Heartland, Page 3

  Rickie shakes his head. “Is that the one where you have to write a different essay on the same theme every week?”

  “Right. The semester’s theme is food. So I wrote something about the unseen miracle of microorganisms making milk into cheese. The professor hated it. He said there wasn’t enough of me in there.”

  “I guess you’re supposed to bleed for him onto the page.” Rickie snorts. “Have some more rum.” He holds up the bottle. And I push my mug a little closer for him.

  Three

  Dylan

  In my bedroom, I pour myself a drop of scotch and listen while Kaitlyn plays a new composition on her acoustic guitar. I swear she played the same thing for me last weekend, but I won’t want to be a dick and point that out.

  Besides—it’s entirely possible that the music is just a ruse to get me alone. Kaitlyn is a crafty one.

  “You sound great,” I say when she finally sets down her guitar. And it’s true. Classical guitar isn’t something I understand very well, but she’s obviously talented.

  “Thank you, farm boy.”

  That’s her little nickname for me. Since it’s a reference to the greatest movie of all time—The Princess Bride—I should take it as a compliment. But all of Kaitlyn’s compliments have a dark side. In this case, it bugs the shit out of her that I really am a farm boy. It’s harvest season, and I have to go home every Saturday morning at the butt crack of dawn to help my family for the weekend.

  Until this year, I was a part-time student, driving to Burlington for classes. But that had kind of sucked, so when Rickie offered me a room in his house for practically nothing, I grabbed at the chance to be a full-time student. I get better financial aid this way, so I’m saving money over the long term.

  My brother hates this arrangement, though, because he’s shorthanded on the farm.

  “Play a duet with me?” Kaitlyn asks.

  “Nah,” I say, because I feel too lazy to get out my fiddle and tune it up.

  “Your loss.” She climbs into my lap and kisses me. “I missed you earlier. We were supposed to get dinner.”

  “Trust me,” I say, running a hand down her ribcage. She’s wearing a velvet top that begs to be touched. “I would rather get dinner with you than go home to be yelled at.” I push her hair off her slender neck and kiss the spot under her chin.

  She shivers. Kaitlyn is always horny, just like I am. That’s why I broke my No Dating rule to be with her. The sex is fantastic.

  Also, she’d insisted. We’re exclusive, or we don’t fuck, she’d said the first time I got her naked. Then? She’d swallowed my entire cock to the back of her throat and sucked me dry.

  And that’s how I ended up half of a couple. It’s not the most romantic story. It’s no Princess Bride. But it works for us, I guess.

  I take her mouth in a real kiss. This is what she’s been waiting for, anyway. Forget dinner. Kaitlyn tugs my shirt out of my pants and runs her hands up my chest as I give her my tongue. She straddles me, hooking her ankles behind my body, nestling the heat of her core against my thickening cock.

  It’s pretty great until my friend Keith calls up the stairs. “Dylan! Come and do a shot with me!”

  “Ignore him,” Kaitlyn whispers between kisses.

  For a moment I try. But it’s only ten o’clock, and the house is full of friends that I won’t get to see this weekend when I’m home selling apples.

  “There’s Jagermeister!” Keith tries, and I laugh as I break off from kissing Kaitlyn.

  She makes a noise of irritation. “Really? You’re choosing Jagermeister over me? Gross.”

  “It’s not over you,” I say mildly. “It’s before you.”

  “Two words: whiskey dick.”

  “Oh, please.” I lift her off my lap and set her onto the bed. “It was one time.” Rickie got me wasted on absinthe one night last week, and I passed out before I could fuck her. But Kaitlyn won’t go unsatisfied tonight.

  She knows it, too. She’s just impatient.

  I get up, adjusting my jeans to conceal my semi. “Come on. Bring your guitar if you want.” Kaitlyn likes an audience almost as much as she enjoys being fucked.

  We go downstairs together. Keith stops me in the foyer, pressing two shot glasses into my hand. I down the first one, then offer the second to Kaitlyn, who wrinkles up her nose.

  “There’s probably wine in the fridge,” I point out.

  Without a word, she disappears to go look for it.

  Keith trades me the shot glasses for the bong, and I take a deep, slow puff. Ahh. That’s when my shoulders begin to unknit. Finally.

  Most people love October. This weekend the country roads will be jammed full of tourists who drive up here just to revel in October’s colorful wonders.

  But I hate it. The days are short, the nights are dark, and my family’s business runs at one hundred and fifty percent capacity. And I can’t win with anybody. My brother is pissed off at me for living in Burlington. My girlfriend is pissed off at me for running home to Tuxbury each weekend.

  “Fucking October,” I say as Keith hands me another shot.

  “Yeah. Fucking midterms,” he agrees.

  It’s more than that, though. October is the month my father died. It’s been six years, but every October I feel raw. Like I’m bleeding out of every pore. I have a few remedies at my disposal to dull the ache: booze, home-grown pot, and sex. They’re not perfect, but they’re the best that I’ve got.

  “So when are you gonna bring home some new cider?” Keith asks. “I love that stuff.”

  Someone cranks up the Green Day just then, so I have to shout my answer. “Don’t know, man. Jagermeister is cheaper.” I don’t need my brother bitching at me for walking off with some of the fancy hard cider he makes. “There’s the bonfire in two weeks, though. Griffin always pours a lot of cider that night. You’re coming, right?”

  “YEAH!” Keith shouts back at me.

  Christ, it’s loud. I hope they don’t blow out Rickie’s speakers. “Where’s our fearless leader?”

  Keith shrugs. He leans into the living room to look around. “Rickie’s right there!” he shouts, pointing. “On the beanbag with your friend from home!”

  Uh-oh. Rickie better be taking good care of Chastity. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her in the kitchen. And—I can’t believe this happened—it sounds like she waited around in the library for me today when I was halfway across Vermont.

  I am such a dick.

  Stepping into the living room, I survey the wreckage. The party has deteriorated severely in the last forty minutes. Or improved, depending on your viewpoint. The lights are low and the music is loud and everyone looks half in the bag.

  Even Chastity, I realize with a start. Hell. She never drinks. I hustle over there and look down at where she and my roommate are sprawled out on the giant beanbag chair. “Chastity!” I shout. “Are you okay?”

  She lifts her head a little unsteadily. “I’m FIIIIIIINE,” she yells. “Did you know there’s people having sex on your couch?”

  Rickie giggles. “They are, aren’t they? Better be using condoms!” He shouts. “No messes!”

  I’m afraid to look, but I do anyway. And, yup. Rickie’s friend Igor is thrusting lazily into our friend Gretchen, who’s making out with a woman I haven’t met. Although now I’ve seen her bare tits, because she’s caressing them as they kiss.

  Right. “Time to go home, Chass,” I say, offering a hand to my friend.

  “Why?” she whines. “It’s really comfortable here. Although I kind of have to pee.” She burps.

  “Up you go.” I lean down even farther and take her hand. “Hit the bathroom and find your backpack. I’m walking you home.”

  “My backpack?” she slurs. “That does sound familiar.” She sways a little as she turns her head to look around.

  Uh-oh. I don’t know if she’s ever had anything stronger than the wine we drink at Thursday Dinner, the rotating party my family and hers share. “Bathroom is t
hat way,” I say, pointing toward the kitchen.

  “Right.” She toddles off.

  I haul Rickie to his feet next. “What were you thinking?” I yell over Green Day’s heavy drum beat.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  Ugh. I tow Rickie toward the kitchen. “You can’t give Chastity rum! She doesn’t drink at all.”

  “Everybody starts somewhere,” he says with a shrug.

  “Not Chastity,” I insist. To say that she grew up sheltered is like saying that Mussolini was a little pushy. Chastity didn’t cut her hair until she was nineteen. Before then, she never even wore jeans or swore or used makeup.

  “She’s fine, Dyl,” Rickie insists. “I would never hurt your friend. She had, like, three drinks.”

  “What’s the problem?” Kaitlyn demands, a glass of wine in one hand and a corn chip in the other.

  “Chastity got a little tipsy, and Dylan wants to call the paramedics.” Rickie rolls his eyes and leaves the kitchen.

  “I didn’t say we needed the paramedics,” I grunt. “But I have to make sure she gets home safe.” I pat my pocket, finding my keys there. “Let me grab a jacket.”

  “Wait, why?” Kaitlyn whines. “She’s a drunk college student. This town is full of them. She’ll either find her way home, or she’ll wake up on someone else’s floor. Just like anyone else.”

  “She’s not just like anyone else,” I point out. “I mean, every freshman gets drunk. But they go home to a roommate who makes sure they don’t die. And that’s you, right?”

  Kaitlyn makes a face. “My drunk freshman days are long past.”

  Right. That’s why it’s going to be me.

  I go to the back hall and grab my jean jacket. Kaitlyn sips her wine and watches me. She’s already a junior. Her family shipped her to Moo U after some kind of scandal in New York City. That’s how she ended up in the dorms with Chastity.

  I’m the same age as Kaitlyn but still officially a sophomore, since I started part time.

  Chastity is actually the oldest of us all. At twenty-one, she’s a year older than I am. But running away from a cult steals your teen years.

  “You’re making too big a deal of this,” Kaitlyn says, pointing toward the living room. “Look, she’s fine.”

  I walk to where I can see through the doorway. And there’s Chastity, back from the bathroom already and dancing in a loose, crazy freeform way beside Rickie. Every third or fourth beat they bump hips and then laugh.

  And now I’m smiling, because that is incredibly cute. Chastity isn’t one to let go very often. She’ll probably have a terrible hangover tomorrow. But right now she’s having fun.

  The song ends, and she and Rickie stand there breathing hard. “How do you feel about pot?” Rickie asks, his hands on his hips.

  “Never tried it!” Chastity replies.

  And that’s my cue. “Another time,” I say hastily. “Did you find your backpack?”

  “Yup!” she says.

  “Jacket?” I prompt.

  She shakes her head in an exaggerated way. “Didn’t wear one.”

  “Can’t we take your truck?” Kaitlyn appears behind me. She’s wearing her jacket, so I guess she’s coming with us.

  “No, I can’t drive. Too much booze and pot.” I’m barely tipsy, but I won’t risk it. I’m a fun guy, not a stupid one. “It’s a ten-minute walk at the max.” I put a hand on Chastity’s shoulder and guide her toward the door.

  “They’re still having sex,” she breathes. “Does it usually last that long?”

  Kaitlyn snorts, and Rickie chuckles. “Depends who you ask.”

  There’s a reason that I’ve never invited Chastity to one of Rickie’s parties. You never know what you’re going to see. I open the front door and remind Chastity to watch the steps. “They’re steep.”

  “I can handle a couple of stairs, Dyl,” she says with a sigh.

  “It’s cold,” Kaitlyn complains.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” I point out. “The wind off the lake makes Burlington one of the coldest places in Vermont.” I remove my jacket and lift Chastity’s backpack off her shoulder. “Trade you.”

  “Why?” she asks as I set the jacket onto her shoulders. “You don’t have to.”

  “I’ve got a flannel shirt on. And I run hot. All you’ve got is…” I gesture toward her pretty silk shirt. And I kick myself a little for noticing how good she looks tonight. It’s not the first time I’ve snagged my eyeballs on Chastity’s cleavage. You’d have to be blind not to see how pretty Chastity is, or how stacked.

  But it’s bad form to ogle your drunk friend. Luckily, Chastity accepts my jacket and buttons it, shielding that delicious cleavage from view.

  We head down the street. It’s a crisp, fall night. The lamps inside all the antique homes give the rooms a yellow hue. The air smells like falling leaves and wood smoke, and I associate that smell with sadness.

  Because I hate October.

  Chastity stumbles on a sidewalk crack, and my hand shoots out to catch her. But she doesn’t actually go down, and she quickly shakes off my hand.

  Beside me, Kaitlyn is silent and probably fuming. Good thing I know just how to cheer her up. You have to play to your own strengths.

  I’m not the most reliable guy. But I am a good time. Sometimes it’s enough.

  Four

  Chastity

  The walk home sobers me up a little. One of the loud songs from the party is still playing in my brain, and every few minutes I catch myself humming. Maybe I don’t know how to hold my rum, but I had a good time with Rickie. He’d been sillier tonight than I’d expected him to be.

  And he didn’t treat me like a child, the way Dylan does. I don’t need to be walked home like a puppy. The only upside is that Kaitlyn is super annoyed right now.

  I swear I’m usually a nice person, but she brings out the worst in me.

  When we get to the dorm, I expect Dylan and Kaitlyn to wave goodbye from the door and return to the party. But that’s not what happens. They walk inside with me. I press the elevator button because my feet are a little clumsy, and I don’t feel like proving anyone’s point by stumbling on the stairs.

  I have to hold tightly to the remaining shreds of my dignity. Not that there are very many.

  Upstairs, Dylan watches me unlock the door with slow fingers. “How’s your stomach?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I insist.

  “That’s good. I’m going to find you some Advil. If you take it now, you might not feel so bad in the morning.”

  “Good idea,” I mumble. I go into my room and find my flannel pajamas.

  I’m just removing my bra when Dylan walks in. “Whoa!” He turns around in a hurry. “Brought you a glass of water, too,” he says, facing the wrong direction.

  “Thanks.” Dylan is really so nice to me. He feeds me. He looks after me. Except in the way that I really want him to…

  “If you still feel okay at breakfast, we can study some algebra,” he says.

  “Oh, we’re totally studying algebra.” I don’t know why he thinks I’m going to be wrecked by a couple mugs of spiked cider. Rickie didn’t think it was a big deal.

  I button my top and tap him on the shoulder. “It’s safe to look now.” I take the glass of water out of his hand, and he smiles when he hands me the pills. “Sleep well.” He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

  A kiss from Dylan. But not the kiss I’m always dreaming about. “Thank you,” I say softly. “You, too.”

  He turns and leaves me in my room alone, closing the door quietly behind him..

  Tonight was fun and also a little humiliating. That’s how college is shaping up for me. I like the independence, even if Dylan thinks I can't handle it. And I can't live with Leah and Isaac forever.

  I like the classes, too, even though they’re hard for me. Since I didn’t go to high school, I had to take the GED tests before I could apply to Moo U. Those weren’t so bad. But college courses are defin
itely a level up.

  Especially algebra. I need all the help I can get.

  I swallow the pills and drink the water. When I set the empty glass down on my desk, I remember that Kaitlyn had said she’d left a note for me here. So where is it? My eyes rove the desk’s surface. I don’t see a note.

  So it’s her fault that I sat alone for hours at the library?

  Just when I’m ready to give up looking, I spot it. There’s a row of sticky notes on the wall just over my desk. Each note has a title and author of one of the books I’m supposed to read for my Small Business class. And on the bottom edge of one of them—in faint pencil—is scribbled: D can’t make it to lib.

  You have got to be kidding me. And she thinks I ruined her night?

  Upset now, I head to the bathroom and give my teeth an angry brushing. Then I stomp back to my room, get into my bed, and shut out the light.

  When I stop moving around, I can hear Kaitlyn and Dylan speaking to one another in her room on the other side of the wall. I listen, waiting for Dylan to leave with her. They’ll go back to his giant bed and…

  Honestly, I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about Dylan having sex. Does he tease her as they start to kiss? Is he smiley, laughing Dylan? Or is he just so hungry for it that he’s too busy stripping her clothes off to talk or smile?

  That second image really appeals to me. If I were the one in the bed with him, I wouldn’t want him to joke around. I’d want it to be like a sudden storm on a summer’s day. Fast-moving and dangerous, blotting out the sun and beating down its wrath upon my bare body. No time to think.

  There’s a reason I don’t tell many people all the things inside my head.

  Last week, as I passed the coffee shop, I’d seen Dylan and Kaitlyn on the other side of the plate-glass window. The coffee shop is where Kaitlyn likes to do her homework. I can't afford to buy coffee that doesn’t come from the dining hall, so I never go inside that place. That day they’d been together on a purple velvet sofa by the window, Kaitlyn’s head on Dylan’s lap, Dylan’s hand on her sleek hair. His attention seemed focused on the paperback book in his other hand.