Waylaid Page 12

  That afternoon, I practically gallop into Lenore’s office. As I’m waiting for her door to open, I receive a notification on WhatsApp. It's a new message from Daphne.

  Clever girl. She switched apps, probably hoping I wouldn't find our old texts.

  Too late.

  Daphne: Guess what? Mom says you and I are going to be on our own for dinner anyway. Seems everyone else has plans.

  Let the healing begin.

  Rickie: So we can have noodles, right?

  It ought to make for an interesting dinner. Me stammering out an apology that’s two and a half years overdue.

  Daphne: We might as well. It’s either that or we’re foraging for leftovers.

  Rickie: Cool, cool. I know I’m only your dinner date of convenience but I’ll take whatever scraps you throw me.

  Then I send her a GIF of a cute, begging dog. It’s just the opening foray into the round of groveling I owe her.

  It’s not a date, she replies. Then she sends me a GIF of a door closing in a guy’s face.

  Now that I know I deserve her wariness, everything makes so much more sense. No wonder Daphne doesn’t trust me.

  I send back a picture of a dozen roses anyway. Because it’s hard to give up being the irritating bastard that I am.

  When I sit down in the chair a minute later, Lenore asks me if I've made any progress on my homework.

  “Oh…a little.” I’ve forgotten all about aversion therapy. It’s the furthest thing from my mind. “Yeah, I started thinking about it. I went outside at night, and lay on a blanket to put myself in the mindset of being exposed. But then I got distracted.”

  “Another bear?” she asks.

  “Nah. Daphne. But look—something weird just happened.”

  I unlock my phone and show her the godawful texts I exchanged with Daphne all those years ago. And she winces at all the same places I did.

  “But that’s not even the strangest thing,” I point out. “This Saturday night when Daphne was waiting for me? I’m pretty sure it’s the same one that I ended up in the hospital.”

  Lenore’s eyes widen. “You think it is? Or you know it is?”

  “Well, this was for the Saturday night of Open Weekend. I woke up in the hospital two days later. And they said I was injured at an off-campus party.”

  “You were supposed to take Daphne to an off-campus party,” Lenore says slowly.

  “Right.”

  “Wow, Rickie. Maybe you didn't stand her up at all. Maybe you got hurt and never read these texts!”

  “Maybe,” I say slowly. The timing doesn’t quite work, though. Unless… “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure?”

  “Can you pull my file and look at the oldest stuff in it? The date of my injury wasn’t really interesting to me before. But now—”

  “Yeah, okay,” she agrees. “But I do remember that the medical stuff in there was super thin. The Academy didn’t send us much to go on. But I’ll try. No matter what, you’re not the kind of guy who stands a girl up without a good reason.”

  “Aren’t I?” I lean back in the chair, and close my eyes. The usual blank wall greets me. And it’s just as frustrating as ever. No—it’s worse. A man is supposed to take responsibility for his actions. And I don’t even know what mine were.

  I open my eyes again. “That's really seductive thinking, Lenore. Like—if I don't remember what happened, I get to choose. I can either decide that I was this dick who screws around with virgins. Or I can be this romantic ideal—the sleeping prince who broke seven bones and couldn’t reach out to the princess. That just sounds too convenient. Did you ever read Choose Your Own Adventure novels?”

  “Sure.” She grins. “I liked that one with the unicorn. Sue me.”

  “Well, I used to cheat. I’d keep my thumb in the page where I made the last choice. And if I didn’t like the outcome, I’d flip back and try again. That’s me right now deciding whether I’m unlucky or just a dick.”

  “Now hang on.” She leans forward in her chair. “First of all, every kid cheated with those books. I had an elaborate system of numbered bookmarks so I could reverse any decision.”

  I bark out a laugh. “I knew you were an overachiever.”

  “Shut up. And second—you’re still no different from the rest of us. Reframing your past is what everyone who sits in that chair is doing. Every guy who’s telling me about his own failed marriage is trying to decide if he’s unlucky or just a dick. You’re not that special. Nobody needs to forget his past to realize that it has several different interpretations.”

  “Oh, please. Like it wouldn’t be helpful to know what my intentions were?”

  She smiles really sweetly at me, and it’s irritating as hell. “Rickie, look. You don't have to remember the events of that night in December to know who you are.”

  “God, if you’re about to tell me to click my heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like home,’ I’m asking for my money back.”

  Lenore belly laughs. But after she’s done, she gives me a wise smile. “Look. We are all trying to survive our pasts, so we can live with ourselves in the present. Even if you woke up tomorrow remembering every minute of your lost year, it wouldn’t matter. You can choose which Rickie you are. Just decide. And whatever choice you make will be the absolute truth.”

  “Okay,” I agree, because that excellent speech deserves acknowledgment.

  I only wish I believed her.

  Sixteen

  Daphne

  I’d thought that Rickie would be smug about my decision to have dinner with him. But he’s quiet as we make the final delivery of applejack to the bar. I watch through the windshield as he carries the crate inside, muscles bulging, eyes feral. He looks angry, honestly.

  Not at me, though. When I approached the truck after work, he’d given me a soft look. And then he’d let out a sigh.

  Something is bothering him. I can feel it.

  Once again I'm struck by the realization that men just confuse me. Rickie always gives off a dangerous vibe. It’s more sexual swagger than violence. But now he’s in a mood that should probably frighten me. But it doesn’t.

  Reardon, on the other hand, looked like a Vineyard Vines advertisement in crisp preppy shirts and white-toothed, harmless smiles. Yet he stabbed me in the back at his first opportunity. And when I called him on it, he screamed at me and called me a stupid whore.

  And he slapped me. I was terrified. That’s the part I never mentioned to Rickie, or anyone else. It's just too embarrassing.

  I truly believe that most women are born with an instinct that helps them figure out who’s scary and who’s safe. But mine just never kicked in. This is why I avoid men. It’s a pretty good reason, too. I should have said no to dinner.

  But I didn’t.

  At the noodle shop, we’re given a plum table by the window. I put my napkin in my lap and pick up the menu. Honestly, this is a treat. Rickie is right that I never go out anymore. I haven’t had the emotional energy to reconnect with friends, or go out on dates. Anxiety has eaten my life.

  I glance around at the restaurant, which only has a few patrons so far, because it’s early. But everyone here looks so relaxed and happy. This is just what I need—a short break from reality. For the next hour, I can be just a lucky girl who’s out for dinner with a ridiculously attractive boy.

  The waitress arrives, and we order. Rickie thanks the waitress. Then he turns those gray eyes on me, and asks me a polite question. “How was work today?”

  “Fine. Good, actually.” He listens respectfully while I prattle on about data collection.

  “So why public health?” he asks suddenly. “How’d you choose it?”

  “Well, at first I thought I wanted to be a doctor and literally save lives. My father died young of a heart attack.”

  “Right. That really sticks with your brother, too.”

  “I know. So I started college as a premed bio major. But then I took some classes on healthcare
policy.”

  “And you loved it?”

  “No, I got angry.”

  Rickie grins. “Go on.”

  “The way we deliver healthcare in this country is so screwed up that the doctors can’t even do their jobs. I mean—there are politicians who can’t stand the idea of food stamps for hungry children, because one able-bodied guy might accidentally get a free sandwich he didn’t earn. Those same guys will defund women’s healthcare—all of it—no matter that the data shows that free healthcare for poor women reduces all government expenditure. They will burn it to the ground just so one undocumented immigrant doesn’t get a handout, or just in case somebody gets an abortion.”

  And now I’m getting worked up. Again. It’s a real mystery why I don’t have a lot of dinner invitations.

  But Rickie just reaches across the table and smooths his thumb across the back of my hand. “Go on.”

  “I just need science to win. That’s all. Public health is about making good policies. I need the grown-ups in the room to make the decisions. Or we’re all lost.”

  “That’s admirable,” says the new, subdued Rickie.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?” I finally ask. “You’re quiet and it’s creeping me out. At least when you’re flirty and crass, I know how to handle you.”

  “Sorry.” The smile he gives me is sheepish. “Rough day.”

  That’s when the waitress brings us two steaming bowls of food. I’ve ordered the salmon fried rice, and it looks like heaven. I unwrap my chopsticks eagerly. God, I need to get out more often. And I will eventually. After I unfuck my life. Somehow.

  Rickie ignores his own bowl to watch me dive in. Then he puts his beautiful face in his hand, and asks me the question I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “So tell me—why did I once crassly offer to stamp your V-card?”

  Crud. I never wanted to have this conversation. “What if we just pretend that never happened?”

  He waits.

  I take another life-giving bite of rice and then sigh. “Oh, this is going to sound ridiculous. Because it was. I told you this truly pathetic tale of imagining myself in love with someone. And I confessed that I’d…” Yup, this was going to sound stupid. “I’d waited for him, if you catch my drift. And he’d just found the love of his life when I met you. I was a little depressed about it.”

  I smile like it's all hilarious, but he doesn't smile back. “So I was going to swoop in and show you a good time?”

  “Well, you offered. I didn't know whether I was going to accept.”

  I probably was, though. I’d felt reckless, and I wanted my life to have a little more danger in it. Besides—Rickie is hot and smart and funny—which really does make him my type.

  He finally picks up his chopsticks and pokes at his ramen soup. “I suppose that sounds like something I’d do. But that guy in those texts sounds a little creepy.”

  “Eh. I thought you were awfully forward. But never creepy. You asked me in a way that was half joking. But I liked how different your outlook was from mine. As if the world was just here for your amusement. Like—let’s just go where the night takes us.”

  “Interesting.” He takes a slow sip of his beer, and seems to think about it.

  “Honestly, I liked the way you didn't care so damn much about every little thing. I was jealous of your attitude, and I wanted to borrow it for a night.”

  He’s quiet for a couple of minutes. And I hope we can move on. “Listen,” he says eventually. “I want to tell you something, although it's probably just wishful thinking. I'm pretty sure that Saturday night of the party is the same one I ended up in the hospital.”

  My iced tea stops halfway to my mouth. “Really?”

  He nods.

  “I guess you’re really sorry that you stood me up, then.”

  He smiles sheepishly. “Hindsight. Am I right?”

  “Or—” The realization dawns. “Maybe you got hurt, and didn't even mean to leave me standing by the gate in the rain for forty-five minutes.”

  He tips his head from side to side, considering. “See, I love that idea. But it's a stretch. How I could accidentally get wasted if I was planning to come and get you? And fall off a high fence, all before eight o'clock?”

  He makes a few good points. And I love this idea a little too much as well. If he’d already been hurt, then I’m not the nerdy virgin he’d abandoned when someone better came along.

  “But either way, Daphne, I'm sorry. I apologize. You must think I'm such an asshole.”

  “Well, I know you a little better now and I find you to be a very entertaining asshole.”

  Finally he smiles. “I’m still sorry.”

  “I know you are. And I accept your apology.”

  He glances down at his overturned phone. “Those messages though, so smug.”

  Uh oh. A contrite Rickie is even more dangerous to my libido than a crass Rickie. It makes him more real. I can’t let myself like him this much. “Can we just drop it now? Besides, you're still smug.”

  “About some things,” he says. “But I've been taken down a few pegs lately.”

  “You too, huh? Welcome to my quarter-life crisis.”

  He picks up his beer and takes a swig. “The offer to take your virginity still stands, but I assume that ship has sailed.”

  I reach across the table and poke him with my chopsticks.

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  For the hundredth time, I wish he weren’t so ridiculously attractive. The simmering heat I feel when he smiles at me is very distracting.

  He settles in to eat, and I relax. After a minute, he stretches one hand a few inches across the table, just far enough for his fingertips to brush mine. It's the lightest brush, and then it's over. “Look, I’m very drawn to you,” he says quietly. “My gut tells me that I must have been drawn to you then, too. Right from the beginning.”

  “Well, there's proof of that.” I try to sound nonchalant. “You offered me sex.”

  He flinches. “I just wish I had that time machine, you know? I’d like to think I handled you with care.”

  Suddenly, my insides are all gooey. And my heart is sparking dangerously, like the flux capacitor on Marty McFly’s DeLorean.

  The moment is broken when my phone pings with a couple of texts. But I don’t want to look away. No man has ever watched me the way Rickie does. Like he’s waiting for a sign.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don't know how to explain how we were with each other. And I can’t say for sure what you were thinking.” I still don't know what this man is thinking and he’s sitting right in front of me.

  “Don’t apologize,” he insists. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I can't even offer to make up for lost time, because my offer was pretty sleazy in the first place.”

  “Unless it wasn’t meant to be,” I hear myself point out. See? I’ll always be that hopeful girl—the one who thinks that this time the boy wants me for more than just sex.

  “I’m not willing to give myself the benefit of the doubt." He picks up his chopsticks again.

  “Fine, but believe it or not, I'm over it. I went on to meet far sleazier men than you, who proceeded to do far worse damage than standing me up.”

  My phone keeps pinging. “Better see who that is,” Rickie says. “Also, there's two guys over there watching us, and they look familiar.”

  I reach for my phone while also glancing over to see who he means. And I spot my cousin Kieran and his boyfriend across the room, menus in hand. When I turn my head, they give me twin smirks.

  I frown as a reflex. And of course the texts are from them.

  Kieran: Who's your hot date?

  Roddy: Nice muscles. And those tats! @Kieran, did you know Daphne had a bad boy kink?

  I groan.

  "Everything okay?" Rickie asks, frowning.

  "Sure. It's just my cousin giving me a hard time." I pick up my drink and take a sip while subtly showing the guys my middle finger.

  There's a burst of laughter
from their table, and I can hear it all the way over here. Rickie glances in their direction and smirks. “Oh yeah. I remember them from your birthday party. Hey, guys.” He gives them a wave and a smile.

  Is it weird that I'm relieved to see that cocky smile come back—the same one that I sometimes want to wipe right off his face?

  “So,” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “What are you writing that paper about?"

  “Subjectivity in Aristotle,” he says. “A hylomorphic analysis.”

  “Huh. Well that sounds…”

  "Boring?" he guesses.

  "I was going for complicated."

  Richie gives me a secretive smile. "Sure you were."

  "No, really. From one nerd to another—you shine on. One of my goals in life is to always put at least one million-dollar word in the titles of all my papers."

  His smile grows hotter. “I knew you were special.”

  My phone beeps again. I send a suspicious glance toward Kieran. But he and Roddy are deep in conversation.

  “Did you know your grandpa likes this restaurant?” Rickie asks.

  “What?”

  He nods to a table behind me. And when I swivel my neck around, there sits Grandpa. He’s eating the salmon fried rice with a fork, not chopsticks, and he’s seated across from that woman he was dancing with at my birthday party.

  Grandpa waves with his fork and gives me a wink. Then he taps his phone on the table with one of his bony fingers.

  “What the hell?” I gasp. I pick up my phone and look at the text.

  Grandpa: You and the new roommate are dating? I see how it is.

  I let out a little shriek of dismay. “Why can’t I just eat some fried rice without a peanut gallery?”

  Rickie’s smile gets a little wider. “Your family is hilarious, Daphne. Just roll with it.”

  I tap out a quick response. Gramps, I’m not on a date. Also it’s rude to text at the table.

  Grandpa: Then why are you replying?

  “The man makes a good point,” Rickie says.

  “Don’t read my texts. And I hate you.” I power the phone all the way down.