that it was me. I had my ID all ready to prove it, see?” He holds up a photo ID from the US Tactical Services Academy.
The photo on the ID is even more handsome, if possible. Because he’s wearing a dress uniform.
But Daphne isn’t the type of girl who likes people to see her emotions. And she’s really not the type of girl who lets a man tell her she’s done something stupid. “Let’s review,” she says. “Your Vermont license plate and that haircut really cut down the odds that I’ve gotten into the wrong vehicle.”
Another blinding smile. “I suppose you're right, Daphne. And you're Carla's friend?”
“Sort of.” Friend was too strong a word. Carla was one of Daphne’s high school classmates—one of the confident girls who’d always made Daphne feel nerdy and awkward in comparison. “Colebury High School is so small that everyone knows everyone.”
Carla had mentioned once this past summer that she knew a college guy who would also be making a lot of car trips between Connecticut and their part of Vermont. So Daphne had taken down Rickie’s email address, because she’s a practical girl.
“Carla dated my twin brother for ten minutes or so,” she says. “Everyone does.”
Rickie chuckles, and the sound bounces around in Daphne’s chest. “I think I'd like your twin brother.”
Everyone does. She pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and puts it in the cup holder. “This is for gas. Thanks for the ride share.”
“My pleasure.” He puts the car in gear, and they begin their three-hour journey home. There's some kind of low music thumping through the radio, and it's warm and dry in the car as they slide down the rainy street.
The college slips away behind them, and Daphne is happy to see it go.
“So, how do you like Harkness?” Rickie asks. “And what are you studying there?”
“I’m getting a BS in biology and a master's degree in public health on the fast track program.”
“Ah, ambitious. Funny that you didn't answer my first question. How do you like it?”
“It's only been six weeks.”
“That well?” He chuckles.
She doesn’t know him well enough to tell him the whole truth. That Harkness College is intimidating. That she's always thought of herself as an intellectual, but now she's worried if she has what it takes. And she definitely doesn’t tell him that she feels like a country bumpkin among the slick rich kids who graduated from prep schools all over the country.
“I hear it's snobby,” Rickie says, giving her an opening.
“Well, the first week somebody asked me where I was from, and when I said Vermont, they said, ‘Oh, my buddy summers there.’”
“Yeah, summer as a verb. That’s a look. Very Hunger Games.”
Daphne smiles at the reference even though she hated the first book and didn’t finish the series. “All right, so how about you? Do you like the Tactical Services Academy? And what are you studying?”
“Philosophy and psychology—double major.”
“I notice you didn't answer the first question.”
“You are a quick one. But here’s the thing about USTSA. You're not supposed to like it. You're supposed to endure it. It’s also very Hunger Games, but the later books.”
“And you chose this willingly?”
His chuckle is dry. “Mostly. It’s free, you know. So the price appealed to me. And I’m used to the military ass-kissing and jargon. My father was a colonel in the Air Force before he retired.”
“Oh, at the base outside of Burlington?”
“Sometimes. I was born in Vermont but didn’t grow up here.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Everywhere. Japan. Germany.”
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“Choate. Where they use summer as a verb.”
“Ah.” This unsettles Daphne a little, because she’d assumed he was more of an ally—a Vermonter sneaking home for a weekend in rural Vermont, where everything still made sense. “So how do you know Carla?”
“I dated her for about ten minutes last summer.”
Daphne should really have seen that coming. The Carlas and the Dylans and the Rickies of the world are naturally drawn to one another. They all know how to let loose and have fun. Daphne had never quite gotten the knack of it. She’d assumed that once she found her people—the nerds of the world—that it would be easier to make friends.
Maybe it takes longer than six weeks.
“Big plans for the weekend?” Rickie asks as they head up highway 91.
“Not exactly. It’s peak season at our orchard. I’ll probably spend the weekend driving a pony cart around the orchard so that apple-picking families don’t have to walk very far to find the Honey Crisps.”