by Sarina Bowen
She pushes the cassette into the player. Prince starts singing “Let’s Go Crazy.”
We’re in my Volvo, with a load of Daphne’s clothes and books in the back seat, and I’m counting down the exits. This is it. School is starting again. I had a great summer with my girl, and—apart from my muscle pain—I feel pretty great about life.
Daphne had been slow to pack up her room, so Dylan and Chastity drove the truck back ahead of us. Tomorrow we’re all registering for fall courses. Then there are two days of classes before we go back to Colebury to pick apples again.
The last three weeks have been crazy busy. I have mad respect for the Shipley clan, especially Dylan. I always knew my friend was a hard worker. But I never quite understood what the busy season meant for him. It means picking the earliest apples from sunup to sundown, while also preparing the farm for an invasion of tourists. Meanwhile, the cows and goats still need to be milked.
And August is just the start. There are miles upon miles of ripening apples in that orchard. As the season progresses, they’ll turn red faster than the Shipleys can pick them.
Dylan puts the “full-time” in “full-time student.” That’s for damn sure. And Daphne has agreed to go back with him and Chastity on the weekends to help out.
Which means I’ll probably do the same sometimes, because I fall a little more stupid in love with Daphne every day. That’s me—falling for a girl who thinks she’s moving across the country a year from now.
I guess I’ll deal with that when it happens. For now, I’m going to enjoy her.
Although, since the night her family learned we’re a couple, we’ve barely spent any time alone together. Daphne doesn’t want to fool around in the house where her mother and grandfather might hear, and I don’t blame her.
So we haven’t found many moments of accidental solitude. Except for one fun night when we parked Dylan’s pickup truck on a deserted country road and had a quickie on the back seat. That was a good time. And now I get to tease Daphne about being a real Vermonter.
My foot is heavy on the gas pedal as the first Burlington exits finally appear. I’m eager to get back to the house—and sleep past six a.m. tomorrow morning for the first time in weeks.
“Almost there!” Daphne says from the passenger seat. She reaches over and gives my arm a happy squeeze. She seems lighter and happier than she’s been in a long time.
I like to imagine that I’m at least partially responsible. “What if we didn’t haul this stuff up to your room yet?” I ask. “We could collapse in my room and watch a movie instead.”
“Sure,” she says easily. “What do you want to watch?”
“Who cares? I’ll probably tune it out and strip you naked after the first ten minutes anyway.”
She laughs. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. What do you want to watch ten minutes of? Pick something exciting so I don’t pass out early.”
“Did I say ten minutes? I meant five.”
When we reach my house, the truck is in the driveway, but there’s nobody downstairs. Even Keith’s door is shut when I troop upstairs to drop a box of clothes on Daphne’s new floor.
“I don’t know if I can live in such a noisy house,” Daphne whispers when I return to the first floor.
“I know, right?”
She puts a box of books down in the living room. “Can I park this here for now?”
“Of course. You want a beer? I stocked up on Wednesday.”
“I’ll just have a sip of yours,” she says, yawning.
I steer her toward my room. “Pick a show to watch. I’ll be right there.”
A few minutes later, we’re both nestled comfortably in my bed. We’re watching one of those singing competition shows, because when Daphne had flipped past the channel, someone was covering “Like I’m Gonna Lose You” by Meghan Trainor.
“Yours was better,” she’d said. And now we’re watching a fourteen-year-old girl sing an opera aria.
Or—wait—I am. Daphne is asleep. She’s snuggled onto my chest, eyelashes curled down to her cheeks, breathing peacefully.
I sip my beer and watch the silly show. Having Daphne here in my room is exactly what my heart wants. But I’m still that guy who can’t fall asleep with company. Last time this happened, I’d solved the problem by going to sleep in her room.
And maybe I’ll have to do that again. But I’m not going down without a fight.
So I slide out from beneath her and get ready for bed. I shut all the lights off, and check all the locks on the doors. Then I go into my room and close that door too. I lock it, of course.
When I’m lifting the covers, Daphne rolls over. But she doesn’t wake up. She only sighs deeply.
I strip down and lie beside her, closing my eyes. I’m so tired. My muscles ache. And I just want to do this simple thing that other people can do—fall asleep in a bed where someone else is. This is so peaceful, I tell myself. There are so many people I care about under this roof.
Logic doesn’t always matter, though. Ask anyone with a phobia.
Tonight, the message seems to be penetrating my tired brain. I’m safe, I remind myself. My trauma is in the past. I can’t pretend it isn’t there, lurking in the shadows. That doesn’t work.
But right here, right now, everything is fine. I listen to Daphne breathing steadily beside me. And I slow down my breathing, matching my rhythm to hers. It’s like a meditation, except instead of focusing on my own breathing, I’m focusing on hers.
Until I’m not anymore.
The bed moves suddenly. That’s the kind of thing that ought to startle me. Except Daphne’s voice says, “Omigod. I’m sorry.”
My limbs are heavy. I only slit my eyes open to see sunlight pouring into my room. Then I close them again.
“Rickie. I slept here. And you slept, too!”
“Still doing it,” I slur.
She laughs. “Isn’t this great? I don’t mean that it’s great that I overstayed my welcome. But you don’t look like you minded. Were you awake all night?”
“Nuh uh,” I breathe.
“So that’s progress?”
“Mmm.” She’s not wrong. But now that I’ve figured out how to sleep, I’m down for the count.
Daphne runs a hand though my hair, and slides off the bed. I hear her unlock the door and leave, closing it softly behind her.
My consciousness is a half-formed, floaty thing. The bed is warm, and I’m hard, because I’m so comfortable and the pillow smells like Daphne. Everything in my life is wonderful, because I slept in a bed with my girlfriend like every other horny guy on the planet. Go me.
A little later, it gets even more wonderful, when a freshly showered Daphne comes back into the room a half hour later with a mug of tea.
“Is that for me?” I mumble. But of course it is, because Daphne is a coffee drinker.
“Yes, sleepyhead.” She sets it down on the bedside table.
“I’m unworthy.” I push myself up into a sitting position.
Her eyes widen at the view, because I sleep naked. “Good morning to you.”
“Isn’t it?” I reach for the hot tea and take a sip. I let the comforter stay where it is—low on my thighs. Then I give her a sexy smirk.
Daphne gulps. “I’m liking Burlington a little more than I ever expected to.”
“Are you now?” I run a shameless hand over my tattooed pecs. “Why don’t you close the door?”
She does it.
“I like your first day of school outfit.” She’s wearing another of her short skirts, with a pretty blue shirt. “But please take it off.”
“We only have an hour until we’re supposed to leave,” she whispers.
“Darling, that’s plenty of time.” I put the tea back down on the table. Then I toss the covers off my body. “You need some help?”
“Sure,” she says, biting back a smile. “Why don’t you show me what you have in mind?”
I lean over and catch the back of her smooth leg in my hand. And I ru
n my fingers very lightly up the back of her thigh, under her skirt, until she shivers. My cock thickens against the sheet, and I let out a happy sigh.
As I unzip her skirt, Daphne lifts her shirt over her head and tosses it onto my rug. “Take off your bra,” I whisper. “Come closer. Let me love you.”
She begins to obey, but I’m impatient. So I wrap both my arms around her legs and pull her onto the bed, where she topples onto my body.
And she’s laughing—until I shut her up with my mouth.
The lady said we didn’t have much time. So I ply her with kisses. And it isn’t long until I have her spread out on her back, her hands gripping my shoulders as I move inside her. Our morning together is made up of white sheets, sunshine, and bare skin.
Then she catches me off guard, suddenly tensing her body with a sweet, climactic gasp. She pulses around me, and then moans.
So I’m done for, too. I plunge my tongue into her mouth and groan as I come fast and hard.
And then I bury my face in her neck and laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she pants, her arms flopping out to her sides.
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” I grin against her smooth skin. “I spent so much time trying to get back my old memories. But all I had to do was make some new ones.”
“Yeah, okay. True. This will probably be a top-twenty memory for me.”
“Twenty?” I yelp. “Sweetheart, please. I’m climbing your leaderboard a hell of a lot faster than that.”
“I’m just leaving some space, McFly,” she whispers. “It’s only the first day of school.”
“I like how you think.”
She squeezes my hand. And I squeeze hers right back.
Thirty-Seven
Daphne
Maybe I’m just a snob who was ripe for a lesson in humility. But I hadn’t expected to like Moo U very much. I thought it would be big and impersonal. I thought the classes would be easier than the ones at Harkness.
But nope. My professors are every bit as sharp and engaging as the ones I had at Harkness. So the homework starts piling up almost immediately. It’s a good thing I only have four academic classes: a senior seminar on reproductive biology, a history course on voting rights in the twentieth century, an English course, and an upper-level statistics class.
Because I also needed a phys ed course to meet Burlington University’s requirements. This came as an unwelcome surprise. “At least there won’t be any homework,” I’d grumbled to Rickie.
“I’ve been putting that off, too,” Rickie had said. “Any ideas on what you’ll choose?”
“Um, I was considering badminton,” I’d admitted. “It sounds easier than weight training, or swimming, or any of the others.”
Rickie had laughed. And then he’d signed up for badminton, too. So now on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, we’re swinging at birdies together. And Rickie wears a vintage tennis outfit—a tight polo-collar shirt with sleeves short enough to show off his tats, and a pair of short white tennis shorts—just to troll me.
So that burden has become a blast. I don’t know what’s more surprising—enjoying my phys ed requirement, or the fact that Rickie is the one who makes me love it so much.
It’s hard to deny how important he’s become to my whole life. I’m not the only one who appreciates him, either. It’s been eye-opening to see him in his natural habitat. People just turn up at the house on Spruce Street every Thursday and Friday night. They bring booze and pot and music. He’s magnetic, and I’m not the only one who notices.
Yet I’m the one he kisses every time he comes home. It’s a little mind-blowing.
Meanwhile, I’m still working Wednesday afternoons at the School of Public Health.
“We’re going to need you at karaoke again,” Karim points out during the third week of school.
“Weeknights are for homework. Besides, you’re not interested in my singing,” I point out. “You just want Rickie there.”
Jenn giggles. “You may be right about him. But I want you there, Shipley. Boyfriend or not.”
And I’m pretty sure she means it. I’ve made friends whether I meant to or not. Go figure.
Life in Burlington—and on Spruce Street—is a whole lot nicer than I expected. Just to keep up the appearance of my independence, I sometimes sleep in my own room. But just as often I end up in Rickie’s bed. All night long, too. Waking up to his naked body curled around mine is heaven. Sometimes, when he smiles at me, I just want to pinch myself.
Honestly, it’s a problem. Rickie is on his way to becoming the first man I ever really loved. He’s already the first one I’ve ever trusted with my heart. And if I ever get these grad school applications done, it’s not going to be easy to walk away from him.
But I know I’ll have to.
As promised, I drive back home to the farm with Dylan and Chastity every Friday night or Saturday morning. The orchard hours are not helping with my workload. I should be writing my grad school essays instead of picking apples. But Griffin is so grateful for the help. And my mother is happy to see me.
Besides—I’ve been away for so long that I’d forgotten how good the cider house smells when my brother is pressing apples. The last time I experienced that was the weekend I rode home with Rickie from Harkness. That was almost three years ago.
“Bet you don’t miss the pony cart,” my brother says one afternoon as we sort apples for the farmers’ market.
“You’d be right,” I agree. When the Abrahams moved away, they’d sold the horses. So now the apple pickers actually have to walk to where the Honeycrisps grow.
“Me neither,” he agrees. “They’re pooping their way across someone else’s farm now.”
I snicker. “And we don’t have to argue about that job anymore.”
“Right. Really appreciate having you here, though,” he says, tossing a wormy apple into the compost can. “Means a lot, Daph.”
“No problem,” I say quickly. “Wish we could get even more of this done before tonight.”
He gives his head a little shake. “We’re doing fine. It’s nice having you around again. Here and in Burlington. That’s all.”
“Really?” I blurt out.
My brother laughs. “Really. We weren’t always trying to drown each other in the baby pool, right? We had fun sometimes.”
“Yeah. We did,” I admit.
“You could stay in Vermont longer than a year, you know. Just saying.”
I lift my head to argue with him. But I’m not fast enough. He’s already grabbed his empty bushel basket and walked off, whistling to himself.
Dylan likes having me around. But he also likes having the last word. That’s how it is having a twin brother.
And I can’t say I mind.
Not much, anyway.
It’s a Thursday night in September, and we’re finishing up the Chinese food we all ordered together. I dump the last bit of fried rice onto my brother’s plate. “You know you want this.” Dylan is a bottomless pit, and always has been.
“Thanks. I totally do.”
I carry my plate over to the sink and rinse it. Rickie joins me there. He places a hand lightly on my back. “I ran into Karim in the library. He wants a karaoke rematch. Can you swing it next Wednesday night?”
“Um, no,” I say. “There’s something I need to do. Actually…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I have a favor to ask. Can I talk to you privately?”
“Any time, baby girl.” He takes the plate out of my hand and puts it into the dishwasher. “Why don’t you step into my office? We can do some filing.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Dylan, with a mouthful of fried rice, makes a disgusted sound. “Stop it with the creepy euphemisms.”
Rickie snickers and leads me into his room, where I close the door. “Do you really need a favor?” he asks.
“Yes.” I sit on the bed.
“A sexual favor?” He climbs behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders.
“No, b
ut you can keep doing that anyway.”
Soft lips kiss my neck. “What can I do for you?”
“Can I drive the Volvo to Connecticut next week? I’d borrow Dylan’s truck, but I don’t want to explain where I’m headed.”
Rickie’s hands go still on my shoulders. “Where are you headed?”
“Harkness. Remember that invitation I showed you? The reception is on Wednesday. I plan to drive down, stay for less than an hour, and drive back.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He goes back to massaging my shoulders. “Are you just going to schmooze?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m going to slip into the office and get the postal account password out of that file folder.”
“Daphne, baby. What if you didn’t?”
“What if I didn’t what?” I demand.
“Didn’t get it. Don’t take that chance,” he says, dropping his hands. “Is it worth it?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Then I spin around so I can see his solemn face. And there’s a dark look in his eye that makes no sense to me. “I need to fix what he did.”
Rickie sits back, propping himself up on muscular arms, frowning. “You didn’t make that mess, Daphne. It isn’t yours to clean up.”
“But it’s science,” I insist. “It matters.”
“So write a letter telling the dean where to find this information.”
“No way. If I strike out at him, it has to be ironclad. I need to see the evidence first. Otherwise he’ll bury me.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No. I can’t,” I insist.
Besides—he’s wrong. I did make this mess. I was in charge of this data. And if I hadn’t slept with Reardon, I would have been able to ring the alarm the moment I saw something was wrong. I wouldn’t have let him blackmail me.
I’m such an idiot. But if I can fix this problem, I won’t have to feel like one anymore.
“Okay,” Rickie says.
My heart lifts. “I can use the car?”
“I’ll drive you down there,” he says. “You let me go with you.”