Heartland

by Sarina Bowen

  “Okay, thanks.” Power outages are a frequent occurrence in Vermont. And I doubt Rickie has a generator. I ease the truck past Spruce Street, wondering where to go. “Change of plans. Pizza at your place?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Did, uh, Kaitlyn hang around for the long weekend?” I have to ask. Tomorrow is a federal holiday, and there aren’t any classes.

  “Nope. She packed a bag and left,” Chastity reassures me.

  We lapse into silence as I drive slowly down the street, wondering where I’m going to find a parking place. At least I don’t have to see Kaitlyn. Dating her was an error in judgment, and I’d rather not come face to face with her wrath if I don’t have to.

  She was mad at me for breaking up with her. Ridiculous.

  “Do you miss her?” Chastity asks softly.

  “No!” I say quickly. “Not really. We were a horrible couple. I miss the sex, of course.” I snort. “But you don’t want to hear about my constantly horny state. And sex isn’t a great reason to stay with someone who’s mean to you.”

  “I’ve heard worse reasons,” Chastity mumbles.

  I finally find a spot big enough for the truck. Thank goodness for that. After parking, I drag Chastity into a corner store for beer, and by the time we’re walking toward her dorm, the wind is howling, and we’re pelted by sleet.

  “Gross,” Chastity says as we hurry the last half block toward her door. “Do you think they’ll even deliver a pizza in this?”

  “Oh, hell yes. I’ll beg and plead,” I promise. “I’m really looking forward to it.” I pull open the door to her building, and the wind tries to yank it out of my hand.

  We finally get inside, where the power is still on, and it’s warm and dry. Chastity unlocks the door to her suite, and we walk in to find everything dark and quiet. Thank goodness. No Kaitlyn.

  I order a large pie from my favorite pizza place, and then I sit on Chastity’s bed, propping my back against the wall and patting the spot beside me. “Okay, let’s see these fearsome polynomials.”

  Humming to herself, Chastity retrieves the book and a notebook off the desk. Then she sits beside me. “Here we go. I did the first three, but I’m not sure I did them right.”

  I take the notebook, scanning her work. I’m a little distracted, though, by Chastity’s proximity. Her shampoo has a fruity scent that’s familiar to me, probably from the night I pushed her up against a wall and kissed the hell out of her.

  That was a stupid, stupid thing to do. Because now I’m thinking about it again. We fell into kissing the way I once fell off a dock into Lake Champlain. Suddenly and without warning. And even though I’d been skunk drunk when I’d kissed her, I can’t forget how good it was.

  “Is it that bad?” she whispers.

  “What?” I look up, finding her blue eyes at close range.

  “The first three problems. Did I screw up?”

  “Uh…” I squint at the page again and force myself to focus. “No. You’re doing fine. They’re not much different than the last two week’s work, but with more terms thrown in.” Chastity tends to panic whenever things start to look different. “Try number four, okay? Let’s see how you go about breaking it down.”

  She takes the notebook back with a sigh and begins to factor the expression. The first thing she tries doesn’t pan out.

  “No problem,” I coach. “Try again.”

  It takes her a few minutes to warm up, but slowly we work through each new problem. And then we get to the doozey at the bottom of the page.

  “Ugh, I don’t know,” she complains. “That one will take all year.”

  “Just give it a shot? If you hurry, your reward will be pizza.”

  She leans over the page. As I wait for her to chew through number seventeen, she taps the end of the pencil against her knee, and my eye is drawn to the hole in her vintage jeans and the smooth skin showing through. I have the unlikely urge to pass my thumb over that oval of skin and test its softness.

  Okay. Fuck.

  I close my eyes and take a slow breath. What is my problem today? Chastity has always been a looker, but I don’t usually do this. I don’t usually focus on the wrong things.

  Opening my eyes, the first thing I see is Chastity’s cleavage. Her soft T-shirt dips into a V right where her breasts stretch the cotton fabric…

  There is no safe place to rest my gaze, apparently. My brain has become confused. Confused, and also a traitor.

  “Dyl?”

  I snap to attention. “Sorry. What was the question?”

  “Can I multiply Z like this?”

  “Uh…” I take a deep breath and get another whiff of her feminine scent. I must be really hungry, because it addles my brain. “Yes. No. Jesus.”

  Chastity laughs. “Which is it?”

  “Yes, you can multiply both sides by Z. But don’t forget about your denominator there…”

  “Oh, crap,” she says, erasing what she’d just written. “Okay, I have another idea.”

  She scribbles away, while I lean back and try to think about my own homework. Tomorrow is a holiday, but I have a history paper due on Tuesday. I close my eyes and think deep thoughts about the industrial revolution.

  This works fine until Chastity puts a hand on my leg. It’s just a casual touch—her palm resting over the denim of my jeans, right above my knee. But she might as well have put her hand on my cock, because I’m way too aware of her now.

  “Dylan,” she says. “Tell me I’ve got it now. Look.”

  I scan her work, and it’s a miracle I can concentrate on the page. But it’s true—she’s cracked it open and arrived at the right answer. “Nice! You’re done already. Now we can eat pizza and watch stupid shit on YouTube.”

  She laughs, turning to me. And there it is again—that smile that flattens me sometimes. I love making Chastity smile.

  But holy shit. All I can think about is kissing her again.

  It hits me that Rickie was probably right. And Kaitlyn, too, unfortunately. It might be the only time they ever agreed on anything, but I am attracted to Chastity. And I don’t have the first idea what to think about that.

  I pull out my phone to check my texts. We lost power, Rickie has written. Don’t really care because I have tea and soup and my favorite herbal remedies. He means pot, of course. But how long does it take for pipes to freeze?

  It’s only in the 30s, I reply. The pipes are fine. If you light a fire in the fireplace make sure the flues are open. Do you need me home?

  I almost hope he says yes. I’m in a weird mood.

  Nope. Already built the fire and reading Kant in my sleeping bag by candlelight.

  Chastity’s house phone rings. Chastity climbs off the bed to answer it. She tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, and I find myself admiring the smooth skin of her neck. Our pizza has arrived, and the front desk is calling to let us know.

  My heart is beating a little too fast as I pull out my wallet to overtip the delivery person for working during the storm.

  We’ll eat some pizza together. We’ll watch some John Oliver. And then I’ll get the heck out of here.

  An hour and a half later, I’m still lying on Chastity’s bed like the lazy hedonist that I really am. There’s sleet peppering the windows, and this place is too cozy to leave. The room is lit only by a dim lamp on her desk. I’m on beer number four, while Chastity nurses her first one.

  The pizza has been reduced to crusts and crumbs, and Chastity is laughing at an SNL skit, her head on my shoulder.

  Without even meaning to, I sift my fingers through her hair. Right after she moved to Vermont, she got it all buzzed off and dyed it pink. It was her way of striking out against the assholes who never let her cut it and forced her to dress like a Victorian virgin.

  It’s grown out a bit now, and it’s super soft and smells good. And I feel well-fed and lazy. Like a dog in the sun.

  A horny dog, honestly. Kissing Chastity flipped some kind of switch on my libido, an
d now my friend’s proximity fills me with a hum of desire that wasn’t there before.

  Or, at least, I never let myself acknowledge it before.

  Either way, it doesn’t matter. I can watch videos in a pleasantly turned-on state without making a big deal out of it. I’m not an animal.

  The skit ends, and Chastity hits pause. “That was a funny one. I never get to do this.”

  “Do what?” Torture me?

  “Watch TV in my room.” She shrugs, and finally drains the last of her beer.

  “We have got to get you a computer.”

  “If we sell a lot of caramel, I’ll have to decide between a computer and a phone. The computer will probably win. And at least email will get easier. Hey. Speaking of email.” She lifts her head. “Is it eight? You said we could look at eight.”

  I did say that. But Chastity is in such a good mood that I don’t want to ruin it if there aren’t any orders. “I’ll look in a minute.”

  “Please?” she begs. “I need to know if all that work was for nothing.”

  “It wasn’t,” I argue. “If nobody placed an order yet, it’s just because they were busy.”

  “Fine. I won’t be disappointed if there aren’t any orders. Just check, okay?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but that’s when the lamp on the desk cuts out. My brain ponders the reason for this just as the video seizes on the laptop screen.

  And that’s when I realize that the power has gone out here, too.

  “Uh-oh,” Chastity says.

  I close the laptop, because it’s not doing us any good anymore, and we’re plunged into darkness. “It’s a good thing we already got our pizza.”

  She laughs. “You could survive anything as long as there’s pizza and beer, right?”

  “Basically.” In the silence that follows, I feel our proximity like a physical thing.

  “My key card won’t work in a power outage,” she says. “If I leave my room I might not be able to get back in. I read that in the student handbook.”

  “There’s no backup power?”

  I feel her shake her head next to me. “Plus, they don’t want people wandering around the stairwells in the dark.”

  “Do you have a flashlight?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  I fish out my cell phone, which is running low on battery power but isn’t dead yet. “Here, take this. Make yourself comfortable for the night, okay? I’ll let you back into your room.”

  “Thank you, Dylan.”

  She puts her hand on my leg, nudging me over so she can get off the bed. The bright phone light winks on, illuminating a narrow strip of her room. She gets a flannel nightgown out of her dresser and then leaves for the bathroom she shares with Kaitlyn.

  I wait there in the dark, considering my options. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I don’t feel right leaving her alone in this nearly empty building with no power and no flashlight.

  It’s a dorm room. Not a remote cabin in the Yukon. The power will probably be restored during the night, and Chastity doesn’t like to be babied.

  Still. Chastity spent most of her life with people who should have been looking out for her, but wouldn’t. I think that’s why I do some of the things I do for her. Because everybody needs to know that somebody cares.

  There’s a tap on the door a couple minutes later, and I get up and feel my way over to open it.

  “The plumbing still works,” she says, handing me my phone and walking over to the bed.

  “Cool. I’ll test it out myself.”

  I head to the bathroom and take care of some necessary business. As I’m tapping on Chastity’s door, my phone rings. It’s Leah, so I answer in spite of my dying battery.

  “Hello?” I say, feeling vaguely guilty about being in Chastity’s room. “You’ve reached the headquarters of Nannygoat’s Candies. How may I direct your call?”

  “Dylan!” Leah chirps. “That isn’t as funny as you think, given the call I just took. Ask me how many boxes of caramel the Vermont Country Store wants. Go ahead. Ask me.”

  Chastity opens the door. I stumble over to the bed, and we both sit down. “Okay. How many boxes of caramel does the Vermont Country Store want?”

  “A gross,” she says. “A hundred and forty-four full-sized, plus some samplers.”

  “Oh, shit.” I laugh. “Really?”

  “Really,” she says. “And you got two smaller orders, too. You’re up to, say, a hundred and seventy-five boxes.”

  “A hundred and seventy-five boxes,” I repeat slowly. Chastity lets out a little shriek beside me. “We’re going to be chained to your kitchen, Leah.”

  “I know! But that’s a good thing.”

  “Is it?” I wonder. “I wonder how many caramels a guy can make on a Friday night?”

  “You always have Saturday,” Leah babbles. “I told Chastity you could have either day. And now you need them both.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “Saturday?” I turn toward Chastity in the dark. The glow from my phone is just bright enough to catch the expression on her face.

  It’s guilt.

  Eighteen

  Chastity

  I’m dying inside as Dylan finishes the call with Leah. Now my little spur-of-the-moment lie is unmasked, and I feel terrible.

  I’d told myself that it didn’t matter, because Kaitlyn told ten lies to my one. Every day. But it does matter. Because I feel sick inside.

  “Yeah, the power went out, first at my house and then here,” he’s saying. “The phone on the wall didn’t ring. But she’s fine. No—it isn’t very cold in here yet.” He glances at me, then points at the phone, asking if I want to talk to Leah.

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells her. “They probably have a lot of lines down tonight. But you know they aren’t going to leave the campus in the dark for long.”

  A few moments later he wishes her a good night. He ends the call, pockets the phone, and darkness swallows us. And so does the silence.

  I think I can hear my own heart pounding.

  “Saturdays, huh?” he whispers eventually. “You told me we could only have the kitchen on Fridays.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “That wasn’t true.”

  “You…lied?” he asks. As if it’s inconceivable.

  This is why my inner bad girl doesn’t come out very often. Because I’m terrible at this. “I did,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”

  He sighs. “Move over.”

  “What?” My heart is in my mouth.

  “Move over so there’s room for two.”

  Surprise makes me wait another beat. But then I scramble up to the head of my twin bed and pull back the covers. Dylan stands up, which makes it easier for me to slide between the sheets. My pulse jumps erratically as I wait for him to leave, or yell at me, or ask me why I lied.

  But that’s not what happens.

  I hear the dry sound of a zipper and the clink of a belt as Dylan sheds his jeans. Clothing rustles. And then Dylan pulls back the bedclothes and gets in beside me.

  I’m so surprised that it takes a minute to start breathing again. Dylan smells like mint toothpaste, as well as the woodsy scent that I associate with him. We’re lying side by side on our backs, which is not how things go in my fantasies. But it’s close enough to make me feel twice as wistful. And twice as guilty.

  Why did I ever think lying to Dylan would improve my life?

  The silence is killing me. I practice apology speeches in my head, but before I settle on a worthy version, Dylan’s breathing evens out and lengthens into sleep.

  It’s such a sweet sound that my eyes feel prickly. The heat of his body seeps into mine. I want to roll over and take more of it. I want to mold myself to his sturdy body and breathe his woodsy scent.

  But that’s not allowed. And this is all I will ever have—friendship and the ache of wanting more.

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

  The next time I open my eyes, I’m startled
to find the wall only inches from my nose.

  I’m even more startled to realize that Dylan’s body is shifting sleepily against my back. All of it. A hard chest and long legs. And even a hard—

  His body detaches from mine in an instant, leaving cool air in its wake. Behind me, the mattress unweights as he rolls off the bed. There’s a clunk and then a mumbled curse as Dylan trips across the small room and clicks off my desk lamp.

  The power must have come on in the night. It’s early morning, judging by the gray light that’s just starting to filter in through my window.

  Dylan opens my bedroom door, propping something against it, because it doesn’t close all the way after he leaves. I hear a toilet flush, and then water running for a while.

  I roll over as he comes through the door in his underwear and a T-shirt.

  I look away quickly, instead of appreciating the way those boxer briefs lie so snugly against his strong thighs.

  He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Did you sleep?” he asks in a roughened voice.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Mostly. Christ, it’s cold in here. I think the power just came back on.”

  “What time is it?”

  Dylan is a farmer, so he looks at the sky instead of at a clock. “Almost seven? So it’s that pivotal hour when the choice is between sleep and coffee. The dining hall doesn’t open for another hour, though, because it’s a holiday.” He leans back against my bed and sighs.

  Awake now, I scramble around him and visit the bathroom to brush my teeth. Too late, I realize I should have brought some clothes into the bathroom with me. Dylan is probably putting on his jeans right now, because it really is freezing in here.

  But when I get back to my room, he’s lying in my bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. When he spots me in the doorway, he moves toward the wall to make room.

  There’s no way I could fall asleep again. Not with my squirrel brain running in circles, wondering whether I’ve completely ruined Dylan’s trust in me just so I could spend a few Friday evenings with him.