Heartland

by Sarina Bowen

  Is something wrong. Why yes, there is.

  “It’s Saturday,” I yelp. “The service starts in less than ninety minutes.”

  “What service?” says someone else.

  And I swear the girl’s voice makes Dylan jump a foot. “Jesus Christ.” He reaches over and snaps on the lamp. Apparently that doesn’t make things better, because he peers at the person lying beside him. And then he puts both his hands in front of his eyes. “What the hell did I do last night?”

  “Here’s a clue,” the girl’s voice snaps. “You didn’t do me. I thought you were going to be a good time, but then you passed out instead.” She slides out of his bed, her hair a fright. She’s wearing tiny little panties, but at least the top half of her is covered in a bright pink T-shirt.

  “Sorry,” Dylan mumbles into his palms.

  “What. Ever.” She plucks a pair of faded jeans off the floor and hops into them. “I heard you were fun, but I guess I heard wrong.”

  “Depends who you ask.” He lifts the comforter but then drops it again quickly. “Whoops. No pants.”

  “False advertising,” his guest says, stepping into her shoes. “At least the drinks were tasty. And your friend downstairs has good taste in music. If not roommates.”

  “Urgh,” Dylan says. “I feel disgusting. I need a shower.”

  “You have five minutes,” I growl, embarrassed enough for all of us.

  “Okay. Yeah.” He sighs.

  And the worst part? Even though I’m so mad right now—no, I’m crushed that he found a stranger to (almost) take to bed, and he’s a freaking wreck, with messy hair and probably crusty eyes and bad breath—I still ache for him.

  He’s so beautiful to me that it hurts to look at him.

  So I don’t. I turn around and get the heck out of there.

  Twelve

  Dylan

  When I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen, I think I’m dying. If not of my hangover, then I’m dying of embarrassment.

  Chastity’s face is a storm cloud when she whirls around to face me. “I made coffee.”

  My stomach lurches at the thought of coffee.

  “And…” She opens the door to the microwave. There’s a bag of popcorn in there, all popped and ready to go.

  The smell of carbs and fake butter wafts across the kitchen. “I could kiss you right now,” I say, and then think better of it. “Not that you’d want to kiss an asshole like me.”

  She turns away, sparing me the look of revulsion that’s probably on her face. “Can you drive?” she asks in a clipped voice.

  “Yeah.” I don’t feel drunk, just gruesome. I grab the popcorn bag and open the top, letting the steam out. Then I pour it into one of Rickie’s plastic mixing bowls. “I need—”

  Chastity is already ripping paper towels off the roll, anticipating my every need. “I also made you a water bottle. Do you have a travel mug for the coffee?” She spots it even before she finishes the sentence. “Get your violin, Dylan. We have to get out of here.”

  Moments later, I allow myself to be herded toward the door. The fiddle goes on the back seat, and Chastity arranges various beverages in the cup holders while I warm up the engine and shove popcorn into my mouth. My wet hair is dripping on my collar, but at least I’m clean and combed.

  We don't speak for the first few miles. I feel squinty and half asleep. And so, so embarrassed. That girl in my bed? I don't remember her name. That's a new low for me. I like to party, and I like my hookups. But I’m not that big of an asshole—the kind who doesn’t bother with names.

  If Chastity hadn’t been standing there, I would have apologized profusely to Pink Panties for my failure to put out. But I couldn’t take the chance that she’d lash out with any more of last night’s details.

  The last thing I remember was Pink Panties leaning over me in bed, taking my cock into her mouth.

  At that, I let out a groan. Because I can't believe I fell asleep in the middle of a perfectly good blowjob. What kind of loser does that?

  “Do you feel sick?” Chastity asks me quietly.

  “No, just embarrassed.”

  She's quiet for a second, and I imagine her judging me. But then I feel a tremor of laughter coming from the other side of the bench seat. She actually giggles and claps a hand over her mouth.

  “What's so funny?” I ask as I accelerate past a hay truck.

  “You,” she gasps. “You actually jumped.”

  “What? Jumped where?”

  “When I woke you up? And the girl started speaking? You startled like Jacquie when she sees a squirrel.”

  “Oh, hell no, I did not,” I lie. Because goats are particularly funny when they’re startled. And I'm a vain motherfucker sometimes.

  “You totally did,” she laughs. “Should we call her and ask her?”

  “Oh, stop,” I say, and I find myself smiling for the first time in days. I take a handful of popcorn from the bowl between us. “So I might have forgotten she was over there. Don’t rub it in, okay? My reputation is probably gonna take a hit as it is.”

  “Poor baby,” Chastity hiccups. “The long line of girls waiting for a turn in your bed is going to be whittled down to a manageable number.”

  I laugh, but the comment startles me. Chastity doesn't usually go there. She doesn't talk about my sexual exploits, although I shouldn’t be too surprised that she’s noticed them.

  And she's still good to me anyway. She doesn’t judge. “You’re a good friend, Chass. Seriously. Thank you for dragging my ass out this morning, so I don’t miss this thing I totally dread but shouldn’t blow off.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says a little stiffly.

  That’s when I remember something. “Hey, is my coat within reach on the seat?”

  She glances over her shoulder. “Sure, why?”

  “There's something for you in the pocket. The left side.”

  “For me?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. It's just a little thing. Grab it, okay?” I need to leave my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. My head is still a little foggy, and I won’t take chances with Chastity’s safety.

  God knows I’m willing to fuck up my own life from time to time. But not hers. She’s had enough trouble with idiots already.

  She unclips her seatbelt and stretches back between the headrests to grab my wool coat. I glance to my right to check her progress, and I can’t help but notice the smooth skin of her belly where her sweater has ridden up and the way her hips are framed by her jeans.

  And, yup, I may be sober now, but I'm still an asshole. Because friends do not stare at friends’ stomachs, wondering if their skin is as soft as it looks.

  Luckily, Chastity quickly flops back into her seat, holding the dainty little brown box in the center of her hand. “It’s adorable. And it smells like chocolate.”

  “Put your seatbelt back on?” I prompt. “And then open it. Maybe it’s a little early in the day for treats, but…”

  “It's never too early in the day for treats!” she says, clipping her seatbelt and then pulling the ribbon on the little box. “Oh, wow. These are adorable. Great presentation.”

  “Show me.” She holds the box closer to me, and I take a quick look. There are four little chocolates inside, anchored in individual paper cups. “Nice. I spotted them in the bookstore. It’s toffee from a candymaker in Bennington. It’s a treat, but it’s also market research.”

  “Thank you,” she says softly. Then she picks up a chocolate and studies it before taking a bite. “Umm! Wow.” She lets out a little moan. “These are magic.”

  “Better than Rolos?” I ask.

  “They’re so good. You have to have one.”

  “But they’re for you.” I definitely have a thing for feeding her. I saw those little boxes on the counter and knew they were something she’d never buy for herself.

  “Market research, Dyl. Here.”

  She reaches up and slips one into my mouth. Soft fingertips graze my
lower lip. The chocolate begins to melt on my tongue, and then I bite down. The toffee breaks immediately, with a nice crunch.

  “Wow.”

  “Right?” She closes the box. “I’m saving the other two for when we need a lift. Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

  “Of course you can. You can have the whole thing, Chass. My coffee is your coffee.” And my stomach can’t handle it right now. Even the chocolate was a risk.

  I step on the accelerator and push on toward the cemetery in Colebury, where my father is buried. Thanks to Chastity, I can almost make it on time.

  That will have to be good enough.

  I dread this day all year long, and yet it feels even worse than I even expected. Standing here in the carefully snipped grass, gazing down at the new chrysanthemums decorating dad’s grave? It never gets easier. Six times we’ve done this. No—seven if we’re counting the funeral.

  My memories of the funeral are hazy. I remember the crowds of people standing around and all the hugs I was made to withstand. An itchy tag in the collar of my shirt. And the feeling that nothing would ever be right again.

  The worst part about this ritual is my mom’s tears. I can’t handle them.

  I mean—I do it anyway, standing here with a locked jaw as Father Peters says nice things about Dad. But I can’t concentrate, because the sound of her crying is like a knife through my chest.

  It’s my fault, too. My father died alone, because I wasn’t home where I was supposed to be.

  “Dylan,” Chastity whispers. A soft hand brushes mine.

  I snap out of my daze to the realization that I’m supposed to play the fiddle now. It’s tucked under my arm, forgotten.

  Quickly, I lift it to my shoulder. Everyone is looking my way. There’s Griffin, standing with Audrey and their baby boy. May and her boyfriend, Alec. Isaac and Leah are here. Even my twin sister made the trek home for the weekend from Harkness College.

  They’re all expecting “St. Anne’s Reel,” the fiddle tune my father taught me when I was nine. It was our song. He worked out a harmony part, and we played it so many times that it’s part of my soul now.

  It took me a year to touch my violin after he died. And I still can’t play our favorite songs.

  Playing “St. Anne’s Reel” right now would be like slicing open my chest with Griffin’s pruning knife and carving out my heart in front of the whole family. So even though my bow lands on the A string, I start playing something else—a slower fiddle song called Planxty Irwin. It’s a perfectly good song, but not one that I ever played with Dad.

  I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I just play the tune and let them wonder. They can think whatever they want to think. Every time I touch the fiddle I bleed a little inside.

  Today the wound is a gusher. I grip the bow a little too tightly and play on, wishing I was somewhere else.

  Thirteen

  Chastity

  There’s nothing like a Shipley bonfire. Beforehand, Griffin stacks the wood in a giant metal trough that was once used for watering cattle. It makes a bright, oblong fire, with plenty of access for marshmallow roasting.

  He lights it at sunset, when the yellow flames will stand out against the darkening sky. There are a series of logs and stumps ringing the fire, as well as a smattering of chairs and a bench or two.

  The scent of woodsmoke fills the air, while Ruth Shipley and her other children set up a buffet table a little ways off.

  And that table is stacked with food. I’m waiting in line with Leah, plate in my hand. Even from this distance I can see pulled pork and brisket sliders (a word I’d never heard until my first Shipley bonfire.) There are twice-baked potatoes. And coleslaw and cornbread and macaroni and cheese with bread crumbs toasted on top. And pickles and olives and carrot sticks and peppers with a creamy dip.

  There’s a carved ham, too. And if Audrey’s feeling frisky, there might be spicy Indian lentils over cumin-scented rice, or fried pumpkin fritters.

  Later will come the apple pies. Ruth’s will have cranberry in them. Leah’s have a crumb topping. I love them both so much that it’s hard to choose. I might need a small slice of each one.

  “Looks pretty great, doesn’t it?” Leah asks, reading my mind.

  “It looks amazing.” And I mean that literally. The casual abundance is shocking to me. “Do you still have food dreams?” I ask her.

  She turns to squint at me. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Oh.” Now I feel ridiculous. “At the compound I used to dream about food. And it looked sort of like this—a table heaped with good things. I still have those dreams once in a while.”

  And, hey, there’s a nice essay topic for composition class. I’m mining all my lowest moments for that class. I hope my crappy childhood is worth an A.

  Leah puts an arm around my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I was hungry. Isaac used to sneak me extra food, anyway. I didn’t have the same experience. And anyway, these days my big concern is keeping it down.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah.” She laughs. “Enough about me. How are your classes? Is Dylan still helping with the math?”

  “He is,” I tell her as my gaze flits toward him on the other side of the bonfire, where he stands with Isaac and Keith, his friend from high school and Burlington housemate. They’re all holding instruments. Isaac plays the banjo, and Keith plays the guitar.

  “What about the rest of your classes? How are they going?”

  “It’s… going,” I say carefully. And this isn’t what I really want to spend my Saturday night discussing.

  “Do you need more help?” she worries. “You could ask the Dean for some official tutoring support.”

  “Maybe,” I stall. “But that would take up time. And I’m already pressed for time. There’s so much homework and so many pages of reading.”

  Dylan lifts his fiddle to his chin, and I’m saved from further conversation as Isaac begins to pluck at his banjo. The three of them launch into a fast, raucous tune. A party song.

  Leah and I reach the front of the line, and I fill my plate to the sound of Dylan’s playing and the crackle of the big fire. I load it up, taking care not to forget a napkin or a fork.

  All the seats around the fire are already taken, but I don't mind standing so long as I can hear the music.

  Dylan looks happier now. This isn’t the grim Dylan who played beside his father's grave earlier today. He looks loose and cheerful. It may have something to do with the weed I smelled earlier, wafting from the backside of the cider house. Or the beer in the keg that Keith hid in the blackberry bushes by the chicken coop.

  Everyone is watching them play, including a row of local girls seated on a long log by the fire. They all have plates on their knees and adoring smiles on their faces. The swarm is how I’m used to thinking of them.

  I still feel guilty for contributing to his blowup with Kaitlyn. Then again, there are always more Kaitlyns. They’re drawn to him like the moths that are already flitting too near the bonfire.

  Dylan and his merry crew bring a song to a raucous conclusion. Isaac lets out a whoop when it's over, his dark eyes sparkling over his bushy beard.

  “More!” hollers one of the girls on the log.

  “Time for eats,” Keith says. “But maybe later, hot stuff.”

  “Why don't you two play gigs in Burlington?” asks Debbie.

  She’s the girl who used to show up most frequently in the passenger seat of Dylan’s truck. And the backseat, too, according to the whispered gossip I used to hear.

  “You could make a pile of easy cash,” she says. “Anyone would hire you guys for their wedding entertainment.”

  This had never occurred to me, but now I realize she's absolutely right. Dylan doesn't need to make caramels. He could be making piles of money just playing that fiddle.

  “Are you kidding?” Dylan yelps. “First of all, you have to hustle for every job, because wedding customers don’t repeat. And then you're resp
onsible for the most important day in someone’s whole—” He checks his language. “—flipping life? Does that sound like a good job to you?”

  “I would if I could play like you,” Debbie insists.

  “Nah,” says Daphne Shipley. “That's too many details for Dylan. Too much responsibility.”

  Dylan shrugs like his sister’s comment doesn't bother him. But I wonder if it does. He tucks his fiddle under his arm and follows Keith toward the food table.

  “Dude, Debbie is right,” Keith says. “What if I got us a gig or two? Please?”

  “Sure, man,” Dylan says absently. “Just not weddings.”

  “Dylan is allergic to weddings!” Debbie calls out, and all the other girls laugh.

  It takes a long time for Griffin’s fire to burn down to coals.

  The party rolls on, although the partygoers are spread out. There are lights on in the cider house, where Zachariah has poured some samples and where Griffin cons some of his friends into taking a turn at the presses. I can hear the crank of the apple-washing machine from here.

  In a little while, they’ll come out and light some fireworks in honor of Mr. Shipley.

  Meanwhile, I have a marshmallow on the end of a stick, and I’m toasting it slowly. I like them brown but not blackened, and it takes a while.

  It also happens that this spot is conducive to some excellent eavesdropping. I’ve learned that Debbie hates her job at the hair salon and is reconsidering her decision to go to beauty school next year. And that she’s so over Billie Eilish, whoever that is.

  “So, did you hear about Dylan?” one of the girls asks. “He broke up with that piranha he was dating.”

  I feign great interest in my marshmallow and move a half step closer.

  “Yep. I did hear that,” Debbie says. “Supposedly she cheated on him. As if that makes any sense.”

  “I know, right?” her friend says with a laugh. “Maybe he cheated first?”

  ”That boy has a short, little attention span,” Debbie mutters.