Page 4 of Heartland
Fun, and alsonice. And warm. And hilarious.
Okay. I can do this.
I march up the porch steps and open the big oak door, where I’m greeted by shiny old wooden floors and an arched doorway leading to the living room. Dylan still stands in front of the window wearing his signature outfit—worn jeans and a tight T-shirt. And since it's October, he's pulled a flannel shirt on over it, the cuffs rolled up over his muscular forearms.
“…these goats are little fucking Houdinis. Griff calls me once a day at least to complain. But today they ate all my mom’s spinach and kale, so he was shouting at me when I picked up the phone.” Dylan takes a sip from the beer in his hand, shaking his head. “I drove home to calm him down. As if that would even work. And when I get there he wants me to raise the height of the fence, right? So I take a look around…”
I’ve met the two dairy goats in question. They’re wily little animals and cute as heck. Dylan loves them a lot. Maybe even more than he loves his cows.
“…and the fence isfine. So I asked Mr. Grumpy if by chance he brought a feed bucket into the goat enclosure earlier? And he’s like—‘So what if I did?’ And then I ask if it had the cover on it. And he said—‘How did you know?’” Dylan shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the stupidity. “Well, because you’re ripping me a new one even though you’re the idiot who gave those little fuckers a bucket to climb up onto andlaunch themselves over the fence.”
Everybody laughs a little drunkenly. There are maybe a dozen people in the living room. There’s a group on the floor passing around a small pumpkin. Someone has outfitted it with two pipes that stick out of either side. It’s a pumpkinbong.
You’re supposed to take a puff and pass it on. I never have, though. Up until last month, I’d only seen weed in movies. I’d smelled it in Dylan’s truck, without knowing what it was.
College is very educational.
My gaze snags on the couch, which is also occupied. The people seated on it aren’t listening to Dylan’s story, though, because they’re too busy making out. This wouldn't be all that interesting except there arethreeof them. Two girls and a guy. It hadn't occurred to me before that three people could kiss at the same time, but they seem to be managing just fine.
I can’t tear my eyes away. The view is both beautiful and complicated. The boy’s eyes are closed. I briefly spot his tongue as their lips reconfigure. His hand is up one of the girl’s shirts. And that girl has her hand on theothergirl’s breast. As I watch, she passes her thumb over the nipple slowly. It’s a hard peak through the T-shirt covering it.
Okay, wow. I wouldn't have thought that would turn me on, but there you go. The truth is that a lot of things turn me on. And they always have. Ever since I turned thirteen, there’s been a raging battle between what I’m supposed to be thinking about and what I actually think about.
I really hope nobody can read minds.
Music throbs in the background while Dylan finishes his story about the goats. His mother is mad because they ate her garden greens. “And you practically can't call yourself a Vermont farmer without a nice patch of kale. What will the neighbors say?”
Everyone laughs. My eyes come to rest on Kaitlyn as she passes the bong after her puff. My evil roommate is looking up at Dylan with stars in her eyes.
It’s hard to blame her for that, because I probably look at him the same way. It’s literally the only thing we have in common.
Kaitlyn gets to her feet as he wraps up his story. She takes the beer out of his hand and takes a swig. It’s a way of claiming him, I guess. It makes me want to smack her. “Come on, Dyl,” she says the moment he stops talking. “You said you’d let me play something for you.”
“Yeah, okay. Cool.” They both take a step in my direction. That’s when Dylan lifts his chin and spots me. “Chastity! Hey!” He pulls me in for a Shipley-style, full-body hug—the kind I’m never quite ready for. “God, I’m sorry about this afternoon. Rickie said you waited.”
Ouch. I wish Rickie hadn’t mentioned that.
“It was f-fine,” I stammer as his arms encircle me. There’s a quick press of his hard chest against my body. The flannel shirt he’s wearing doesn’t disguise the muscle underneath.
His hugs always fluster me. I count to three and then step back, so I don’t find myself awkwardly patting his back for too long. That happens sometimes.
It’s been two years since I came to Vermont, and while I’ve figured out a lot of things—like Netflix and nail polish—these little interactions still tie me in knots. On the compound, no maneverhugged a girl who wasn’t his wife. We didn’t even shake hands.
These days I’m a decent hand-shaker and there are several people I can hug without difficulty. But Dylan isn’t one of them. I’m so attracted to him that each hug makes me flush like a nervous loser.
“I called,” he says.
“W-what?”
“I called the land line in your suite. Kaitlyn said she’d leave you a note.”
“And I left it,” Kaitlyn snaps. “On the desk. Weren’t we going upstairs?” She gives Dylan a little tug.
“Hang on.” Dylan untangles himself from her and puts a big hand on my shoulder. “Come into the kitchen a minute. Did you eat? Mom sent me home with lentil soup.”
My stomach growls, but the party is too loud for anyone to hear, thank God. With Dylan, I turn toward the kitchen. I can almostfeelKaitlyn’s anger radiating toward me.
It’s weird, but I feel no guilt. Guilt and I are usually very close friends. But when it comes to Kaitlyn, I live for these little moments of irritating her. Probably because I know they don’t matter. She has what I want, and there’s a zero percent chance that I’ll ever get it.
