door like a creeper and eavesdrop.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dylan is saying.
Oh no. Could this be about me?
“I wanted to,” Rickie says in a low voice. “I can do as I please.”
My face heats. Please don’t let this be about me.
“It’s too much,” Dylan says. “I don’t like owing anybody.”
Rickie makes an irritated sound. “That wasn’t why I did it. You don’t owe me anything. We’ve been over this.”
“I could have waited, you know. I’m patient.”
“Yeah, but now you can be choosy about your timing. I didn’t need the money. Money is, like, the only thing I don’t have to worry about right now.”
My heart gives a little sympathetic squeeze. What is Rickie so worried about?
“Dylan—” my other brother’s voice cuts in. “Just say thank you already. This is not that complicated.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan mutters. “Okay, thank you. It’s gonna make me look like a bigger stud than I alre
ady am.”
Rickie laughs, and the sound of it gives me a fluttery feeling in my chest. “There, was that so hard? You’re welcome, punk.”
I’m just about to walk away when I hear Dylan say my name. “Hey—Chass asked Daphne about her housing situation this fall. And she sounds like she might actually consider moving in with us.”
“Oh,” Rickie says slowly. “That’s cool. That will make it so much more convenient when we’re dating.”
My eyes bug out.
“Come again?” Griffin grumbles. But Dylan laughs.
I trot away from that door as fast as I can. Everything about Rickie confuses me.
Everything.
On Friday night, it’s hot again, and really sticky, too. We’re all a little beaten down by the unrelenting heat and the humidity. Mom puts a window fan in the dining room so we can get through dinner without melting. She serves Caesar salads with fresh bread and grilled chicken that Grandpa tends on the Webber outside.
Rickie sits at the opposite end of the table. Again. But even so, I keep catching him staring at me when he thinks I’m not looking. And the expression on his face is soft, too. There’s a fondness there that’s hard to hide.
But he’s staying away from me, and I don’t understand why.
“Let’s go to the swimming hole after dinner,” Dylan says. “Griff and Audrey have been hanging out there with Gus. Griff told me he even mowed the grass.”
“Where is this place?” Rickie asks.
“Down the road, just a mile and a half. We can bike it or drive.”
“Sounds fun,” Rickie says. Then his eyes flicker toward me again before he looks away.
And I ask myself an important question. What would Violet do?
It only takes me a minute to think of the answer. Wear a tiny bikini.
Duh.
Two hours later I’m sitting on my towel, which is spread on the grass at the edge of the swimming hole. This place is about the size of a modest backyard pool, filled by moving water and surrounded by rocks. It’s fed by a creek that drops the water down a two-foot waterfall.
