Waylaid, Page 2

  I like my women feisty. This one particularly. And I’m starting to think that this summer could be a whole lot of fun.

  Two

  Daphne

  Rickie tells the story of the bear to a rapt audience at the dinner table.

  Buttering my corn bread as he weaves the tale, I roll my eyes. A bear on our property is not a big deal. It's just a Tuesday.

  “And it’s a huge bear, so I'm basically watching my life flash before my eyes.” Rickie gestures wildly. The motion makes his designer T-shirt stretch tightly across the lean muscles of his chest. His tattoos peek through the V-neck.

  I hate myself a little for always staring at those tattoos. Before Rickie showed up in my life, with his snarky attitude and those piercing gray eyes, I never found tats attractive.

  He’s not even my type. That’s what I keep telling myself. But he’s always catching me staring. It’s so embarrassing. Today he almost caught me taking a photo of him. Thank God he didn’t figure out what I was doing with my phone.

  In my defense, the photo wasn’t for me. It was for my friend, Violet Trevi. She keeps asking me questions about the mysterious Rickie—the guy who stood me up my freshman year. Violet had to listen to me rant about it back then too.

  Also, in my defense, the staring isn’t purely about sexual attraction. It’s also curiosity. I’d always wondered what happened to Rickie. Almost three years ago he made a big entrance into my life. Then he exited it just as quickly.

  And now—this is the truly crazy part—he seems not to remember how we met, or the outrageous things he said to me. It’s probably an act. Maybe he never expected to see me again, and doesn’t want to admit that he blew me off. Or maybe I’m just that forgettable.

  Ouch.

  Rickie, however, is not easy to ignore. He’s magnetic. My family is captivated by his stupid tale about the bear, even if they’ve seen bears dozens of times before.

  “See, I never planned to die before I could hike the Inca Trail, so as it stalks toward me, I’m pretty bummed…”

  My family laughs like they’re paying guests at an exclusive comedy club.

  “And I'm waving at Daphne, like, Saaaaaave yourself!”

  More uproarious laugher.

  I’m so over it. “Can someone pass the apple jelly?” I ask.

  But nobody does, because they’re all still listening to Rickie.

  “Daphne runs into the tractor shed, so at least I have the satisfaction of knowing one of us will survive to eat that pie Ruth was baking.” Again with the hilarious laughter. As if Rickie is the best thing that ever happened to them. “And then Daphne reappears—like an avenging angel in cut-off jeans—and fires that gun into the sky. That’s when the bear gets religion. He drops the bucket and waddles his fat ass off toward the woods. Funniest thing I ever saw.”

  Everyone around the table wears a look of pure joy, from the youngest—my one-year-old nephew Gus, who’s sitting on my brother's knee—all the way up to Grandpa, who’s wiping his eyes with his napkin.

  I’m irritated. But I get it. Rickie is both entertaining and magnetic. He’s got that X factor that draws people in.

  Been there. Done that. I’m never falling for his charms again.

  “The apple butter?” I repeat.

  Only Rickie seems to register the request. He picks up the jar and passes it down my side of the table. And, damn it, I can’t help but notice the flex of his forearm muscles.

  It's just unfair how ridiculously attractive some people are. He has the look of a European model between gigs. The slightly overgrown hair. The languorous body. The expensive clothes. Farm work seems to agree with him too. His color is better than when he arrived a couple weeks ago.

  Not that I'm keeping track.

  “So, listen,” my brother Griffin says, finally changing the subject. His eyes move from Rickie to me. “Can you head out tomorrow morning at ten? I’ll have the truck loaded.”

  I’m just about to answer, when Rickie beats me to it. “No problem.”

  My brother’s gaze swings back to our summer guest. “It's about an hour into central Burlington. There’s an alley behind the wine shop that can sometimes be a tight fit.”

  “Hey, wait a second,” I argue. “I’m the one who’s driving the cider into town. We had a deal.” Griffin assigned me the restaurant deliveries so that I could have a few hours to do some work for a social sciences laboratory at Burlington University, where I'm transferring in the fall.

  “Oh, you’re both going,” my brother says.

  “Why?” I demand. “I can do it by myself.”

  “I’m taking a summer class that meets on Wednesdays,” Rickie says.

  “A class? Can't you just Zoom into that?”

  Rickie shrugs. “It’s better in person. And now I can help you make the deliveries.”

  “That's nice of you,” my twin brother, Dylan, says without taking his eyes off his girlfriend, Chastity. They’re probably holding hands under the table. Or feeling each other up, maybe. Those two are like a walking hormone. I’m surprised Dylan can even follow the conversation.

  “It’s no trouble,” Rickie says with a shrug. “I have things to do in Burlington. And I can check on my house, do a little shopping, that kind of thing.”

  I take a bite of my cornbread so that I won’t say anything rude. But I’m not happy about this development. Not at all.

  In the first place, Wednesdays in Burlington are supposed to be my escape day. Solitude is rare when you have a big family.

  And now I’m supposed to ride an hour each way with Rickie and his flirting eyes?

  God, he’s nice to look at, but I don’t want to spend more time with him. It’s hard enough sharing a bathroom for the summer. And it’s already a lot of work to avoid him in my own home.

  What the hell will we find to talk about in the car?

  I guess I’m going to find out. At ten the next morning, when I come outside with my backpack, the truck is already loaded with liquor crates, and Rickie is seated behind the wheel of Dylan’s truck.

  “Here’s the manifest,” Griffin says, handing me a folded sheet of paper. “Easy deliveries. Enjoy your day.”

  “Thanks,” I grunt, heading toward the passenger seat. I guess I won’t be listening to the audiobook I’d planned for these Wednesday trips.

  I climb onto the seat beside Rickie and shut the door. He smells good, damn it. Like some kind of spicy, exotic cologne. Lovely. An hour alone with a man who once stood me up, and then forgot I existed. Just what every girl craves.

  “If you drive there,” I say by way of a greeting. “I’ll drive home.”

  “Nah,” he says, putting the truck in gear. “I got it. Both ways.”

  My blood pressure spikes. “It wasn’t a request. Women drive, Rick.”

  “I’m sure you’re a great driver, baby girl. But I told Dylan I’d get you and the booze safe to Burlington, so that’s what I’ll do.” He puts on the radio and guides the truck down our long driveway. “So, what are you up to in Burlington today?” he asks, unaware that I’m silently planning his murder.

  “Working. A job. Once a week.” My answer is as friendly as gunfire. Most people don’t want to hear about public health research anyway. It’s nerdy.

  We roll on, and the cab is so silent that I can hear each ping of gravel the tires are kicking up. I know it’s my turn to ask a friendly question, but I just don’t have it in me. I have exactly one summer to untangle all the knots in my life. It’s not going very well. And stress has ruined my ability to make small talk.

  “Hey, can you stop so I can check the mail?” I ask as he slows at the end of the drive to turn onto the road.

  “Sure, gorgeous.” He brings the truck to a halt, and I try not to roll my eyes. He probably calls me that only because he’s forgotten my actual name.

  I climb out of the truck and open our mailbox. There’s a dairy barn catalog in there for my twin brother, so I leave that alone. Dylan cares about two th
ings—goat farming, and getting naked with his girlfriend. Not at the same time though.

  Quickly, I sift through a stack of envelopes, looking for my name. I’m waiting to hear if I got a fellowship that will help me pay for my last year of undergrad. It hasn’t helped that I made the sudden decision to transfer from Harkness College to Moo U, and I applied for funding at the last minute.

  This is what happens when you make a mess of your life.

  There’s one envelope in the mailbox with my name on it, but it’s the wrong shape, and it’s from the wrong school. So when I get back into the truck with Rickie, I’m staring at a big square envelope from the Harkness School of Public Health. Now what do they want? In spite of my withdrawal from the university, I must still be on the mailing list.

  Rickie heads down our country road toward the highway, while I tap the envelope on my knee. My curiosity wins out eventually, and I slit the envelope open with my thumb. Inside I find an expensively printed invitation to a party in September. Tour the Future, it says, inviting me to a formal celebration for the new wing of the public health building where I did research last year.

  At the bottom of the fancy cream-colored card is a short list of benefactors who will be thanked at the reception. In the very center is a name I’ve grown to hate and fear. Senator Mitchell Halsey. The Halseys are a big deal in Connecticut. A huge big deal.

  And I’m the idiot who got stars in her eyes when the senator’s son started flashing his blue eyes at me. Last year was like a slow motion disaster. It began with those blue eyes, and it ended with the realization that I had to leave Harkness if I wanted to graduate at all.

  Reardon Halsey was an upperclassman with a research job in public health, just like me. I thought we had so much in common. I believed him when he told me that we were meant to be a couple.

  He lied to me. He lied to a lot of people, actually. But I’m the only one who figured it out. And when I tried to call him on it, he barely took a breath before threatening my entire academic future.

  There’s a note scrawled on the bottom from Dean Rebecca Reynolds, my former advisor. Daphne, we already miss you! My door will always be open to you. ~RR

  Well that stings. Until a few weeks ago, I’d been part of an advanced program at Harkness College. I was on track to earn my Bachelor of Science and a Master’s in public health, concurrently, in just five years. I could have done it, too. If I hadn’t trusted the wrong man.

  Even now, I’m still not really safe. Reardon Halsey could blow up my new life with a single phone call. This is why I don’t sleep well anymore.

  I’m tempted to throw the invitation right out the window. But Shipleys don’t litter. So I open Dylan’s glove compartment and shove the invitation inside before snapping it closed again.

  “Not the mail you were hoping for?” Rickie asks cheerfully.

  “Nope,” I grumble.

  “Bummer. Maybe I could find a way to cheer you up later.” I groan, and he laughs. “I meant with ice cream. Can we stop for a cone on the way home?”

  “Sure, pal,” I mutter.

  “Awesome.” There’s a beat of silence. “Or we could have dinner together.”

  “We eat dinner together every night,” I point out.

  “That is not what I meant. You look like a girl who could use a fun night out. And I’m just the guy for the job.”

  I’ll bet you are. There’s no doubt in my mind that Rickie knows how to put the play in playboy. But I’ve been down this road before. He once invited me out, before ghosting me.

  I don’t trust men who flirt with me. And I never will again.

  “Look, I’m flattered,” I lie. “But we both know you’re really not my type. And I’m not yours.”

  “Really? What is your type? Let me guess—you like ‘em clean cut and ambitious.”

  This is partly true. Or at least it used to be. The first man I ever fell for was clean cut. And the second one looked clean cut, and was certainly ambitious. But now I’m just confused. “I honestly just don’t know anymore. But I’m not going to be your super convenient good time, okay? That’s not happening.”

  He actually laughs. “You think you’ve got me figured out. I’m a total sleaze, huh?”

  Yes. “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s okay, Daphne. There have been times when you would have been right. I definitely went through a sleazy stage. But then I grew out of it.”

  “Good to know,” I mumble. I never went through a sleazy stage, but I went through a naïve stage, which is surely worse.

  “I’ll be honest,” he says, as if this conversation were ongoing. “You confuse me. Your mouth says you’re not interested. But your wandering eyes say you are.”

  “Hey! Not true,” I lie. I’m definitely attracted to Rickie, and completely unwilling to admit it.

  “And what’s with the photo yesterday? Did you take my picture?”

  “No!” I yelp. “Why would I do that?”

  “Lock screen shot?” he suggests. “I’m very decorative.”

  “Shut up. I was taking a selfie.”

  His snort says he doesn’t believe me. Just kill me already. We’re still at least forty-five minutes from the first delivery. This is going to be the longest ride to Burlington ever.

  My phone buzzes with a series of texts, so I pull it out to check. They’re all from Violet.

  Helllooooo! How’s it going with Mr. Hottie?

  Does he have good taste in music?

  Did you ask him why he stood you up for a date that time?

  Can I have another photo? His face doesn’t show very well in this one.

  I reply with the speed of someone who feels guilty. No more pics. Ever. I should never listen to you. He saw, and now I’ll never live it down.

  Oh, don’t worry! I’ll tell this story at your wedding someday.

  I groan. You are a hopeless romantic. Emphasis on hopeless.

  She replies with a heart emoji. I love Violet, but I don’t understand her optimism. Her luck with men isn’t any better than mine.

  I put my phone away and stare out the window again. But Rickie takes that as a sign that I’m available for conversation. “Look, we have to clear up a couple of things. I’ve got some questions.”

  I watch the landscape shoot by and wonder if I could survive a dive out of a moving vehicle.

  “I’m wondering why you seem so jumpy around me. And I realize we met once before—”

  My insides lock up, and my breath stalls.

  “—but the details are sketchy to me. So here’s a wild theory. Have we already seen each other naked? Is that the problem?”

  My gasp escapes before I can help it. “No! No way.” Not unless we’re counting that morning last week when I glimpsed him stepping into the shower. The ass on this man is a work of art…

  “Well, thank goodness.” He chuckles. “Be a shame if I’d forgotten that.”

  I make a small sound of outrage. “Seriously?” I squeak. “It must have been a hell of a sleazy phase if you think you could forget something like that.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what a guy can forget.” The truck’s engine rumbles as he accelerates past a log truck. “Look, I’m well aware that I sound like an asshole right now. But can you just tell me how we met before? Give me a refresher.”

  My head turns unbidden, and I just stare at him for a long moment. Is he even for real? I’d been assuming that he knew perfectly well how we met, but just didn’t want to talk about it. But now he wants a reminder?

  “Yeah, I’m serious,” he says, as if listening to my thoughts. “My memory is shit.”

  “Lord, I’ll say. Maybe you should lay off the bong.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. And I still don’t trust that he isn’t just screwing with me. He and I spent six hours together. With our clothes on. But still. “My freshman year we did a weekend ride share once, from Connecticut to Vermont and then ba
ck again. You drove. I paid for gas money.”

  “Oh,” he says, giving me a quick glance. “From Harkness.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Right,” he says, his eyes on the road. “Makes sense.”

  I brace myself for follow-up questions. He’s probably putting it all together now. Our strangely intimate conversation. The odd way it ended.

  But the questions don’t come. He turns up the radio instead.

  Three

  Almost Three Years Ago

  It's a drizzly autumn day in Harkness, Connecticut. It rains a lot in this oceanside town.

  Daphne, a freshman, waits beneath a beautiful archway on the edge of campus. She's been dreaming of attending this school for years—since her ambitious little heart first found Harkness College in a guidebook she’d checked out from the Tuxbury town library.

  And now here she is, six weeks into her first semester. Her awe hasn't worn off, even if she's not quite comfortable here. It isn't home yet.

  This is deeply irritating to her. Truth be told, she thought that rolling into Harkness and moving into her dorm room would be the moment her real life finally began. The way it was meant to be.

  Instead, she has a stuck-up roommate who actually brought a fur coat to college with her. Who does that?

  Daphne checks the time on her phone. She’s so eager to go home for the weekend that she’s arrived early. She's homesick. That's just a little embarrassing. So she tells herself that the promptness is just a courtesy. She’s never met the friend-of-a-friend who’s agreed to drive her up to Vermont this morning.

  At least he's on time. At exactly eight a.m., a boxy old Volvo slides up to the curb. With only a cursory glance at the man behind the steering wheel, Daphne darts out through the cold rain and opens the passenger door. In one hurried motion, she slides into the seat and tucks her weekend bag between her feet.

  Then she turns to get a better look at her companion. And—holy smokes—he’s dreamy. His hair is buzzed very close to his skull. Not everyone could pull off a flattop like that, but this guy can. The lack of hair makes his model-handsome bone structure stand out.