whole breakfast table with a story about having a stare-down with a porcupine. And instead of scowling, I’m laughing along with everyone else.
“See, I didn’t know what they might be able do with those quills,” he says, his glass of iced tea sweating in the grip of his strong hand. “I thought—can he shoot them like guns? Can this porcupine turn me into swiss cheese?”
“No!” Dylan says, laughing. “That’s ridiculous.”
“But I didn’t know that,” Rickie explains. “And I wasn’t about to sign myself up for some accidental acupuncture. So I just stood there on the path, holding my ground, you know? I flexed my biceps, just to make myself as fearsome as possible. Just in case this porcupine was easily impressed.”
He flexes in his chair, and everyone howls.
“He wasn’t, by the way. He just stood there, and I was afraid to turn my back on him. Finally I sort of made a run for it around him. And that is why I was five minutes late for breakfast. At least you’re not planning my funeral, you know?”
“No one has ever been killed by a porcupine,” my mother says, dabbing her eyes.
“As far as you know,” Rickie corrects, while Grandpa slaps his knee.
I get up and fetch the coffeepot, because I want another drop before we get on the road to Burlington. It’s Wednesday now—my favorite day of the week. When Rickie drives me to work and kisses me goodbye in the parking lot.
In the kitchen I grab both the coffeepot and the iced tea pitcher, because I’ve figured out that Rickie isn’t really a coffee drinker if there’s tea available. So I keep the pitcher full when I can.
Back in the dining room I pour coffee for Grandpa and myself, and then pass the pot to my brother. Then I refill Rickie’s glass, and I feel his fingertips graze the back of my knee. It’s just a discreet touch of gratitude.
But I love it. My pulse quickens whenever we’re in the same room, too. It’s been a long time since I let myself feel this kind of joy. It’s heady. It’s risky. But I can’t help myself.
“You’re done with your class now, right?” my brother is saying. “What will you do after you turn in the paper?”
“I’m picking up the keys to the house from the rental agent,” Rickie says. “My renter left town yesterday, and the house is all mine again. While Daphne’s at work, I’ll go to the storage unit and load up our boxes into your truck, and drive them back to the house.”
“Oh, man,” Dylan says. “You should have said something. You want help?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Rickie says quickly. “I don’t mind moving your stuff around. It’s just a few boxes of books and clothes. You can carry it upstairs yourself, okay?”
“Of course,” my brother says. Then he glances up at me. “Any more thoughts about your housing situation, Daphne? Have you been looking for a place?”
“I looked at a couple listings,” I say casually. The truth is that I haven’t done much, and there’s only three weeks left. “There’s always the dorms.”
“Maybe you should stop by the Spruce Street house after work,” Dylan says. “Take a look at Rickie’s extra bedroom and see what you think.”
“What a great idea,” Rickie says brightly.
I don’t dare glance at him because I’d probably blush furiously. He’s mentioned the house a couple of times, but I keep deferring the conversation. If everything goes south with him, I don’t want us to be roommates.
On the other hand, I need somewhere to live, and I need a plan. Fast. “Sure, I’ll take a look.” Then I carry the coffeepot back to the kitchen to end the conversation.
On the way into town, I become absorbed with reading something.
So absorbed that I don’t notice we’ve arrived at the first delivery site until Rickie kills the truck’s engine.
I look up, startled. A whole hour has gone by while I ignored him? “Sorry,” I say quickly.
He snickers. “You used to fight me on who could drive the truck, babe. I’m not complaining that you’re busy reading…” He leans in to see my laptop screen. “A grad school application? UC Berkeley?”
“They just went live,” I explain, clicking my laptop shut. “It’s application season again. And since my transcript is going to look incredibly strange, I need to do an A+ job on the essays and supplements.”
“I see,” he says quietly. “California, huh?”
“Maybe. Or Baltimore. Cambridge. New York City. I need to apply to every top program