Heartland

by Sarina Bowen

  I pull up outside the dorm and put the truck in park. Kaitlyn might be in there right now. I could try to find a parking spot and ask her what the heck happened.

  Or I could go home and save myself the fifty bucks it would have cost to take her out to dinner.

  “Are you okay?” Chastity asks again.

  That snaps me out of my own gloomy thoughts. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Good work this weekend, Chass. See you Wednesday for Algebra? I promise I won’t leave you at the library again.”

  “Okay,” she says softly. “It’s a plan. I’m sorry about…” She looks wildly uncomfortable.

  “Not your problem,” I grumble. “Be well. Take good notes in algebra.”

  “Will do.” I get a flash of a smile as she climbs out of the truck.

  And then? I turn the truck around and navigate back to Rickie’s gingerbread house on Spruce Street. For the first time in my life, I’m living in a place where the neighbors’ houses are visible from the window, and I can walk all the places I need to go.

  Don’t tell my family, but I kind of love it.

  I park my truck in the driveway. Rickie owns the house outright—he doesn’t even have a mortgage. My rent money goes to taxes and utilities. He told me he bought the house with cash from a legal settlement, but he won’t say why he was owed this windfall.

  That’s fine with me. Rickie can have his secrets. For modest monthly rent, I get one of the semi-dilapidated house’s second-story bedrooms to myself, plus a place to park my truck. And Rickie is interesting company. That’s probably the best part.

  When I walk in through the back door, he’s sitting at the kitchen table in a silk bathrobe. His ever-present teacup is in one hand, and his other holds a volume by Goethe. In German. He lifts his big eyes, peering at me from beneath his mop of hair. Rickie has the good looks of a European model who doesn’t take good care of himself.

  “Sorry, dude,” he says. “You know I’m not her biggest fan, but I thought you should know.”

  “Of course I should know.” Jesus. I don’t need people to tiptoe around me. I’m not fragile like that.

  I carry my duffel bag over to the counter and pull out some food that my mother sent home with me. Frozen chili and a ham casserole. She thinks I eat junk in Burlington.

  She’s right.

  “Sit a minute,” Rickie says after I close the freezer.

  I hesitate. I shouldn’t stew over Kaitlyn. I should run upstairs and write my econ paper.

  But I pull out the chair opposite him anyway. Even though sitting “a minute” with Rickie often involves starting a seemingly trivial conversation and then glancing at the clock on the oven to find that it’s four a.m.

  The chair creaks when I sit down, because it’s from 1953. Rickie collects mid-century furniture, but not the fancy stuff. The chair is an ugly metal number with a plastic cushion printed with daisies.

  He carefully marks his place in the book and then closes it. “What are you going to do about her?”

  “I’m going to call her out,” I say immediately. “I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”

  Rickie gives me a sly smile. “You actually could.”

  “No, I can’t. I held up my end of our bargain. I’m never exclusive with anyone. She knows this.”

  “She does,” Rickie agrees. “That’s why she demanded that in the first place.”

  “Just to bend me to her will.”

  “Yes. Now you’re getting it.” He smiles like this is fun. “But you didn’t bend far enough. You deserted her on Friday night, so she punished you on Saturday.”

  And now I feel stabby. So it’s probably a mistake to take out my phone and tap Kaitlin’s number, but I do it anyway.

  She answers immediately. “Hey, you home?”

  “Yep,” I say, quietly seething. “Just sitting here, catching up with Rickie.”

  There’s a silence on her end.

  “Did you see him last night?” I ask. “At the multicultural house?” I don’t even know where that is, come to think of it.

  “I did happen to notice him at one point. Yes.”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “Did you also happen to notice that you were hooking up with a guy who wasn’t me?”

  “Dylan.” She sighs. “I was hoping you’d let this go.”

  “Would you?” I demand. “The only reason we’re exclusive is because you wanted it that way.”

  “Yeah, but it was just a stupid night. I missed you, and I was bored. So I went out looking for trouble.”

  Trouble. It’s a strange choice of words. Although I’m definitely troubled. “Well, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Really? Who did you spend your weekend with? Oh wait—Chastity.”

  Christ, not this again. “I didn’t fool around with Chastity. Do you get that there’s a difference?” My voice squeaks in anger.

  “You want to, though! You can’t keep your eyes off her.”

  “She’s a friend, Kait. I’m not attracted to her. Stop putting words in my mouth just to make yourself feel better about this.”

  “Dylan,” she says softly. “I didn’t even let him fuck me. Let’s not fight.”

  “We won’t have to,” I snap. “We’re finished. I’ll drop your stuff off at the dorm’s front desk tomorrow.”

  I end the call just like that. Because there’s nothing left to say.

  Rickie sets down his teacup and gives me a slow clap. “Well done. Clean break. You know I never liked her.”

  “Yeah, but I did.” I feel like punching Rickie right now. And for what? Cluing me in? None of this is his fault.

  “What did you like about her?” he asks.

  “What does it matter now? This is why I don’t date.”

  He gives me a pitying look. The tea kettle whistles, and I get up to pour myself a cup. “Did you really take the stage at the poetry slam?” I ask suddenly. That would have been fun to watch.

  “Yes and no. I was too stoned to make something up, so I read ‘she being Brand’ by e.e. Cummings. That guy was a fucking genius.”

  “I see what you did there.” We both laugh, because that poem is a thinly veiled description of sex. It was definitely the most shocking thing ever assigned in my high school English class.

  After refilling both our mugs with hot water, I sit back down at the table with a grumpy sigh. “She totally played me. How did I let this happen?”

  “Oh, easy,” Rickie says, blowing on his tea. “But you won’t like hearing it.”

  Rickie is—shocker—majoring in psychology. And not just for fun. It’s his true calling. I don’t always enjoy his analyses of me. But they are rarely wrong.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. How did I walk into this mess?”

  “You and Kaitlyn both need to be the one who’s less in love. For you, it’s just a convenience. You don’t enjoy clingy feelings. But Kaitlyn needs the adoration. The imbalance feeds her. She got tired of being with someone who’s unavailable.”

  “What are you talking about? I spent tons of time with her. Every weeknight.”

  “But you don’t need her, and she knows it.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Be honest—what was the best thing about Kaitlyn.”

  I close my eyes and picture her devilish smile. “She was fun. She had a lot of energy. She liked to party.”

  “On your cock.” He smiles.

  “Well, sure.” Kaitlyn made no secret of her enthusiasm for sex. “But what’s your point? I was good to her. And she treated me like shit.”

  Rickie just shakes his head. “You were good to her, because that’s your default setting. But you didn’t love her.”

  “I’m twenty years old. Not exactly eager to pick out wedding invitations.”

  “No kidding. But yet you can’t admit to yourself that she’s not your type—aside from the sexual compatibility. Which, given the loud rejoicing that frequently came from your bedroom, must have been on point.” He leans back in his chair
, like a grand duke in the palace.

  “So? I shouldn’t feel badly?”

  “Nah.” He grins. “The girl did you a favor. She freed you up to pursue the girl who really is your type.”

  “Sorry?” I don’t think I had enough coffee today to follow this conversation.

  “Chastity.”

  “What about her?”

  “You have a thing for Chastity.”

  “Oh fuck off.”

  He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, the way you’d scold a golden retriever. “You’re not usually so dense.”

  “I’m not dense.”

  “I know. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

  “Do we have any chips?” I ask suddenly. If I have to listen to all Rickie’s theories about me, I might as well not starve.

  “I haven’t been to the store.”

  Shocker. I reach down and unzip the front of my backpack, pulling out half a dozen apples I grabbed out of a bushel basket on my way out today.

  “Ooh, tasty. What are these?”

  “Esopus Spitzenburg.”

  “Gesundheit.” He laughs and grabs an apple. “You are attracted to Chastity, and it drove Kaitlyn bonkers.”

  “Chastity is a lovely girl,” I point out. “But it doesn’t give Kaitlyn a free pass to act like a nutter. Chastity and I are just friends.”

  He rolls his eyes. “We have two young women, both attractive to you. One of them you don’t feel much for, but you’ll bang her into next Tuesday. The other one you care for a great deal, but won’t touch. One wonders why you’re so unhappy.”

  “I wasn’t unhappy!” I practically shout. “Everything was fine until Kaitlyn fucked it up.”

  “Tell me Chastity doesn’t get you hot.”

  “She…” I struggle to figure out how to put it. “She isn’t the kind of girl you can bang into next Tuesday. It doesn’t matter if sometimes that seems like a fun idea.”

  He laughs. “Why not?”

  “She’s…” It isn’t easy to explain. “Innocent. She grew up in this cult…”

  “In Wyoming. I know. Old men porking teenage wives. But that doesn’t make somebody innocent. That makes them unlucky.”

  “But she needs time to adjust,” I point out. “There are so many things she doesn’t know. And she’s a good friend, so I wouldn’t ever go there.” I know I’m not making a whole lot of sense. But she’s Chastity. I feel evil every time I notice her curves, or have the urge to taste her smile. That’s not how friends are supposed to think about each other.

  Rickie shakes his head, like I’m an amusing child. “Eventually, Chastity will learn all the things you don’t want to teach her. She’ll be hanging out in the basement of the multicultural house, and some lacrosse player will sidle up to her. ‘Hey, honey. Love the low-cut top and the innocent smile. Let’s dance. In my bed.”

  Well that’s a horrible image. I might actually choke Rickie if this conversation continues. I grab a second apple, lift my backpack and walk out of the room.

  Eleven

  Chastity

  I avoid Kaitlyn after I get home on Sunday night. Not like it’s hard. She spends her time locked in her room, listening to angry-sounding music.

  But the next evening she disappears for several hours, and I try not to think about why. Maybe Dylan doesn’t care that much that she cheated.

  They’re probably having makeup sex, which Cosmo insists is the best kind.

  Anyway, I’m buried in homework. I thought things would start to feel easier, but the opposite is true. I’m only taking four classes, but the work keeps piling higher. Entire books to read between lectures. Quizzes. Essays.

  It’s hard to just stay afloat.

  Then Wednesday afternoon approaches again. It’s my algebra day with Dylan, but I haven’t heard from my tutor.

  “Did Dylan happen to call?” I ask Kaitlyn when she emerges to use our bathroom. She’s probably left me another so-called note. This one might be penciled onto the bottom of my shoe.

  “No, he didn’t.” She stops right in front of me, her eyes suddenly angry. “And thanks so much for rubbing my face in it, you little bitch.”

  My first reaction is to take a fast step backward. I lived too many years in a house where people slapped faces. Except this isn’t the Paradise Ranch. And that’s crazy talk even for Kaitlyn.

  “What is your problem?” I demand.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know! He dumped me, so thanks for that.”

  “What?” I yelp. “I didn’t even know. And it has nothing to do with me.” But I’ll bet he has his reasons. Like your cheating.

  “You know plenty that you don’t let on,” she says in a deadly whisper. “Maybe Dylan can’t see through you, but I totally can. And—news flash—you’ll never get what you want. He’s never going to look at you the way he looks at me. He doesn’t go for the whole ‘poor girl next door’ vibe that you’re rocking. If he did, you’d already have him. So dream on and enjoy your little math classes. Because he’s never going to be the numerator to your denominator.”

  She stomps away, leaving me blinking. And for once I don’t have any trouble understanding a mathematical concept. Because it’s all too clear that Kaitlyn sees deep inside my hungry little soul.

  I could have avoided that whole conversation, because when I turn the corner to enter the reference section of the library, I spot Dylan in our usual spot. With his elbow on the table, playing with a curl of his hair, he looks deep in thought.

  My heart swells a little as I take him in. His broad shoulders look a little resigned today. And as I approach, he looks up, showing me circles under his eyes.

  “Hey, Chass,” he says. “You’re right on time.” But he doesn’t smile. “Sorry I didn’t call to confirm. But…” He rubs a broad hand across his chin and fails to finish the sentence.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, because I can’t help myself. He doesn’t look okay.

  “Of course,” he says. “It’s just…” Another unfinished sentence.

  I sit down beside him on our padded bench against the wall. I think of this as our spot. But now I realize that’s ridiculous. Kaitlyn was right. I meddled. And for what? Now Dylan is sad.

  “October is not my favorite month,” he says finally. “And that damn bonfire is this weekend.”

  “And the service,” I add quietly. “That’s the part you actually hate, right?”

  He props his chin in his hand. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Anyone would hate it,” I point out. “It’s just sad.”

  “Yeah, I don’t really get the whole ‘celebration of life’ thing. Especially on that day,” he says. “There are three hundred and sixty-four other less awful days for it.”

  “See, that’s one thing the cult got right,” I say. “If you die there, you get one dreary funeral, and then that’s it for you. No party. No annual reminders. There’s no budget for that kind of sentiment.”

  He barks out a laugh. “No kidding? At least they got something right.”

  “How old were you when he died?” I ask. “Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “Fourteen. Freshman year of high school. Right in the middle of soccer season.”

  “Soccer?” I try to picture a fourteen-year-old Dylan in those tall socks they wear. “I didn’t know you played soccer.”

  He shrugs. “I never played again. That was a lost year for me. We were all in shock.”

  “I can imagine,” I say. Although my own father was fifty-nine when I was born, and he rarely said a word to me before he died when I was nine.

  “It was me who found him,” Dylan says quietly.

  “You…” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying. “The day he died?”

  He nods, miserable. “In the tractor shed. I was supposed to be helping him that afternoon, but I came home late. Couldn’t find him. Until I did.”

  “Dylan.” My heart contracts sharply. “I’m so sorry.”

  Again he
shrugs. “Let’s do some algebra, Chass. Do you have the homework assignment?”

  “Um…” I dive into my bag and pull out the algebra book. “Yep. Sorry. One sec,” I babble, pulling out a notebook and a pencil, too.

  And now we’re both sad.

  On Saturday morning, there’s frost on the grass as I hurry toward Dylan’s house on Spruce Street. It’s nine o’clock, and the cemetery service starts at ten thirty. Last night I emailed Dylan to ask if I could ride home with him. I made up some kind of excuse about babysitting for Leah so that she could go to the bonfire tonight.

  But the truth is that Dylan dreads this day, and I want to be there for him. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

  His truck is still in the driveway when I arrive, so I haven’t missed him. The house is quiet, though. Really quiet. I knock, and nobody comes to the door. And when I walk around to the kitchen door, nobody answers my knock there either, and the kitchen light is out.

  I pound on the door again, and eventually I hear footsteps.

  But when the door is yanked open, it’s Rickie standing there with sleep hair, half naked in a silk bathrobe. “Chastity?” he croaks. “I didn’t take you for a mean person.”

  “Sorry to wake you, but Dylan is supposed to leave now. Is he ready?”

  “Uh…” Rickie looks upwards, as if the second floor could be seen through the ceiling. “You know, I think he overslept. I could—”

  I don’t let him finish that sentence. Because Dylan cannot oversleep. Not today. I push past him and march up the stairs.

  “Chastity?” Rickie calls after me. “Slow down, maybe? You might not want to go in there.”

  But I’m already turning the knob on his door. “Dylan?” I prompt as the door swings inward. It’s dark in his room, so it doesn’t sink in right away when I look at the lumpy bed.

  There are two people under that comforter.

  My lungs seize. And I just stand there like an idiot, staring, as Dylan sits up suddenly, the comforter falling away from his bare chest.

  “Chastity,” he rasps. “What is it? Something wrong?”