“Fine, fine. You can ride me instead. I’m flexible on this point.”
But that’s when she gets up and heads for the door. “Night, Rickie. Sorry to keep you up.”
“You can keep me up longer.”
She gives me a wry grin and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I get up and lock it again, because I’m funny like that. But it’s a crappy lock. So I’m also tempted to pull the wooden chair out from Dylan’s desk, and lean it against the door, with the back pressed up near the doorknob, as an extra layer of security.
But I don’t do it. The flimsy lock is as much leeway as I’m willing to give my phobia.
I go back to bed and shut off the light.
“Hey McFly!” Daphne shouts to me over the loud beat of live music.
“Hey, Shipley. Happy birthday!”
“Thanks!” She stands on tiptoe to speak into my ear. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Yeah?” I give her a hot look. “That’s good news.”
She ignores this blatant come-on and says, “I can’t imagine losing six months of my life. I guess it would be much more inconvenient than forgetting where you put your car, no?”
“Definitely.”
It’s Friday night, and we’re at Dylan and Daphne’s twenty-first birthday party. I’m holding the dregs of a craft beer and tapping my foot to a live band on the back patio at the Gin Mill, a bar owned by Alec, the boyfriend of May Shipley, the twins' older sister.
The good news is that Daphne is no longer avoiding me. The bad news is that she wants to ask a million questions about my head injury, while I’d rather be talking her into bed.
“How about a drink?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Sure, I’ll have a Coke,” she says.
“A Coke. On your twenty-first birthday?”
Daphne crosses her arms and gives me the fierce, laser-beam glare that always gets me hot. “I’m not much of a drinker. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “Besides, it looks like Dylan is drinking for both of you.” I point at her twin, who is holding a drink in each hand and dancing to the fiddle music. He’s in pig heaven right now.
"This is amazing," Dylan crows. "I can't believe you got Skunky Town to play at my birthday party."
"You only turn twenty-one once," May yells over the banjos.
"You’re my favorite sister ever. They’re not even from around here," Dylan says, his eyes following every move the fiddle player makes.
"Massachusetts," May's boyfriend, Alec, says. “I’m putting them up at the motor lodge. It wasn’t outrageous.”
Dylan grins, his attention still glued to the band, as it should be. He’s a party boy just like me. Living in the moment is a skill we share.
"Thank you," the guitar player says when the song ends. "And now we'd like to invite Dylan Shipley to the stage to play a song with us. Where's the birthday boy?"
"Holy shit." Dylan's grin is as wide as his whole face. “I don’t have my fiddle.”
"It's right here!" his mother says, holding up the instrument. Clearly the fix was in.
“This is crazy,” Dylan says, trading two beers for the violin. "Hope I don't humiliate myself."
That's unlikely, since he's an accomplished musician. But also, he wouldn’t care that much if he did screw it up.
"What do you want to play with us?" the front man asks.
"Uh,” Dylan chuckles again. “How about ‘Billy in the Lowground.’”
That song title means nothing to me, but the band just nods. They let Dylan take the lead, and after he tunes up, he tears into a fast-moving fiddle tune. And then they all join in.
The Shipley clan hollers their approval.
This is a killer party by any standard. The patio is decked out with strings of tiny lights that are reflected in the river flowing past us. The place is packed with well-wishers of all ages. In the center of all this mayhem, I feel serene. I've got a cold beer and a belly full of party food.
"My babies are all grown up," Ruth Shipley says, watching her son rock out on the fiddle.
“So grown up," Daphne mutters beside me. “I found his underwear in the hayloft yesterday.”
“So grown up that he can throw his ragers in the meadow legally now,” Griffin adds.
“Oh, hush,” his wife says. “But who is that? Check out your grandpa.”
We all turn to spot Grandpa Shipley right in front of the stage, swing-dancing with a gray-haired woman in a polka-dot dress.