“Thank you.”
Tiffany nodded and went back to cleaning up what was left of the party in the dark.
I took the cake and my dry clothes and headed back to my trailer.
Birthday cake for breakfast.
It felt all wrong, and not in a good way.
The next morning dawned hazy and close. And the heat made my head ache right above my eyes.
Sweltering, I pulled open my little fridge, steam rolling out of its depths as the cool air hit the hot. On the top shelf, next to my milk and butter and what was left of the pasta sauce, was the yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.
For a long moment, the cold air brushing across the exposed skin of my thighs and arms and neck, I stared at the cake.
She said you could have it.
But the cake felt like a means to an end for me, like I was building a palace on top of bones.
“Stop it,” I muttered and grabbed the cake, shutting the fridge door.
I took the first bite and it was a bit stale, the cake nearly hard, the frosting thick to swallow.
That’s right. I should not enjoy this.
I took a sip of coffee and then another bite and my mouth must have been warm enough, because the thick frosting melted slightly against my tongue.
Oh. That wasn’t bad.
But the thought made me feel guilty and awful.
Just eat it.
The second bite was at the center of the cake, where it was moist and untouched by the cold air of the fridge.
The next bite was practically a mouthful of sprinkles.
When the cake was demolished, only crumbs and thick waves of chocolate frosting against the paper plate, I stared down at a blue sprinkle and green colored sugar and felt like vomiting.
And I didn’t know if it was from the sugar or from last night.
Buzzing and jittery, I dropped a few ice cubes in my coffee and headed out to the field.
I thought about Phil, and I thought about Hoyt.
And then I thought about Dylan.
I’d never felt so safe with a man. And I didn’t know if that was because we were on the phone and not in person, or if it was just because of who Dylan was.
Or maybe it was because of who I was becoming—I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter.
I was safe with Dylan and I would do all the things he asked because of it. The realization warmed me from the inside.
For the first two hours I mowed the northernmost part of the field, which was largely in the shade, giving the big rocks I’d marked a wide berth. But by eleven a.m. I was soaked with sweat, and on the far side of the field, that oak tree with its rope swing and the swimming hole were too powerful to resist.
I rode the mower to the side of the watering hole farthest away from the little bridge and the rest of the trailer park.
The weeds and cattails were dense, their tips waving far above my head, and I had to push them aside in order to get to the edge of the pool. Which was surprisingly wide and big. The water was clear, with no scum or algae. It drained off in a stream to my left.
Must be spring-fed, I thought.
The oak tree was on the other side, and on this side, the swimming hole had a muddy little beach and a few big rocks close to the shore.
For a skinny-dipping location, I supposed it didn’t get better than this.
“I’m going to do this,” I muttered, bouncing on my toes. And then, before I could stop myself, I peeled off my sweaty, awful clothes. Leaving on my underwear, because I was still Annie McKay after all.
And then with a squeal and a smothered yell, I ran into the pond until it got to my thighs and then I dove underwater, touching the grainy bottom with my chest and my hands before rising above the surface again.