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.”