Waylaid

by Sarina Bowen

  “Oh my God. You don’t trust me with your car?”

  His gray eyes widen. “Baby, I trust you with my car, and I trust you with my life. But I don’t trust the violent fuckface you had the misfortune to date before me. So if you want my wheels, you take me as your plus one.”

  “Oh.” My heart practically explodes. “Well okay, then. This thing is Wednesday night. It’s a four-hour drive.”

  “I’ll make time, Shipley,” he says, laying a hand on my knee. “I don’t want you to go alone. We’re a team, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say softly, because I really like the sound of that. “Okay.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Rickie

  That night I lie awake for the first time in a long while. I can’t sleep.

  Daphne is curled up in my bed, breathing deeply. Her presence is not the reason for my troubles. It’s just the opposite.

  The truth is that I'd forgotten about Daphne's big plan. I’d been too busy enjoying my new life with her to think about it. I’d been too busy cooking meals with her in the kitchen and snuggling in front of the TV. Too busy making love to her every chance I got.

  It's not like me to be dismissive. And I know Daphne pretty well. The moment she'd shown me that invitation, I should have known she'd go through with it.

  But I’d let my guard down. I'd stopped beating my head against every available surface.

  She hasn’t, though. This isn't over for her. I’m busy falling in love. But she wants revenge. She wants her career, and grad school at a top-five program somewhere far away from here.

  It stings a little. But I already knew that. My new problem is how to keep her safe. I wanted her to be done with Reardon Halsey.

  But she isn’t done. So I guess I’m not, either.

  I spend the next couple of days feeling broody about our upcoming jaunt to Connecticut. And Daphne is pretty quiet, too. On Friday morning, I catch her looking at the floorplan of a building on her laptop—just like James Bond.

  But she closes the computer quickly as my footsteps approach.

  “It’s just me,” I whisper. “Was that the place? Want to share?”

  She shakes her head. “I really don’t want to involve you if I don’t have to. Technically I’m planning to commit a crime. Even though I’m not stealing anything.”

  “I’m going to be standing next to you.” I lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’m an accessory, right? That’s what the TV cop shows would call it.”

  “That’s just it.” She swivels to look up at me. “I don’t think you should go. I’m well aware that this plan is crazy. It might fail. And I will take full responsibility.” She swallows hard.

  “Hey now.” I sit down beside her on the couch and pull her close to me. She’s wearing the daphnia necklace. She never takes it off. “Look—I can’t sit at home here next Wednesday night and wonder if you’re okay. I just can’t. So I’m going with you.”

  “But Rickie…” She buries her face in my flannel shirt. “I don’t know what I’m doing. This will either work great, or it will make things worse. But I have to try.”

  Do you really? I want to ask. But I don’t say it. Daphne has to figure this out for herself. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who tells her what to think and do.

  But I worry.

  Daphne goes home with her brother for the weekend, and I keep worrying. The house is too quiet with just me and Keith at home. I read Aristotle and brood.

  Then, on Saturday night, I have another damn dream. It’s just like the ones I had this summer—where I open my eyes and Reardon Halsey is lying on my bed, smirking at me.

  Then I open my eyes for real and wake up sweaty. And not in a fun way. Shit. It’s three in the morning. And I can see his face so clearly in my mind’s eye.

  Why is that?

  I turn on the lamp, which chases the shadows out of the room. I pull my laptop onto the bed and open it up. I google Reardon Halsey again, and find all the same photos as last time. It’s not a great use of the wee hours. But I recognize his face, and it’s driving me insane.

  So I open up my email and try something I’ve tried a million times before. I write another email to paulywhite123.

  Paul,

  Hi, it’s me again. I’ve written before, but I don't know if you got my earlier messages. I'm still out here looking for answers. I still don't remember how I ended up in the hospital.

  There is a lot that I need to know. Can you help?

  Hell, I don't know if you've ever read one of these messages. I don't even know if we're friends. But if you know what happened to me on the Saturday night of Open Weekend, I need to know.

  Or even if you don’t know, please reply so I know you actually still exist.

  Yeah, that's dark. But my mind has been to some very dark places recently.

  Sincerely,

  Rick Ralls

  I spend Sunday writing a paper about Freud. Plus I check my email about a thousand times.

  Later that afternoon, on the 1001st try, there’s a bolded, unread message at the top of the stack. From paulywhite123.

  I actually close my eyes for a moment in surprise. But when I open them again, it’s still there. The time stamp is only a few minutes ago.

  When I open the message, it’s only one line long. He writes: Are you getting help for those dark places? You should.

  Holy heck. Now we’re having a conversation. So I reply.

  Yes, I did get help. My therapist's name is Lenore. She's terrific. She even laughs at my jokes. 10/10 would recommend.

  It’s nonthreatening, and it asks nothing. So I hit send. And then I pray, and watch my inbox like a hunter in a deer blind.

  But night falls, and I still have no response. Daphne comes home with her brother and Chastity, and I smile and try not to look like the jumpy fucker that I am.

  “Can we order pizza?” she asks. “And I brought home lettuce for a salad.”

  “Sure, baby. I’ll make the salad. I need something to do with my hands.”

  “Another innuendo?” Dylan mutters.

  “Believe it or not, no,” I say, taking a bag of groceries out of his hands. “I’m just a little stir crazy.”

  “Is Freud kicking your ass?” Daphne asks. She gives me a kiss on the jaw.

  “Yeah,” I say immediately. “I had, uh, a long day of paper-writing.” God, it feels trashy to lie. Daphne is the last person I want to deceive. But I know nothing more than I did when she left on Friday afternoon.

  I need to know more. So I spend the evening pretending to write a paper while watching my inbox. Nothing happens, until Daphne crawls into bed with me at midnight, and I force myself to shut off the light and pull her into my arms.

  “Did you miss me?” I ask, kissing her neck.

  “You know I did,” she murmurs.

  “Why don’t you show me how much?” I ask, trying to find my normal self.

  “I think I will,” she says.

  Monday night I’m alone in my room, checking my phone one more time before I go to sleep. And Daphne is upstairs, pulling a late night for homework.

  Checking for a new message is just a habit by now. But suddenly there it is.

  Rick,

  “10/10 would recommend.” I heard that in your voice. And the joke means that you’re going to be okay. Not sure what to say about your memory. You probably won’t believe me, but not remembering could be a blessing.

  P.

  * * *

  Now I have goose bumps all over my body. He still isn’t giving me what I need. So I write back.

  * * *

  You're right. I am going to be okay. It took me a while, but my life is back on track. I spent the summer on a farm. Now I'm working on my degree full time, at Burlington U in Vermont.

  Contacting you was a selfish act. I want to know what happened. I want to know if I was to blame for blowing up my life.

  I don’t need to know. But I want to.

  Please tell me you’re goi
ng to be okay, too. You have me imagining the worst.

  —Rick

  * * *

  I try to wait up for his reply. But it never comes, and I fall asleep clutching my phone like a talisman.

  On Tuesday his message arrives while I’m in class.

  * * *

  Rick,

  I know you want a full accounting. I can hear how hard you’re trying not to demand some answers. But I can’t help you.

  At first I couldn’t answer you because I couldn't stand to think about you, or anyone else at the Academy. Pretending it didn’t happen was the only way I could go on.

  Then I broke down, and couldn’t read your messages because I was institutionalized for more than six months.

  And now I can’t give you what you want because I signed an NDA.

  I know that’s a shitty thing for me to say. That my tidy little settlement is more important than your sanity. But my tidy little settlement is paying for my continued sanity. And I bet your thick philosophy books say something about how going forward is more important than examining the past.

  If they don’t, they should.

  —P

  * * *

  After reading this, I gather up my stuff and walk right out of the seminar. It’s rude, but I have to keep him talking to me. I’m taking Daphne to Connecticut tomorrow. And Paul knows what happened.

  * * *

  Paul—I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t remember anything from that Saturday night. And I can live with that. I don’t want you to put yourself in harm's way.

  But my girlfriend is up against a creep who left the Academy the same year I did. My gut says it’s not a coincidence. I'm trying to decide how worried I should be about him.

  Anything you can tell me without hanging your ass in the air would be sincerely appreciated.

  —Rick

  P.S. I signed an NDA too, by the way. It just means a little less when you can't actually remember.

  * * *

  Daphne calls me while I’m sitting at the Green Bean, the campus coffee shop, eating a croissant and staring at my phone.

  “Hey, baby girl,” I answer, sounding more chipper than I feel.

  “Hi, McFly. I called to ask you what time you’ll be ready to hop into the DeLorean and leave tomorrow. I was hoping we could go at 2:30. I took the day off from work.”

  “Okay,” I agree immediately. “What do I wear on this adventure?”

  “Khaki pants, button-down shirt,” she says.

  “Noted. What do you want for dinner tonight? Your mom sent home some chicken. I thought I’d make tortilla soup.”

  Ding. My phone alerts me to a new email. And now I can’t even concentrate on the conversation.

  “That sounds great,” Daphne is saying. “What can I make on the side?”

  I fail to answer her, because I’m already holding the phone away from my ear, already reading Paul’s words.

  “Rickie?” she prompts.

  “Uh, sorry gorgeous. I’d better go.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice worried.

  And that’s when I make a terrible error. I don’t tell her about this crazy conversation I’ve been having. And I don’t tell her why.

  “Yeah. See you at home,” is all I say. Then I end the call and read Paul’s message three times in quick succession.

  * * *

  Rick—

  I really can’t talk about this. But maybe if you have access to a university library, you should know that Court Martial summaries are sort of public. They’re printed in a legal journal called Military Justice Review. When shit goes really bad at a military academy, sometimes personnel are CMed. You can read bare bones summaries of these motions in the logs.

  But look—if you find this thing—there’s two guys mentioned, right? You might wonder which one you are. Please know that I was the target. It was me. And you got hurt trying to stop it.

  By the way: we were friends. Absolutely. It makes me sad to hear you’re not sure about that. I was lucky to call you my friend.

  That’s all I have for you. Maybe someday I’ll be able to call you and say all the words out loud. Maybe I will be fearless, and say what needs saying.

  But today is not that day. Not yet.

  —P

  * * *

  I get up from the coffee shop and hightail it toward the library.

  Thirty-Nine

  Daphne

  Rickie is acting strangely, and it's stressing me out.

  Yesterday he’d said he wanted to make dinner. But then he didn’t. I waited for him for two hours before texting to ask, Where are you?

  Sorry! Library. I’ll be home late.

  So I’d made myself a bean quesadilla, with a side of disappointment. Then I fell asleep in his bed at midnight. He came in so late I didn’t even hear him.

  I mean, sure, he tried to make it up to me in the morning. I woke up to his urgent mouth on my nipple. Things escalated quickly from there, and I ended up on all fours, gripping the headboard, with Rick’s hand clasped over my mouth so I wouldn’t wake up the entire house with my moaning.

  It had been a very effective distraction technique. Reduced to a whimpering heap of sexual satisfaction, I’d failed to inquire about his distant behavior the day before.

  Now he’s right beside me in the old Volvo, driving me to Connecticut. Sitting here in the passenger seat as we cruise down 91 should feel like a big déjà vu for me.

  But it doesn’t, because Rickie is so quiet. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You haven’t said a word for twenty miles.”

  “No, baby,” he says, his voice scratchy from disuse. “I’m fine.”

  Feeling unsettled, I close my eyes and try to fight off a horrible sense of foreboding. I don’t take naturally to performing spy maneuvers at my former place of work. Just the thought of breaking into an office to peek inside a file folder has my good girl complex pinging like crazy.

  Maybe I’m the only one who’s acting strangely.

  But then I glance at Rickie, and see a worry wrinkle across his forehead that isn’t usually there. He’s keeping something to himself. I’m sure of it. “I swear, Rickie, I had a better sense of what was in your head that first time we rode together. When we were strangers.”

  This comes out of my mouth sounding very bitchy. And I expect him to call me on it.

  But he doesn’t. “Strangers are just friends you haven't met yet," he murmurs. “They taught me that at Sunday school once. Then I lost my memory. And I learned that strangers could also be people you have met before.”

  The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “Did something happen this week? Another déjà vu?”

  He hesitates for a beat longer than feels right. “Not a thing.”

  "Are you okay?" I press.

  In answer, he reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze.

  And then says nothing for ten more miles.

  "Can I put some music on?" I ask as the silence threatens to choke me again.

  "Sure, baby girl. You go ahead."

  I turn on the radio. But he doesn’t sing along this time.

  Even though it’s a splurge, I booked us a room at the Harkness Inn, the nicest hotel I could afford. Now I glance around the luxe bathroom with its plush robes and bamboo fixtures, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking. This isn’t some kind of vacation, although God knows we need one.

  There is no way I’m going to be able to relax until after this is all over—until I’ve brought some anonymous attention to Reardon’s cheating. Until I get justice.

  It has to work.

  Rickie is sitting on the bed, texting furiously. He doesn’t even glance at me as I parade past him in lace panties, opening my suitcase to pull out my blouse.

  "Is there something wrong?" I ask as he taps out another message with his thumbs. “You seem preoccupied.”

  “It’s nothing. Lenore always worries when I blow off an appointment."

  "Your therapist?"
I clarify. “You’re missing an appointment? We could have left later."

  "Don't worry about it, Shipley." He still doesn’t look up. "It's fine."

  But nothing is fine. There's an icy chill rising off him that I don’t understand. “Would you please tell me what's wrong? I'm already freaking out here.”

  Finally he lifts his gaze to mine. “Please don’t panic. I don't want you to be afraid. Not ever. We can get back in the car and drive home if you want to."

  “God, it’s tempting. But I can't do that. If I give up, he wins."

  “Daphne…” Rickie’s beautiful face is grave. “I don't like you hanging yourself out there to fix a problem you didn’t create.”

  “I did, though.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not true. Some people are just bad seeds. And it goes against everything I believe to let you walk in there and try to beat him at his own game. What if you can’t? What if he’s willing to do whatever it takes to win?”

  Words fail me for a moment, because he looks so deathly serious. But then I find my voice. “If it feels like too big a risk, I won’t go through with it.”

  He swallows. “Tell me your plan, then. We’re running out of time.”

  “It’s very simple. I swear.”

  I button the blouse, and then I tell him my plan.

  Forty minutes later we're parking the car on the north campus. It's the golden hour, so slanted sunlight infuses all the red brick buildings with a rosy glow. I used to love walking around Harkness. I was so starstruck by this place, founded three hundred years ago. This vaunted institution where presidents, icons, and Supreme Court justices were educated.

  Being starstruck was my Achilles’ heel. I let myself be dazzled by a senator's son with a spray tan and a perfect smile. And then I paid the price.