by Sarina Bowen
“Mmm,” she sighs against me.
“Put him out of your head.” I’m quiet for a moment. “You know what’s really relaxing? Orgasms.”
I expect her to complain that my joke is ill-timed. But she doesn’t. And when I glance at her to find out why, I realize she’s fallen asleep on my chest. Figures.
But she’s so cute when she’s sleepy. Her face has softened, her long eyelashes practically touching her cheeks.
I don’t mind being Daphne’s pillow. Don’t get me wrong—I would rather tire her out with sex than trauma. But I can’t deny that this is nice, too.
Doesn’t that just figure? I’ve been trying to get her into bed for a couple of weeks now. But not like this. And what’s more, I won’t be able to sleep with her here. Ever since my accident, I need solitude and a locked door to fall asleep.
Still, I don’t have any urge to wake her, or to get up. I relax against the bed and watch the moon rise out the window. Daphne breathes slow, even breaths that I can feel against my bare skin.
It’s peaceful. And maybe I’m still frustrated by all the difficult things that have happened to me these past few years. But at least I’m on an upswing.
And there are worse places to be than on a bed in Vermont, under the moon, beside a sleeping beauty who needed me tonight.
Nine
Almost Three Years Ago
“Now you make a right at this stop sign. And a mile from here you’ll see a sign for the highway again.”
“Got it,” Rickie says. It’s kind of weird that this highway exit has no matching entrance. But whatever. He’s happy to take directions from Daphne.
He’s back in his uniform shirt, pointing the car southbound this time. Seventy-two hours passed very quickly, and now it’s time to drive back to Connecticut, and go back to the Academy.
Rickie fights off the dread in his gut. He knows that the upperclassmen are making his life hell on purpose. Plebes are mistreated so that they can learn to bear up under pressure. In a year or two it will be his turn to make the plebes’ lives hell.
It’s not that appealing, honestly. And the worst of the bullying is getting on his last nerve.
The bullying is not directed at Rickie. He’s too smart to attract their attention. But still, it’s hard to watch. The way they target his roommate is just evil.
Christmas break will be here soon, though. There are only a few weeks to survive before exams. Then he will have completed Gauntlet Term, as it’s called. Six long months of both military training and classes, July through December. All plebes endure it together. It’s supposed to build character, as well as muscle.
“How was your weekend?” Daphne asks.
“Pretty great.” He gives her a quick glance. She’s not wearing makeup today. Not that it matters. She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever met, and he’s met plenty.
She’s a first year, too. That’s lucky. There will be more of these car trips, so long as the ancient Volvo doesn’t die before they both graduate.
He makes a mental note to have the oil changed.
“Pretty great?” she repeats with a throaty chuckle. “Where’s the detail? We’ve got three hours, here. Or wait—maybe you can’t tell me. Too scandalous?”
Daphne Shipley is teasing him. And he likes it. A lot.
“Well, I can’t talk about the sex and the drugs. But I also went to the shooting range with my dad, like real men do.”
“Real men who call themselves Rickie.”
He grins. “This again? I told you—my father is Richard. So I’m Richard junior. And Richard is a boring-ass name.”
“It’s the name of kings,” she points out. “Richard the Lionhearted is a badass name. Rickie is a little punk with a slingshot.”
“Sure, babe. Walking around referring to yourself as Richard the Lionhearted wouldn’t be weird at all.”
Now they both laugh.
“First I became Rick, so we didn’t get confused about who Mom was calling. And since I’m not a very serious person most of the time, my friends started calling me Rickie. And I just went with it. At the Academy I’m Richard all the time, which I don’t particularly like. So if friends want to call me Rickie for twenty more years, I don’t really have a problem with that.”
“Makes sense,” she admits somewhat grudgingly.
“Your turn,” he says. “Daphne is…a flower? It’s a pretty word. But are all the people in your family named after plants?”
“No. My oldest brother is August, named after my grandfather, who was born in August. But he goes by his middle name, Griffin. My older sister is May, because she was born in May…”
“So why don’t you have a month for a name?” he asks.
“Well, I’m a twin. And you can’t name two kids July, so…”
“All righty.” He grins. “That’s why you became a flower.”
“A Daphne is a boring little flower, true, but it’s also two other things, so I’m open to interpretation.”
“Do tell. What are the two other things? Wait—isn’t there a Greek myth about Daphne?”
“You are correct—a super depressing myth. Eros shoots Apollo to make him fall for Daphne. But he shoots Daphne with something that means she can’t ever fall for a man.”
“So they’re star-crossed lovers,” he says.
“Oh, it gets worse. He pursues her mercilessly, including disguising himself so he can spy while she bathes in the river. He’s basically going to rape her, so she asks her father—a river god—for help. And he turns her into a laurel tree. Forever.”
“Ouch,” he says. “Okay, what’s the third thing? Because at this point, a boring flower is looking like your better option.”
“It’s a water flea,” she says, trying not to smile.
“Say what?”
“You heard me. Daphnia is a genus of tiny crustaceans. Filter-feeding plankton.”
“Omigod.” He laughs. “And here I thought Richard was a bad draw.”
“Stop.”
“I don’t know if I can look at you now without seeing a water flea. Sorry.”
“Just know that I did some shooting this weekend, too.”
He laughs. “Seriously?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Tactical Services. I grew up on a farm. When it’s time to slaughter a pig, the shot has to be right between the eyes. Otherwise you make the animal suffer.”
“You took out a pig this weekend? All I shot was a paper target. What did you use?”
“A rifle.”
A laugh escapes from his chest. “You are surprisingly sexy, Daphne Shipley.” He gives her another very appreciative glance. “Don’t lose my email address.”
She rolls her eyes, as if he’s teasing her.
He’s not. Daphne is totally his type. She just doesn’t seem to know it. “Do you hunt?”
“I have,” she says. “But that ended when my father died when I was fourteen. I don’t miss it. Hunting is boring. I don’t mind killing an animal for food, but I do mind sitting around all day in the snow waiting for it to wander by. I don’t need to make a sport out of my dinner.”
“But you could argue that venison is more ethical than those pigs you said you raised. Bambi is free and happy in nature until the moment your bullet finds his heart. The pig is enslaved from birth to become your sausage links.”
“I never said my way was more ethical,” she points out. “But we only have organic livestock now. That pig has a lot more space and privacy than I ever had in a house with three older siblings, including a twin brother.”
“That pig never has to ask for the remote control, huh?”
“You’re an only child, right?” She sniffs.
“Maybe. Why?”
“One does not ask for the remote. One fights for it with sweat, blood, and sharp elbows.”
“That sounds like an average night in my barracks. Have you considered a career in the military?”
She smiles and shakes her head.
Rickie makes himself turn his eyes to the road. But he really just wants to look at Daphne. Seeing people is his superpower. And what he sees of Daphne he likes.
She’s a little lost right now, which he recognizes from personal experience. Starting in a new place is hard. As a military brat, he’s done it so many times. This is her first time living away from home, though, so it will take her a little longer to find her stride.
But when she finds it, the rest of the world better watch out. There’s a fierceness to her that can’t be hidden. He’s especially drawn to this.
The drive is long, and they make a lot of small talk. He promises himself that he won’t ask her any personal questions about her weekend. His curiosity about people and their relationships sometimes makes his friends twitchy.
But he loves that shit. That’s why he’s going to become a spy. And when he’s had enough of espionage, he’ll go back to graduate school to become a clinical psychologist. He has it all planned out.
Somewhere in Massachusetts, he can’t stand it anymore. “You haven’t told me about your weekend.”
“Is that a requirement?” she asks, pulling her hair back off her shoulder.
The motion shifts the air between them, and he catches a whiff of her shampoo. Lemons, maybe. He wishes he could get even closer and do a thorough analysis.
“I suppose not,” he admits. “But you kinda left me with a cliffhanger. Did the guy say anything? Is your sister still mad? Did the ponies shit everywhere?”
She laughs. “No, of course not. Yes she is, and yes they did.”
“Pfft. No details?”
She faces away from him, her gaze out the window. “I made everything weird at home. My sister won’t even look me in the eye. And the guy is extra polite to me now. Like a stranger. I was happier when he treated me like an amusing sidekick.”
Well, ouch. “The weirdness will pass eventually, right?”
“I guess,” she mutters.
“And there will be other guys. You probably have a few picked out already. Maybe go back to your practice guy and give him another turn at bat.”
“My practice guy?”
“Yeah. Some high school hookup. He’ll swallow his own tongue if you tell him you want a rebound. There’s got to be someone like that in your past.” Rickie tries to toss off this suggestion in a casual way. Like he’s not privately waving a hand in the air, volunteering as tribute.
Except there’s a very telling silence from the passenger seat. And his heart sinks. He’s put his foot in it again with this girl.
But really? She waited for her crush? Who does that?
He clears his throat. “You know, I’m happy to pull a Katniss, here. Any day of the week.”
She snorts.
“Dead serious. Maybe you’re having a moment in your life when you need to get out more.”
“That’s my whole life, apparently,” she mumbles.
“Ah. Well, I’m kind of a specialist at having fun. Maybe we could have fun together.”
She finally glances in Rickie’s direction, trying to see if he’s serious.
He is. “I’ve got an idea, okay? Hear me out. At the end of the semester we’ll have our first Open Weekend.”
“Open Weekend?”
“Yeah, the Academy is a closed campus most of the time. No visitors. But there are these weekends when the rules are suspended. All the cadets party off campus like savages. Here.” He picks up his phone from the cup holder and unlocks it. “Text yourself from this, so I’ll have your number. When our plans are set, I’ll invite you to a party. It’s some annual thing that happens at a boathouse. It’s supposed to be epic, although people exaggerate. I’m game to find out.”
She holds the phone without entering her number.
“Come to the party,” he says. “If only for a drink before I take you home. It doesn’t have to be, uh, a big deal.”
“A party,” she repeats. “With or without the pity sex?”
He snickers, and falls a little more in lust with her than he already was. Most women wouldn’t call out his bullshit quite so plainly. “There would be no pity involved, I can assure you.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Leave me your number. I hate email. And you can decide whether or not you’re coming after I send you the details.”
“Fine,” she says, possibly just to shut him up.
But she taps in her number nonetheless.
Satisfied, he turns on the radio. “Creep” starts playing through the speakers. It’s a fun singalong, but Daphne doesn’t join in. “You know this one?” he asks.
When he glances over at her, she’s mouthing the words. It’s such a dark song about not belonging. Everyone can relate, at some point or another.
And then—on the second verse—she starts singing. Holy shit, her voice has some power. But forget the skill—it’s the raw emotion she puts into it that floors him. Just wow.
Daphne Shipley could bring a guy to his knees.
If he’s lucky, he might just be that guy.
Ten
Daphne
I wake up the next morning to the sound of my mother’s voice in the hallway. “Daphne? I have to run to the feed store. Would you get breakfast on?”
Lifting my head off Rickie’s pillow, my first thought is: oh shit.
My second thought is: how do I end up in so many awkward situations? If I call out an answer, she’ll know I’m in the wrong room. And where is Rickie? I’m alone in this bed.
“Daphne?” she calls again. “Are you in there?”
It’s not the crime that gets you. It’s the coverup, right? When will I learn? I slide off the bed, march over to the door and yank it open. “I’ll make the breakfast.”
My mother turns her head. Her eyes widen.
But that’s when my bedroom door pops open, too. Rickie is standing there, blinking sleep out of his eyes.
My mother’s confusion doubles. “Will someone start breakfast? I guess it doesn’t matter who.”
“Sure,” Rickie grunts.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep on your bed,” I stammer.
He shrugs. “No problem. Yours was available.”
“The bacon is defrosted,” my mother says. “I’ll be back in an hour.” She turns around and marches back down the hallway toward the staircase.
Rickie and I spend a long moment just watching each other. I have a hangover, but not from alcohol. It’s the vulnerability. I hate looking weak, and last night I just spewed all my poor life choices at Mr. Hot and Broody.
“Sorry,” I mutter again.
He just shrugs.
“Now she’s going to imagine that we’re...” I clear my throat.
“S’okay.” He yawns. “I imagine it every day, too. So we’ll have that in common.”
Then he slips past me and nabs the bathroom before I can get in there.
Figures.
Lucky for me, Reardon doesn’t try to call me again. He doesn’t text, either. But now I’m always on edge. Every time my phone lights up with an incoming message, I have a moment of panic.
But as the days pass, I start to relax. Rickie and I don’t speak of it again. He knows I don’t want to. Although I have to admit that spilling my guts has made me feel a little calmer. It makes me feel less crazy to hear someone else’s thoughts about it. Threats are his only move, Rickie had said. And I appreciate this logic.
It doesn’t stop me from worrying, though. And it doesn’t stop me from feeling deeply embarrassed. I told Rickie about the academic land mine I’d created. But that’s not the only thing that Reardon destroyed.
He took my self-esteem, too. It’s just gone. When I started dating him, I thought I was smart and maybe even sexy. Now I’m just a dumb girl who screwed a liar. Oldest story in the book.
When Wednesday arrives again, Audrey sends us off to Burlington with another shipment of applejack for two new restaurants.
This time, there’s a holdup at the first one—nobody is there to
receive it. And we burn fifteen minutes trying to call the phone number on the manifest, until finally someone shows up at the restaurant and takes the delivery.
“I’m going to be late for work,” I complain, eyeing the clock on the dash.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Rickie says. “I’ll drop you off, go to my class, and then make the delivery afterward.”
“Really? Could you?” The desperation in my voice is evident.
“Uh huh. Because I can tell the idea of being late to your second day at a new job is making all your good girl sensors ping like crazy.”
He’s not wrong. “Someday you’re going to be an excellent shrink.”
“Aw, careful, Daphne. I think you just paid me a compliment. I might get cocky.”
“Too late,” I snap. But there’s no bite in it. I watch the red bricks of the Moo U campus approach, and I wonder how it came to this. I’m actually starting to like Rickie. And that’s dangerous.
He pulls up in front of the School of Public Health a couple minutes later. I reach into the back seat for a box of pastries that Audrey sent with me this morning. For your new friends at work, she’d said. I was testing blueberry recipes.
“Whoa, what are those?” he asks.
“Just bribing my coworkers so they’ll like me. It’s what you do at a new job.” Thank God for Audrey’s social impulses. I’m well aware that I was frosty last week. It’s almost like Reardon Halsey has made me forget how to feel optimistic about people.
Rickie rolls down the window so he can talk to me after I shut the door. “Don’t forget we’re stopping for ice cream on the way home.”
“Again?” I turn around on the sidewalk to wave goodbye to him.
“It’s what we do, babe. It’s our thing. Don’t mess with tradition.”
“Fine. Later.”