by Sarina Bowen
“True story. But he stayed interested in you for a while. Are you going to hit tonight? One last fun time?”
“Who says it would be the last time?” Debbie smirks. “That boy will be single forever. Nobody is surprised that the girlfriend lasted a hot second.”
The other girls snicker.
“There won’t be any fun with Dylan for me tonight, though,” she says. “I have to get the car back before my brother gets home and sees that it’s gone. But you guys gave me an evil idea.”
“Really? How evil?”
She slowly removes a perfectly toasted marshmallow from her stick and then smiles. “I'm out of here. But just watch, because Dylan's gonna disappear for a while and then come back looking…less satisfied than he expected.”
The girls let out a hoot. “Bitch!”
“Burn!”
“It’s just payback,” she insists. “The boy turned me down last month because of what’s-her-name—the cheater. Now he’ll realize that was a mistake.”
Leaving her friends to giggle and gossip, she carries the perfect marshmallow over to where Dylan and Keith are seated on a log. She leans over Dylan and says something I can’t hear.
As I watch, he opens his mouth, and she tucks that marshmallow inside. He chews, and I’m not imagining the sloppy smile on his face. Debbie leans over and whispers something in his ear. She cups his chin, giving it a stroke, and then abruptly stands up and walks away, her walk all hips and a hair toss, too.
“Oh, this could be good,” her friend says beside me.
Debbie leaves the fire pit, stopping to chat a moment with another acquaintance. But then? She moseys past the cider house. I lose her in the shadows for a moment, but catch the sheen of her hair again as she heads for the bunkhouse, which is quiet and dark tonight.
She doesn’t go inside. She walks around to the back, instead. A few moments later, she emerges on the far side. She walks quickly toward the long row of cars in the Shipley driveway, ducking onto the far side of them. Then she hoofs it down the drive, maybe toward her own car somewhere out on the road.
And that's it. She doesn't return.
I keep my eye on Dylan after that. He has glassy eyes and a wobbly smile, thanks to the flask he and Keith have been passing back and forth.
A moment later he checks his watch, subtly. But it’s enough to make the girls cackle.
I pluck my marshmallow off the stick and eat it. I clean off the stick and prop it up against the empty food table. But all the time I’m watching Dylan.
After a few more minutes, he stands up, placing a hand on Keith’s head, saying… I have no idea what he might be saying. Goodnight. Or, I have to check on something. Or, I’ll be back in twenty after Debbie blows me. I don’t know how casual sex works.
Either way, he stands up. Casually, he plucks a few empty cups off the ground and carries them over to a recycling bin his mother thoughtfully left nearby. Then he walks—his hands in his pockets—slowly toward the bunkhouse.
I can tell even from this distance that he’s been drinking. He doesn’t stagger. Just the opposite—he’s taking too much care with his gait.
Retracing Debbie’s steps, he steers around the bunkhouse, heading for the dark place behind it, where there’s just a strip of grass before the tree line closes in.
Dylan does not emerge a minute later on the other side. He’s disappeared.
And now the girls on the log are doubled over in laughter. “How long do you think he'll wait?”
My face heats up in sympathetic embarrassment. I don’t believe this. These girls count themselves as Dylan’s friends? Is that how friends behave? They enjoy your hospitality and then laugh behind your back? My pulse pounds in my throat.
Somebody's got to tell him, and I guess that somebody is me. So I stand up slowly, slipping away from the fire. I’m used to being invisible, and nobody is watching me as I become the third person to walk toward the forest’s edge. I take a different route through the shadows of the cider house, out of sight from those girls.
I cut across the pitch-black lawn toward the back of the bunkhouse. It's really dark back here, and I feel a little skittish sneaking around near the tree line. Some horror movies begin like this.
At first I can't guess where Dylan might be waiting, but then I notice that the door to the outdoor shower is ajar. And as my eyes grow more accustomed to the dim light, I spot Dylan's Chuck Taylors under the saloon-style wall. He’s whistling softly, a stray melody from one of the fiddle tunes he played earlier.
The sound is so very Dylan. It’s patient, maybe a little lazy, but still cheerful and fun. Suddenly, there's nothing creepy about this moment. I pace toward the open door where the grass gives way to a bed of pebbles.
The crunch of those pebbles announces my presence. I'm just about to say something when the whistling breaks off. Two hands reach from the open door, seize my hips, and pull me inside. I let out a gasp of surprise as my back hits the wooden planks. Then Dylan’s mouth descends toward my open one.
Oh! My gaze locks with his.
His eyes widen immediately, but it’s too late. The kiss is like jumping off the Quechee bridge into the river. Once your feet leave the edge, you’re going into the water whether you’ve come to your senses or not.
And so we jump. Together.
Dylan’s firm lips collide sweetly with mine. I taste toasted marshmallows and whiskey as our breath mingles. My reaction is swift and fierce; my hands grip his shirt, and my tongue melts against his.
He makes an eager grunt, and I feel it rumble through my chest. His lips press and kiss, and then they do it again.
Dylan Shipley is kissing me. Really kissing me. His tongue strokes mine, and his body presses me against the wall.
My knees are Jell-O, and I don’t ever need to breathe again. I’ll just stay right here, thanks, while Dylan takes second and third helpings of my eager mouth.
Everything is total bliss for at least thirty seconds, until a loud pop startles us both.
Dylan jerks back, as if it were the firing squad coming for him. A half-second later, I recognize the sound as the first firework splitting the night sky. But the damage is done. Dylan takes a staggered step backward, chest heaving. He lifts the back of his hand to his mouth, as if sealing it off.
“Sorry,” I say as a reflex. And then I immediately want to kick myself. Because I am so not sorry.
“No!” he stammers. “I…” He takes another step back. And another firework pops into the sky. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was—” He drops his hand and stares at me. “I thought Debbie was coming back here.” Even as those awful words fall out of his mouth, he flinches. “I’m really drunk right now. Really. A lot. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” I croak, my heart breaking. “Don’t worry about it. I came back here to tell you that Debbie wasn’t coming. She went home.”
“Really?” He reaches out a hand, finding the stone wall of the bunkhouse. He leans against it, as if propping himself up. “She punked me? I shoulda seen that coming.” Then he drops his heavy head and laughs. “Fuck me. I’m such a wreck.”
I would happily fuck you, I think as another firework explodes. Dylan looks up at the sky. “Hey, Dad! We’re lighting a bunch of shit on fire for you! How about that? I’m sorry I wasn’t in the goddamn tractor shed when I said I would be. But have some fireworks instead.”
“Dylan,” I gasp.
“What? I can’t tell the truth? On the day he died, he wanted my help taking a tire off the tractor. I didn’t show up. Then he died.”
“It’s just a tire,” I say. “He would have forgiven you.”
He leans heavily against the stone wall, his chin tilted up toward the night sky. “You know how much a tractor tire weighs? Four hundred pounds. He wrestled it off himself. Somehow he got it off and leaned it against the wall. And then he had a massive, fatal heart attack on the ground next to it.”
My next breath is a sob. “Dylan.” I try to sa
y his name, but my voice cracks, and I swallow hard.
“I’m shit company tonight,” he grinds out. “Total shit. I’m sorry.”
And before I can think of what to say, he stomps past me and out into the night. The door wobbles on its hinges after him.
Another firework goes off over my head, and I blink tears from my eyes.
Fourteen
Freshman Composition
Section Four
Title: Heat and Patience
Author: Chastity Campbell
A friend and I have a small business together making goat's milk caramels. A very small business. He has a surplus of goat's milk to use up, and after doing a bit of research I decided that anyone can make caramels.
A few YouTube videos later, I had a recipe I was ready to try.
There’s very little to it. These are the ingredients: goat's milk, sugar, vanilla, heat, and patience. Also stirring. So much stirring.
Stirring constantly, you heat everything to an average temperature of 248 degrees. Then you pour it out onto a buttered pan and chill it overnight. You can add a topping—sea salt or finely chopped nuts. But that's optional.
The only thing you can’t mess up is the temperature. If you heat it to less than 248, your caramels will be too soft to cut into squares. If you heat it too hot, your caramel will cool into something so hard it will pull out your teeth.
But here’s the tricky part—you can’t tell by looking at the caramel if the temperature is right. Precision matters, but the thermometer is your only guide.
It only took us one batch to get it right. That makes us experts in the simple art of caramel making.
But here’s one complication I didn’t anticipate: I'm in love with my business partner. I can't tell him, because he doesn't date, and he says he doesn’t believe in love.
Except sometimes I think he does. I'll catch him looking at me with a funny smile on his face. And I wonder what love looks like if not like standing around in the kitchen on a Friday night, stirring caramel and making silly jokes.
But I don’t say a word. There’s no gauge for this. No rule of thumb. I have plenty of “heat,” and lord knows I have patience. But if I pour my heart out in front of him, it would probably come to nothing.
Fifteen
Dylan
On Sunday morning I wake up with a splitting headache and the knowledge that I’m a goddamn moron.
I can’t believe I kissed Chastity. I mean—it was an honest mistake at first. But then I just went for it. I was drunk and horny and very willing to make bad choices.
Not with her, though. Never with her. She deserves so much more than a wasted guy pushing her up against the wall of an outdoor shower.
I don’t even get a chance to apologize. Leah drives her back to Burlington on Monday morning, because she was heading into the city for a doctor’s appointment.
Wednesday is our algebra day, though. So at least there’s that.
On Wednesday afternoon I’m buying a treat for Chastity at the bookstore—this time it’s a tiny box of two truffles from Lake Champlain Chocolates—when Rickie texts me. Chastity just called the house. She doesn’t need tutoring today.
Wait, what? That’s patently untrue. It’s going to take all we’ve got to get her through this class. That’s not mean; that’s just the truth.
Is she okay? I text back.
She sounded fine, he replies. Coffee shop with me instead?
Sure. Why not.
If I don’t have to coach Chastity in algebra, I might as well have cookies and gossip with Rickie.
The guy at the counter is waiting for me to hand over four dollars for the truffles in their tiny box. I give him the money and zip the box into a pocket of my book bag. I’m going to see Chastity soon, right?
I sure hope so. I hope I haven’t screwed up a really great friendship.
These are my thoughts as I walk to the coffee shop. I pull open the door and scan the room, looking for Rickie. He’s not here yet, and the good velvet sofa is taken by a couple of girls.
My gaze snags on a shiny head of hair bent over something on the coffee table. And I realize that the good velvet sofa has been taken by Chastity, of all people.
She doesn’t look up as I walk past on my way to the coffee line. She’s deep in conversation with another girl. This one is really young-looking, with braces and a girlish smile.
“That’s it!” Chastity’s friend exclaims. “Now reduce that fraction and you’ll have it done.”
I stiffen. They’re doing algebra. Without me.
The coffee line moves forward, and I stew on this while the barista makes change for my ten-dollar bill. I’ve been replaced. That’s what happens when you act like an asshole, I guess.
I don’t like it.
“Hey, little dinosaur. Why the long face?”
Rickie has appeared beside me. I don’t know how I missed him before. He’s wearing studded motorcycle boots, cut-up jeans and a bonkers red velvet jacket over his black T-shirt. “Hey. Nice jacket. But I think you’d clash with the purple velvet couch.”
“We can’t have it anyway.” He snickers, tilting his head towards Chastity. “Your girl is cheating on you.”
“Ouch, man. That’s a theme with me, I guess.”
“I’m kidding. But why would she do that? It makes no fucking sense. Is she still upset about finding that strange girl in your bed? That was kind of ugly.”
“Nah.” Funny thing is, I’d already forgotten about that. And Chastity had seemed to shrug it off. “The problem is I got sloshed Saturday night, too. That’s when I did the real damage.”
“Uh-oh.” Rickie flinches. “What happened?”
I’ve spent the week trying not to replay it in my head. “I accidentally kissed her.”
“Accidentally?” Rickie’s eyes narrow. “How does that work, exactly?”
I have to admit it’s a good question. “First you get skunk-drunk. Then you let your ex-hookup trick you into thinking you’re getting a blowjob behind the bunkhouse.”
Rickie laughs. “I’ve got to see this orchard someday.”
“You have a standing invitation.” Rickie has never taken me up on my offer of a weekend in Tuxbury. He doesn’t like to sleep anywhere except for his own bed.
“Finish the story,” he prompts.
“Well…” The trouble is that I can’t really understand how it happened. I grabbed Chastity, pushed her up against the wall like she was any hookup. That part was a misunderstanding. It’s just that I didn’t stop there. The moment my hands landed on her body, I knew who she was. And then I kissed her anyway. Several times. I just didn’t want to stop. “There’s no good explanation,” I admit as the barista hands me my coffee. “Except to point out that I was drunk, sad, and looking for trouble.”
“How much trouble did you get into?” Rickie asks. There’s an irritating smile playing on his lips.
“It was just a few sloppy kisses,” I grumble. “Then I came to my senses.” Sort of. It literally took an explosion to wake me up from the madness.
Rickie’s gaze flits over to Chastity on the sofa. “But what did you do afterward? If she’s mad at you, I’d start there.”
“I apologized.”
“How?” he asks, retrieving his own cup of coffee from the counter.
“I don’t really remember,” I admit. “Haltingly. Like the bumbling fool that I am.”
He flinches. “And what did she say?”
“Nothing. She just sort of stared at me like I’d suddenly grown a really bad handlebar mustache. And then I yelled at the sky like a sad sack and wandered off.”
Rickie holds my eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. “She’s either mad that you kissed her, or mad that you stopped. My money is on door number two.”
“What? No. Who’d want a slobbering-idiot kiss?”
“Well, I would.” His grin widens. “So long as it’s from the right slobbering idiot. Why did you stop, anyway? I practically get a contact high
off your sexual tension.”
“That’s just the dope you’re smoking,” I mutter. The last thing Chastity needs is a visit from my overeager libido.
But I can’t help glancing over at her. She’s bent over her notebook, penciling in another equation on the page. Then she taps her eraser on the paper and shows it to her friend.
“There you go!” says the girl with the frizzy hair.
Chastity’s smile is so bright that for a second I forget how to breathe.
“Hmm.” Rickie says beside me. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“You, that’s what. Are you going to talk to her?”
“Of course I am. I’m going to apologize again. When you’re a dick to your friends, that’s what you do. Besides, I have a present for her.”
“Is it your dick?” Rickie asks with a snicker.
“No, asshole.”
He shakes his head. “Too bad. I’m going to score us a table. At a safe distance.”
“You do that.”
Sixteen
Chastity
“I don’t know, Chastity,” my new friend says as I start on problem number seven. “You might not be as bad at algebra as you think. I barely even helped you.”
“No, you did,” I insist as I solve the last problem. “My brain just doesn’t bend this way. I need to be shown what to do.” Sometimes three or four times.
But at least this assignment is under control. I’ll survive one more week of algebra, thanks to Ellie.
A couple hours ago I’d been sitting at a computer terminal in the library, where I submitted my composition.
I’d checked my email and found a message from Dylan.
Hi C! Are we on for algebra today? If I don’t hear from you I’ll head for the library.
I promise to be 100% sober. I’m sorry I was so out of line this weekend. That was completely inappropriate. It won’t happen again.
-Love, D.
A perfectly nice email, but it had crushed me anyway. It won’t happen again. Did he have to make that point so loudly? Like I don’t already know that?
