by Sarina Bowen
That's the one I open first, because the stakes are low.
August Shipley: I heard you clocked Daphne's ex. I also heard he had it coming. That’s a real bad boy at work. Just remember that bones heal, and chicks dig scars.
Huh. So that’s one Shipley who doesn’t seem to hate me. But not the one that matters. I scroll again, finding frantic messages from Lenore. Uh-oh. I seem to remember leaving off in the middle of a conversation with her.
And, yup, she’s been blowing up my phone, sounding increasingly panicked. So I text back in a hurry. I’m sorry! I just got my phone back online. And that’s not the only thing. It’s been a hell of a week. But the good news is that my memory is suddenly coming back.
I swear it takes barely five seconds before she’s typing a reply.
Lenore: What’s the bad news? I’m afraid to ask.
Rickie: Oh boy. Don’t be mad.
Lenore: I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to listen.
Rickie: The bad news is that I was arrested for punching the guy who broke all my ribs.
Lenore: WHAT? OMG, After I make sure you’re okay I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!
Rickie: Didn’t you just say…?
Lenore: I lied. Why did you put yourself in that situation? Answer your phone.
It rings in my hand.
“Dad, I kind of have to take this.”
“Is it the girlfriend?” he asks.
“Actually, my therapist.”
“Ah.” I see his flinch, even though he tries to hide it. Because real men don’t see therapists, or train to become one. Real men fly aircraft. “Go ahead, son,” he says. Because he’s trying, I guess.
“Hey,” I say into the phone. “I knew you’d freak.”
“Did you put yourself in a dangerous situation?” she asks.
“Yes. I thought I could handle it. Or at least I hoped I could. But I was wrong.”
“You didn’t own your trauma,” she says softly.
“No,” I admit. “And it almost cost me everything.”
“Do you need to come and see me?” she asks. “I’ll make time for you. Even on a Saturday.”
“It can wait until Wednesday,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yeah—but I promise to call if I’m struggling.”
“This will be you someday,” she says. “Worrying about a patient when you’re supposed to be enjoying your weekend.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I agree. “But don’t worry about me, okay? Except for my broken nose, the bruises all over my face, and the split lip, I’m fine.”
She lets out a shriek, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid going deaf.
My father laughs in the driver’s seat.
“Rickie! Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m fine. I promise. But I am not quite the looker I was last week. This is going to cost me some applause on karaoke night.”
“I’m glad you can joke about it,” she says, her voice low. “But I’m still worried.”
“It’s just a setback,” I insist. “We’ll talk soon.”
She fusses over me for another minute, and then I hang up, exhausted. In truth, I feel wrecked. And it’s not just my face. I feel hungover—if not from alcohol, then from life. At least it’s Saturday, and Daphne will be at the farm. I don’t have to face her. Not yet.
“Tell me where to turn,” my father says, exiting the highway. “Let’s get you home. I finally get to see this house.”
You were always welcome here, I want to say. It was his choice to stay away from this place, because he didn’t approve of how I came to own it.
But for once in my life, I keep my trap shut. A guy can only fight so many battles on one day.
A few minutes later he pulls up in front of my house, and I’ve never been so happy to be anywhere in my life. “Come on in,” I say, climbing out of the passenger seat. “The house has good bones, and a new roof. The kitchen is stuck in a time warp, but I don’t mind it.”
“Cool roofline!” he enthuses. “If you ever want to sell, we could do a remodel of the kitchen.”
“I think I’ll just stay put.” Leaving Vermont is obviously hazardous to my health. And since I’ve somehow avoided becoming a convicted felon, I’m still hoping to apply to the PsyD program at Moo U.
I take my dad inside, and I use the last of my energy to give him a tour of the first floor. I let him crow about the moldings and the original wood floors.
“This is a nice place, son.” He rubs the oak bannister distractedly. “I hope you’re very happy here. I'm sorry I let shit come between us. None of it was your fault.”
“Uh, thanks,” I grunt, too exhausted to be more gracious.
“I’m serious. Let's not be strangers," he says. "Even if you do actually fall off a damn wall, Rickie. I don’t care anymore. I’ve missed you."
Oh, hell. I don't have the fortitude for more emotions today. “Thanks, Dad.”
He claps me on the back. "You look beat. I'm going to go so that you can get some rest."
"Yeah, okay." I hear a creak from somewhere upstairs. Must be the wind. "Thanks for the ride back to town.”
"Anytime."
I show him out. And the minute the door is closed, I sit down heavily on the staircase. I'm almost too tired to get up and head for my room, no matter how badly I want to see my bed.
Behind me, I hear another creak, and all the hair stands up on the back of my neck. "Keith?" I call out. But his car wasn’t in the driveway with the Volvo.
When I hear a footfall above me, I turn around fast. I'm startled to see that it's Daphne who's descending the stairs.
“Oh, hi," I say stupidly, scrambling to my feet. I'm so not ready for this.
"Oh God, your face,” she whispers. “What happened?"
“It ran into a cop's fist. But it looks worse than it is.”
Her eyes get red as she descends the stairs. “They beat you?"
"It was one punch. That's what a dumbass gets for hitting the son of the most powerful man in Connecticut."
A tear rolls down her cheek. "You didn't reply to my texts."
Shit. I hold up my phone. “It was, uh, dead until exit 10. Charger was in the Volvo.” But I realize I’m just being a dick right now. “Daphne, look. I know I could have tracked you down. But I honestly don’t have any idea what to say to you.”
Her beautiful eyes narrow. “Maybe you could have begun by letting me know you're still alive?"
Shit. I guess we're doing this right now. I take a step backward, because I cannot reach for her. It would probably break me. And I have to get this out. “I failed you from the very start, right? No calls or texts when I stood you up. That’s kind of a pattern with me. I tell you that I’m the man for you, and then I let you down.”
“Rickie,” she gasps. “There were a few extenuating circumstances. I wanted to tell you how happy I was that you pled not guilty. And that it worked. I’ve been waiting all day to see you. Don’t do this.”
But that’s the problem. I’m basically a toxin in her life. “Yeah, I rolled the dice in the courtroom, and it came up lucky. That was selfish. I would have dragged you into my mess.”
She shakes her head. “I wanted you to beat him. We were pulling for you. May said she’d tell you to go for it. But she wouldn’t let me come, too. She said you wouldn’t want me there. And anyway, I had to go speak to the dean. You want to hear what she had to say?”
Yes, yes I do. But that isn’t what I say. “I hope it’s all good things, Daphne. You deserve that. But I hope you understand that you also deserve better than me.”
After I get those difficult words out, I turn and walk away, finally reaching my room. Where I lock the door behind me.
Forty-Five
Daphne
My mouth drops open as he walks away.
I’ve been waiting—waiting in this empty house for hours, just hoping he’d turn up. Now he’s here. He’s home. And I feel like
I’ve been slapped.
Once again, a man I trusted has thrown me overboard. I stand here, feeling foolish, heaving in a breath so deep it hurts my lungs.
But then I let it out again, and I realize a few things in quick succession. Rickie came face to face with our common enemy. At which point he put himself between me and Reardon, to try to save me from my own stupidity.
Then he flew at Reardon right after the guy called me a whore. After which he was punched by a cop and spent a night in jail, before facing down a judge.
That’s a lot.
In fact, I’ve buckled under far less pressure than that, and I’ve done worse damage. Just ask my sister.
I take another deep breath, and then I do what needs doing. I walk through the house to Rickie’s door, and then I knock.
No answer.
I knock again, but he still doesn’t open the door. So I take out a credit card. Dylan and I taught ourselves to open each other’s bedroom doors at a young age. And I opened Reardon’s office door with this same technique just a few days ago.
But, damn it, Rickie’s lock is made of sterner stuff. My card trick fails, and I’m foiled again. I put the credit card away. Then I back up a couple of steps, turn my body to the side, and ram the door, shoulder first. I hit with a loud crash, but the door doesn’t give. And I bounce awkwardly to the floor.
My shoulder hurts, now.
This isn’t going well.
The door is suddenly yanked open. “What the hell are you doing?” Rickie booms, looking down at my crazy self in a heap on the hallway floor. “Don’t break yourself. We’ve had enough trouble already this week. Jesus Christ.”
“Fine.” I scramble to my feet. “But I’m not letting you do this. You’re not shutting me out. We’re a team, okay? Those were your words, asshole.”
He gives me a look that’s pure exasperation. Then he turns around and walks back over to his bed, where he lies down on his side, facing away from me.
It’s not exactly a hand-lettered invitation. But I take it anyway. I close the door and follow him to the bed, where I curl up against his back. And I tuck an arm around his waist.
He doesn’t move, or acknowledge me. But he doesn’t fight it, either.
Suddenly I feel weepy again, which is really inconvenient. But he’s so warm and solid, and he makes my heart ache. “I don’t care whether you’re guilty or innocent. I’m just glad you’re here.”
“You might have cared,” he says dully, “if you had to take the stand and tell a jury everything you did on Wednesday night, and then everything I did.”
“You’re wrong,” I insist with a shaking voice. “I’d do it right now if you needed me to—if it meant I could spend another night right here with you.” I tighten my arm around his waist and breathe in his scent.
“Daphne…” He sighs. And then finally, he lays a hand over mine. “I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s crap,” I whisper. “Lenore would agree.”
His abs contract under my hand, as if he nearly laughed. “Dirty play, Shipley.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Nope. But I probably wouldn’t believe her, either, so…”
“You should.” I press my face against his back. “Maybe today you just can’t hear me. I have those days, too. But this will pass, Rickie. And I’ll still be here when it does. Because we’re a team. And…” I take another deep breath. “Because I love you.”
Rickie goes very still. And my poor, bruised little heart braces itself.
Slowly, Rickie rolls over to face me. And when I see that black-and-blue face, it’s hard work not crying. But then I make myself focus on his clear gray eyes, and I feel calm again.
“Baby,” he whispers. “I love you so much it hurts.”
My whole being relaxes. “That’s just your broken nose,” I whisper back. “Do you need some Advil?”
“Yes,” he says, with a sheepish smile. And his eyes look suddenly wet. “But first I need to hug you.” He reaches out and pulls me closer.
We fit ourselves together right there in the center of the bed—my face in his neck, his hands stroking my hair.
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he says softly.
“I could say the same,” I point out. “You’re the one who told me not to give up hope.”
“Don’t,” he says, rocking me against him. “Let’s never give up.”
Forty-Six
Rickie
With Daphne in my arms, I’m truly calm for the first time in days. My heartbeat slows, and my thoughts lengthen into slippery, shiny things. I fall asleep in spite of my pain. And when I wake up a couple of hours later, Daphne is curled up to me, her back to my front. She’s breathing so peacefully that I don’t move for a few minutes, afraid to wake her.
Eventually, I need those painkillers. So I ease away from her just long enough to venture out for some water and a couple of pills.
When I sneak back onto the bed, Daphne rolls over and cuddles up against me. “I should get up and go to the grocery store,” she murmurs.
“Let me order in,” I insist. “I’d rather not go out with this busted face. But I’ll treat you to some takeout. I owe you big time.”
“No you don’t,” she says, her eyes still closed. “But I’ll take it anyway. Can we order wings from Biscuit in the Basket?”
“If that’s what my girl wants.”
She makes a sleepy, happy noise. And I stroke her hair and marvel at my own luck. I don’t deserve her. But I am not dumb enough to say so again. So instead I pick up my phone and scroll through all the messages from the people who are also crazy enough to care about me.
Keith: Did you really spend the night in the slammer? I hope cavity searches are not really a thing. LMK.
Dylan: Did you really punch Daphne’s ex? I thought I was going to do that.
Lenore: I know you said Wednesday. But I’m here if you need me!
I also read Daphne’s texts, which alternate between worry and more worry. Oof. I guess all I can do is try to make sure I don’t put her in that position again.
Then I open up my email, which is basically a habit at this point, since I spent several days waiting for Paul to write me. To my surprise, there’s a new email waiting.
* * *
Rick—
I haven’t heard back from you. I know I did the whole “I can’t talk about it” thing to you. But then I sent you off to see that posting, and since you’re the smartest guy I ever met, I’m thinking you must have found it.
Now your silence is making me nervous.
If you need to talk, I’m @Luigi2000 on AppSnap.
—Paul
* * *
A shiver runs through me. Because I’ve never played a Mario Brothers game, and yet I suddenly remember that Paul likes them, and that Luigi is a character. I just know it, but I don’t remember the context.
Getting your memory back is weird. I guess it’s not all going to materialize in front of me like my fairy godmother. It’s going to come back in little awkward flashes and insights.
I’d better brace myself, then.
I open up AppSnap and make a login for myself—@McFly2000. Then I tap in his handle and send him a message.
Hi. It’s your dotty ex-roommate. Thank you for this. I’d never try to screensave anything you say on here. Just thought I’d put that out there.
Paul comes back only a minute later. Appreciate that. And I trust you. Did you find it?
I sure did. And I learned a lot. Unfortunately I then came face to face with a certain ex-cadet and was arrested for attacking him. You won’t find it in the news, though, because his powerful daddy decided not to let the state’s attorney press charges.
There is the digital equivalent of a stunned silence on Paul’s end. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone there.
But then he sends me a photo. It only stays on-screen for ten seconds, but I drink it in. There’s his face—his familiar face—registering an expression of comical
horror. Say what?
I laugh out loud. God, it’s great to see his face. He’s thin and a little nerdy. And that ten-second glimpse reminds me how I felt about him. I knew him as a force for good in the world.
I can’t send you a selfie today, I tell him. I have a broken nose. But when it heals, I’ll show you the long-haired version of this sexy beast.
Don’t ever change, he says. Since we’re doing this, what else do you need to know?
That’s a good question, isn’t it? Lenore has been trying to tell me that I don’t need to know anything. And maybe she’s right.
It’s strange, but now that we’re actually talking, I find it doesn’t matter so much anymore. You’re here. I’m here. My girlfriend is napping beside me.
That’s great, man. Someday I want to hear the story of your arrest. Over beers.
Yes! That MUST happen.
Congrats on the girlfriend. I expect to see a cute selfie of you two at some point.
Yessir. Wait, I DO have a question! Do you remember me talking about Daphne? I was supposed to pick her up on the Saturday night of Open Weekend. But I stood her up at 8pm. I realize that night ended horribly a few hours later. But it would be super cool if you knew why I blew off my date beforehand.
He comes back right away. Hold on. There’s no way you could have picked her up that night. You were probably being transferred to the hospital right about then. Because our troubles began on Friday night.
I’m stunned. Really? My hospital record says Saturday.
Yeah. That’s why they fired the infirmary guy. Somebody decided to keep us in the infirmary a whole 24 hours before admitting we needed the hospital. You had internal bleeding. I had to listen to them argue about whether or not you could die.
I must gasp or something because Daphne shakes herself, sits up, and reads over my shoulder. “Oh wow. Is this your roommate?”