Page 36 of Heartland

“Dylan.” My heart contracts sharply. “I’m so sorry.”

Again he shrugs. “Let’s do some algebra, Chass. Do you have the homework assignment?”

“Um…” I dive into my bag and pull out the algebra book. “Yep. Sorry. One sec,” I babble, pulling out a notebook and a pencil, too.

And now we’re both sad.

* * *

On Saturday morning, there’s frost on the grass as I hurry toward Dylan’s house on Spruce Street. It’s nine o’clock, and the cemetery service starts at ten thirty. Last night I emailed Dylan to ask if I could ride home with him. I made up some kind of excuse about babysitting for Leah so that she could go to the bonfire tonight.

But the truth is that Dylan dreads this day, and I want to be there for him. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

His truck is still in the driveway when I arrive, so I haven’t missed him. The house is quiet, though. Really quiet. I knock, and nobody comes to the door. And when I walk around to the kitchen door, nobody answers my knock there either, and the kitchen light is out.

I pound on the door again, and eventually I hear footsteps.

But when the door is yanked open, it’s Rickie standing there with sleep hair, half naked in a silk bathrobe. “Chastity?” he croaks. “I didn’t take you for a mean person.”

“Sorry to wake you, but Dylan is supposed to leave now. Is he ready?”

“Uh…” Rickie looks upwards, as if the second floor could be seen through the ceiling. “You know, I think he overslept. I could—”

I don’t let him finish that sentence. Because Dylan cannotoversleep. Not today. I push past him and march up the stairs.

“Chastity?” Rickie calls after me. “Slow down, maybe? You might not want to go in there.”

But I’m already turning the knob on his door. “Dylan?” I prompt as the door swings inward. It’s dark in his room, so it doesn’t sink in right away when I look at the lumpy bed.

There are two people under that comforter.

My lungs seize. And I just stand there like an idiot, staring, as Dylan sits up suddenly, the comforter falling away from his bare chest.

“Chastity,” he rasps. “What is it? Something wrong?”

Is something wrong. Why yes, there is.

“It’s Saturday,” I yelp. “The service starts in less than ninety minutes.”

“What service?” says someone else.

And I swear the girl’s voice makes Dylan jump a foot. “Jesus Christ.” He reaches over and snaps on the lamp. Apparently that doesn’t make things better, because he peers at the person lying beside him. And then he puts both his hands in front of his eyes. “What the hell did I do last night?”

“Here’s a clue,” the girl’s voice snaps. “You didn’t dome. I thought you were going to be a good time, but then you passed out instead.” She slides out of his bed, her hair a fright. She’s wearing tiny little panties, but at least the top half of her is covered in a bright pink T-shirt.

“Sorry,” Dylan mumbles into his palms.

“What. Ever.” She plucks a pair of faded jeans off the floor and hops into them. “I heard you were fun, but I guess I heard wrong.”

“Depends who you ask.” He lifts the comforter but then drops it again quickly. “Whoops. No pants.”

“False advertising,” his guest says, stepping into her shoes. “At least the drinks were tasty. And your friend downstairs has good taste in music. If not roommates.”

“Urgh,” Dylan says. “I feel disgusting. I need a shower.”

“You have five minutes,” I growl, embarrassed enough for all of us.

“Okay. Yeah.” He sighs.