by Sarina Bowen
I suppose that’s true. I hand Chastity the spoon. “Check it out—the goo is actually getting thicker.”
“Of course it is.” She shoos me toward the door. “Go now while we still need ten more degrees.”
I step outside and answer the second time Kaitlyn calls. “What’s up, baby? Having fun?”
“I love Kahlua!” she shrieks. “I am going to marry it.”
“Are you, now?” I smile into the phone. A drunk Kaitlyn is a fun Kaitlyn. “How’s the poetry?”
“Horrible!” she says with obvious glee. “One guy rhymed flipperless with clitoris.”
“Oh Jesus.” I laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“He was one of the better ones.” She hiccups. And then she spends the next ten minutes recounting the horrors of the poetry slam. “If you come home right now you can hear Rickie try to rhyme. He says he’s gonna rhyme penis with zenith just for funzies.”
“Rickie won’t actually rhyme anything,” I point out. “He’s probably so baked that it will just seem to him like the words go together.”
“I’ll take a video.”
“No need.” I snort. “You’re taking one for the team, here.”
“Come home,” she whines. “Forget the poetry. You can just fuck me in the shower.”
“That is a nice offer,” I say gruffly. “But you know I have to be home for the weekend.”
“I miss you. What are you doing right now?” she demands.
“Helping out in the kitchen.” I don’t tell her which kitchen, because I haven’t told Kaitlyn about Operation Caramel. It’s just an idea at this point, anyway.
“Is she there?” Kaitlyn asks.
“Who?”
I can hear her dismissive sniff through the phone. “Chastity. Be honest. You have a thing for Chastity.”
I laugh. Where did that come from? “Buddy, that’s just the Kahlua talking. I miss you, too.”
“You don’t. Why won’t you just admit it?”
I hold back my groan. “Kaity, honey. Go listen to some bad poetry, and we’ll talk later. I’ll be home on Sunday afternoon.”
“She’s there with you, isn’t she?”
“Nope.” The lie just slips out. Because you can’t win a pointless argument with a drunk girl, and I’m not that interested in trying.
Unfortunately, that’s the exact moment Chastity calls me. “Dylan? It’s getting hot!”
“What’s getting hot?” Kaitlyn yelps. “Are you shitting me right now?”
“Listen,” I grumble. “You already picked a fight with me that I can’t win. There’s no way to prove to you that I wish I was there tonight.”
“Because you don’t wish that!”
“I do so!” Jesus. “And you already know why I have to come home on the weekends. You have a standing invitation to come with me anytime. I invited you about four hours ago, and you turned me down.”
“Your mother hates me.”
“Not true.” There is nobody my mother hates. No one. “Look, I have to go and finish up here so I can milk things before dawn. And then I have to sell apples and do laundry.”
“You’re a good time,” she mumbles.
Fuck, that stings a little. “It was your idea to date a farmer. That’s how it is. Now go have fun.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
“Dyl?” Chastity calls.
I dart inside. “Sorry. Shit.” Chastity is holding the giant pot off the stove, trying to keep the temperature from rising any further.
“Steady that buttered pan?”
“Sure. Got it. I hope I didn’t fuck up the batch.” She’s been stirring it forever. I slap the buttered pan down on the counter and she immediately tips a stream of glossy, molten caramel out onto the surface. The smell is so delicious that I nearly start to drool. “Holy shit. You did it.”
“Of course. I mean, if YouTube can do it.”
I laugh as the smooth, shiny caramel puddles in the pan. “And this will cool into a solid?”
“Some version of a solid. That’s why I’m going to cook the rest of this a little longer. So we can decide how nice and hard we like it.”
There’s a joke about nice and hard things in there somewhere. But I never make sleazy jokes with Chastity. “When can we taste it?” I ask instead.
“Tomorrow,” she says, crushing my dreams. “Both batches have to spend a night in the refrigerator. I’ll cut them into pieces tomorrow morning and bring you some.”
“This really is going to work, isn’t it?” I realize suddenly. “We could use up a lot of goat’s milk this way. I mean, what kind of freak wouldn’t want a caramel that we made?” The scent of caramel is turning me into an optimist. Who knew?
She sets the pot on the burner again, and I grab the spoon and start stirring immediately. “This will only take a couple more minutes, right? Eat your chicken.”
“Watch the thermometer, would you? Keep it off the bottom of the pan.”
“Yes, oh great and wise candymaker.”
She gives me a smile that warms my cold little heart. “I might need a business card that says that.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Caramel will always be my favorite. Do you know why?”
I shake my head.
“We didn’t have candy at the Paradise Ranch.”
“Like, none?” She doesn’t talk about that place very often. Neither does Zach, our farmhand, or Leah or Isaac.
“No candy at all. We didn’t celebrate holidays, either. But when I was seventeen years old, I got that job at the Walgreens in town.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
Girls weren’t supposed to have jobs at Paradise Ranch, but she was a special case, because she’d been compromised by kissing Zach. As if that makes any sense at all. The place where Chastity and Zach grew up was seriously fucked.
“Mostly I worked the cash register at the drugstore,” she says.
“See? I knew you were quick with numbers.”
She dismisses that idea with a wave of her hand. “Pay attention. So there I am standing in the den of iniquity—Walgreens—and for the first time I’m surrounded by all this stuff I’ve never seen before. Pantyhose. Deodorant. Snickers. Coke. But I don’t have any money. So I sell to strangers all day and just wonder what it’s like to buy those things.”
“You didn’t get paid?”
“My check went straight to my stepfather. I didn’t even have a way to cash it if I’d dared. But I loved the job anyway. Any idiot can scan barcodes and make change. And I was out in the world, eavesdropping on conversations and listening to pop music on the sound system. I wasn’t getting slapped around by my stepfather’s wives or ironing his shirts.”
Christ. That’s a pretty low standard for fun.
“Then, maybe two weeks after I started working there, a kid plunges a Halloween-costume saber into a bag of Rolos. His mom was so mad. She paid for the candy but wouldn’t take it, because she didn’t want to reward his behavior.”
“So you ate Rolos?”
“So. Many. Rolos.” She grins. “I had no self-control. The manager lady thought I was hilarious. She was really nice—Mrs. Cates. The only reason I was finally able to run away was because of her.”
“Really?” I park my butt against the counter because I’ve never heard this part of the story before.
“She was scandalized by the way I had no control over my life. Everyone who works at Walgreens for six months gets a raise, and she paid me the extra money on a Visa gift card. She wanted me to have the money.”
“That’s some sneaky shit right there.”
Chastity’s pretty smile widens. “Do you know how hard it is to hide Visa gift cards in a house where eleven people live, and nobody has locks on their doors? Nowhere is safe. Not the mattress. Not the underwear drawer. I kept them in the potato cellar under a bucket of pickling salt.”
“Oh, please. Daphne learned how to pick the lock on my bedroom door when she was eight years old. Al
l it takes is sliding a credit card into the door jamb. Seriously—when you have a twin sister, you’re literally tempted to hide things in your ass crack.”
“Gross, Dylan!”
We both laugh.
I check the thermometer again. “Time to pour. We’re spiking over two-fifty.”
Chastity turns off the burner. I line up the buttered pan, my mouth watering. “Can I at least lick the spoon when we’re done?”
“Nope. You’re only going to taste the finished product. So you can get the full effect.”
I let out a sad little moan as she moves the sweet-smelling pot past my nose. “Are we equal partners in this venture or not?”
“Sure, but you’re the one who doubted it would work.”
“I was wrong. Very, very wrong.”
“Heat and patience, Dylan. That’s all it takes. So show me some patience.”
She pours the caramel while I try not to look down her shirt. The swells of her breasts are right there, damn it.
But it doesn’t mean I have a “thing” for Chastity. We’re good friends. And I can’t help that I have eyes.
“Find the sea salt?” Chastity suggests. “The first batch needs some love.”
Don’t we all.
I reach for the salt.
Nine
Chastity
I wake up at dawn in my little bed upstairs in Leah and Isaac’s home. I’m wired to wake up early and not because this is a dairy farm. On the Paradise Ranch, sleeping in was the easiest way to earn a punishment. It meant a smack from my stepfather’s paddle or going hungry at lunch.
Old habits die hard. And not just for me. When I walk into Leah’s kitchen at six thirty a.m., she and Isaac and little Maeve are already there, too. Leah and Isaac are standing side by side at the kitchen counter, drinking tea, while Maeve—their preschooler—sits at their feet chattering to her dolls.
Leah and Isaac are the only couple I know of who ran away from Paradise Ranch together. Leah’s father wanted to marry her off to a fifty-five-year-old man with three wives, and Isaac was so in love with her at seventeen that he couldn’t let that happen.
So they left, picking fruit across the Midwest until arriving in Vermont, where they found year-round work. It took them years to save up enough to buy their little farm. But they did it.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a partner so devoted to you that he’d risk everything to give you a normal life and to be your one and only.
Most of us have to save ourselves. There’s honor in that, too. Except it’s lonely. Even now, I feel like an interloper as I wish them good morning.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Leah says. “I have a frittata in the oven. Should only be a few more minutes.”
“That sounds great.” Leah is a fabulous cook. So is Isaac. When I first arrived in Vermont I was so malnourished that I weighed less than a hundred pounds. I am grateful for every meal I’ve eaten at their table.
But I’m also conscious of the fact that I can’t sponge off them forever. They aren’t my parents. It was by design that they made themselves discoverable to runaways from Paradise. When I turned up, they were ready to receive me.
That was two years ago, though. So when Leah discovered I could get a hardship scholarship at Moo U, I jumped at it.
I go to the silverware drawer and pull out forks for everyone. I’m setting the table when Maeve decides that she needs my attention. “Lemme show you my fort,” she says, tugging on my hand.
“Okay, awesome.” I let her drag me into the laundry room where she’s draped an old set of curtains off a countertop to make a hiding place beneath.
“There’s a lantern!” she says. “Lemme turn it on.”
Childcare has been one of the only ways I can really help Leah. So whenever Maeve wants my attention, I’m willing to sit cross-legged on the floor in her latest hiding place, while she chatters to me about hiding from dragons and making pies to sell at the market.
Someone runs on quick feet past us, and I expect to be called to breakfast. But that’s not what happens. The bathroom door is flung open and there’s the sound of someone vomiting.
“Oh, heck,” I whisper.
“Mama,” Maeve says solemnly.
“Poor Mama.” And poor me, I add privately. I shouldn’t have come home this weekend. I can’t afford to get the flu. I still get sick more often than most people, because I grew up in an isolated community without the same germs that other people learn to fight off.
“Mama gets sick every morning,” Maeve says. “And sometimes at night.”
“Oh no!” That’s when it clicks. Leah is pregnant again.
“Oh yes,” Leah says with a sigh from a few yards away.
“Wow.” I push the curtain aside and climb to my feet.
“You okay, honey?” Isaac calls.
“I will be,” she says as the toilet flushes. “A few months from now.”
Isaac winks at me as I reenter the kitchen. “We’re pretty excited, but Maeve doesn’t know,” he whispers under his breath.
“When?” I mouth.
“May,” he says quietly.
The oven timer dings. “Will Leah eat breakfast?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Whether she keeps it down is an open question.”
When Leah emerges from the bathroom, Isaac wraps her into a hug. My throat feels a little tight, and I have to swallow hard. They deserve this happiness.
I suppose we all do.
By eight, I’m at the Shipley farm up the road. That’s the thing about farmers—you can visit as early as you want, and nobody thinks it’s weird.
And I know just where to find Dylan. When I step into the dairy barn, I spot him kneeling on the floor, having a chat with Jacquie the goat.
“Look,” he murmurs. “I need a favor. And I wouldn’t ask, but it’s kind of important.”
Jacquie turns her pointy chin in his direction, ears flopping, and assesses him with her odd brown eyes. Goats have a strange rectangular pupil. And—unlike me—Jacquie seems unmoved by Dylan’s handsome face. She returns her attention back to the alfalfa he’s left for her in the feed holder.
“No, really,” he argues, his big hand rhythmically squeezing her udder, releasing the last few drops of milk into a shiny stainless pail. “You have to do a better job of staying inside the fence, or Griffin is going to make me sell you. Nobody wants that. You might end up down the road at the Mittson place. And I heard there are trolls under their bridge.”
Jacquie snorts, and I nearly do, too. I know that eavesdropping is rude, but he’s so cute that I stand there a moment longer.
With the kind of smooth movement that’s meant to keep an animal calm, Dylan covers the milk pail and then lifts Jacquie’s foot off the floor. She’s still munching away as he lifts the trimming shears and quickly snips the front edge of her overgrown hoof.
“That’s a girl,” he whispers. “You should be so lucky to get a pedicure this early on a Saturday. Other goats would be jealous.”
She turns her head, considering the idea.
“Big plans for your Saturday?” he asks her. “A little foraging, and climbing on tires? Some gossip with Jill, maybe? Stay in the fence, okay? There will be lots of kids here picking apples today. Loud ones, the kind who pull on ears.”
I finally clear my throat, and both Jacquie and Dylan whip around to spot me. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say. And I chuckle because I can’t help myself.
“Hi,” he says, flashing me the kind of smile that makes me feel melty inside. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to worry about trolls down the road,” I admit. “Which bridge should I avoid?”
“They don’t eat humans,” he says, going back to Jacquie’s hooves. “Only naughty goats. How come you’re up so early?”
“I’m always up this early. I already had breakfast, and I’m ready to sell apples. I’ll drive the pony cart if you want.”
He looks up in surprise. �
�Really? I hate that job.”
I know that, silly. “I don’t mind helping out.”
“You’re the best.” Dylan stands up and wipes his hands on a rag. “How come you don’t mind driving horses, but it makes you nervous to drive my truck? The horses are a lot more work.”
“Oh, please. The horses have the good sense not to crash into trees. The truck cannot be trusted.”
Dylan laughs. Then he points at my hand. “What do you have there? Is it finally time?”
“Oh, yup!” I was so busy admiring his broad shoulders that I forgot I was holding a generous box of our caramels. “I haven’t tasted them, either. I waited for you.” I lift the lid off the plastic container and show Dylan the arrangement of perfectly rectangular caramels inside. “I cut them up, and it wasn’t too tricky. And, look—the sea salt is adhering without melting. Doesn’t this look great?” I offer him the container.
“Dude, yes.” He lifts a hand and then hesitates. “I’m all goaty. Feed me one.”
“Sure. This one is from the first batch. So it’s a little soft. Ready?”
He opens his mouth and leans down a little.
And because I’m me, and I’m hyperaware of Dylan, I notice every little thing about this moment. When I slip a caramel past his lips, I feel his breath on my hand and the brush of his whiskers against my thumb. It gives me a shiver.
“Mmm,” he says huskily, his eyes lighting up. We’re standing so close together that I could trace his smile with my fingertips.
Instead, I pick up another caramel and slip it into my mouth. And—wow. It’s nothing like a drugstore candy. A toastier, nuttier sweetness spreads across my tongue.
Dylan lets out an honest-to-God moan, and goosebumps rise on my back. “Damn! That is intense.”
“No kidding.” We end up smiling at each other again.
He licks his lips, and I instantly wonder what it would feel like if he licked mine. “Do I get to taste the second batch?”
“Of course.” I pluck one of those out of the container, and Dylan swoops in, playfully capturing it before I’m ready, along with my fingertips, too. I let out a squeak of surprise at the brief sensation of his tongue on my skin.
