Page 3 of Heartland
“Cool.” I don’t know what Aristotle is, either.
She reaches for my hand and tugs it away from the second button of my blouse, which I’m fingering. “Don’t fidget. That’s how buttons come off.”
“Right. But—” I hesitate. “Is this too much?” I wave a hand in front of my chest.
“Too much what? Too much hotness? No. If I had boobs, I’d wear them proudly. Whoever it is you’re trying to impress is going to love it.” She gives me a wave and trots away toward the library. “Have fun!” she calls over her shoulder.
I keep walking, still feeling uncertain. Going to Dylan’s house right now is probably a mistake. I don’t know why he blew off our tutoring session today. It isn’t like him. On the other hand, he has a lot on his plate. And I’m the one who doesn’t have a cell phone.
It’s not Dylan’s fault that I sat there in the library from four until seven thirty, missing dinner like a dummy. But I’ve always been a little dumb when it comes to Dylan.
My stomach had been rumbling by the time I’d given up on him. On my way home, I’d paused outside the convenience store, wondering what a girl could buy for two dollars. Only candy, really. I hadn’t bought anything, but I had bumped into Dylan’s roommate, a character named Rickie.
“Chastity!” he’d exclaimed, coming out of the store with a bag full of various kinds of chips in one hand and a bag of ice in the other. “What’s up, lady? You coming over later?”
“For…?” I’d only been to their house once before. It’s out of the way, which is why Dylan always meets me on campus.
“The party! Didn’t Dylan tell you?”
He did not. But I hadn’t let it show on my face. “I didn’t catch Dylan today,” I’d told him. “Do you happen to know where he went?”
“Home to Tuxbury,” Rickie had said. “Shit, Chastity. He said he was going to call you. The goats got loose and ate something they weren’t supposed to.”
“Oh no!”
“Yeah. He got a call and there was yelling, and then Dylan got in the truck and went home. But he’s back at nine for the party. Come over. I’m making mulled cider and guacamole.”
My stomach had gurgled, and the decision had seemed easy.
But now, as I trudge uphill toward the old Victorian house where Dylan lives with Rickie and another guy named Keith, I’m questioning all my life choices. I’ll probably have to make conversation with strangers, which isn’t my strong suit.
Or they’ll just ignore me, which also sounds bleak.
And then there’s my algebra homework which is in my backpack still incomplete. If I turn up now, Dylan is only going to feel guilty for missing our session.
There are two things powering me uphill, though. The first is guacamole. I’d never seen an avocado until I became a nineteen-year-old runaway to Vermont, and I’d been seriously missing out. The second thing is morbid curiosity. In the four weeks since I came to Burlington U, I’ve had only glimpses of College Dylan. And I want to know more.
The Dylan I know from Tuxbury is Family Dylan. He milks goats and cows. He whistles in the orchard while picking apples. He takes off his shirt to stack hay. He eats third helpings at the dinner table. He spars with his siblings and takes his mother to church.
And? He’s a good friend to me.
College Dylan is different, though. And—fine—even more intoxicating. College Dylan drinks and smokes pot and has (from what I can guess) a lot of sex. Some of it with my evil roommate.
None of it with me.
Two
Chastity
The temperature has plungedsince nightfall, so by the time I reach the house, I’m shivering.
Still, I stand on the front walk for a minute or two, acclimating. It’s a beautiful house on a treelined street. There are three floors and several roofline peaks. Dylan says he’s lucky to live here. Rickie doesn’t charge much rent. Tonight the house is lit up like a Halloween pumpkin, with yellow light glowing from every window.
The windows are closed, but the sound of voices—lots of them—reaches me on the sidewalk. And some music. The sounds of people enjoying themselves. The longer I stand here, the harder it gets to imagine myself walking in there. I won’t know anybody besides Rickie and Dylan. And Kaitlyn, who won’t talk to me anyway.
I spot Dylan in the bay window. It’s not hard. I’m tuned in to the Dylan Shipley channel, and have been since the day I met him two years ago. I’d know his big frame anywhere, and his familiar head of thick, wavy hair. All the Shipleys have brown hair, but Dylan’s is kissed with lighter highlights. As if the sun loves him just a little bit more than it loves everyone else.
His back is to me, so I can’t see his laughing eyes. But he’s gesturing as he speaks, a beer bottle waving wildly between two fingers, half forgotten. All you have to do is glance at him, and you know he’s a fun person.
