Page 50 of The Best Parts of Him
As they approached the farm, Ryland nodded at it. “You in?”
Dabbs’ reply was a soft grunt. “I keep forgetting Halloween is right around the corner.”
“You and me both.”
Ryland pulled into the lot, parking between a compact SUV and a truck. They exited and walked toward what appeared to be the entrance, where a sign directed them to the corn maze, farm market, and pumpkin patch.
“I don’t think I’ve had a pumpkin for Halloween since . . . ” Dabbs trailed off and rubbed his jaw, his brow furrowed, as they walked in the direction of the pumpkin patch. “High school maybe?”
“Same. There’s an annual house decorating contest for Halloween in Maplewood, but I haven’t been home for it since I was a teenager, and for the past few years, I haven’t been in Columbus for Halloween, so I haven’t bothered with a pumpkin.” Ryland stared out at the pumpkin patch, a large field dotted with pumpkins of all sizes. Someone had taken the time to place some in barrels or on hay bales, and there was even a selfie station. He was tempted to go live to show this place off—the farm even had a shop that sold baked goods made with their own produce—but one glance at Dabbs’ contented expression and he tucked that thought away.
“What size pumpkin do you want?” he asked.
“I want a couple of small ones I can put on the porch.”
“I want a ginormous one that I can carve with Bellamy’s face.”
Dabbs laughed, drawing the attention of an older couple nearby. “Good luck with that one,” Dabbs said, stepping into the field. “Speaking of Bellamy . . . what happened there? You’re on such good terms now. What happened in your freshman year to put you on the path to rivalry for a decade?”
Ryland snorted, and if a snort could sound self-deprecating, he’d managed it. “I happened. I got recruited to join UMaine’s Division I hockey team and was told by recruiters and coaches alike that I was the best rookie they’d seen in years.”
“I see. And Bellamy was competition.”
“Yup,” Ryland said grouchily, crouching to inspect—and ultimately reject—a pumpkin. “After our first practice, I overhead the coaches talking about how they’d lucked out in the rookie department that year. Bellamy was good. He could take my place as the best, which . . . I wasn’t super keen on. So I was a dick to him because I felt threatened by him.”
He hunched his shoulders. He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated Bellamy. Was even less proud of the fact that, after they’d graduated and begun playing professionally, he hadn’t shut it off.
Earlier this year, there’d been a big shindig at his dad’s to celebrate his stepmom’s birthday. Ryland had taken a picture of Jason and Bellamy kissing and asked them if he could post it online—his way of showing support. And Bellamy had looked so fucking grateful that it had made Ryland feel like even more of a dick.
Bellamy had been unbelievably forgiving. Had their situations been reversed, Ryland wasn’t sure he would’ve been so understanding.
“Why?” Dabbs asked, drawing Ryland from his thoughts.
Ryland rotated a pumpkin to check its other side for flaws. “Why what?”
“Why did you care one way or another if he was better than you? Was it because of the scouts?”
If only the answer was that easy. Sure, the scouts were part of it—if he was the best on the team, obviously the scouts would want him.
The bigger part?
He liked winning.
He shrugged and tried to play it off, stepping over to a hay bale covered in pumpkins. “I was used to being the best, I guess. It made me feel good—important—to win things, even if they ultimately didn’t mean much in the long run. Class presidency, spelling bees, science fairs. I think I racked up enough ribbons to fill an entire shoebox.”
Standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and holding a little pumpkin that was several shades brighter than his hair in each arm, Dabbs regarded him as though he’d just figured out what made him tick.
Ryland avoided his gaze and headed for the selfie station—an archway made of fake pumpkins with the farm’s name on a long rectangle of wood at the top.
“What was the winning word?”
He whirled toward Dabbs. “Huh?”
“In the spelling bee. What was the winning word?”
“Oh, uh . . . In my first year, it was bougainvillea. My second year was . . . becquerel, I think.”
“What the fuck is a becquerel?”
