Chapter_23

This yours?the text from Dylan had read. She’d sent a photo of a black sweater. Rosie stared at the text, the morning swelling around her. She zoomed in on the image. Dylan’s hand held up the sweater, a vein running from her middle finger to her forearm.

Not mine, Rosie wrote back. She tried not to wonder about the owner of the sweater. It was an hour before sunrise. Through the window facing the outbuilding, she could see Dylan was awake. A light had come on in the bathroom. Then, movement out of one room and into another. Desire arrived before thought. Rosie touched the back of her head where Dylan’s hand had been. She remembered the tea bags against her eyes and, steadying herself against the counter, poured coffee into two GoldenDrop thermoses.

cool, Dylan wrote. ready in 5.

She wore a royal blue sweatshirt and black work pants and steered with her knee while she sipped from the thermos of coffee. “What is GoldenDrop?” she said, rotating the thermos in her hand. “It reminds me of...” She started laughing.

“What?” Rosie was laughing too, more out of nervousness than anything else.

“A golden shower or something? Something sexual.”

“It’s Jordan’s mom’s company! I can’t think of her and erotic peeing at the same time. Please!”

“GoldenDrop,” Dylan said slowly, enunciating the P, and Rosie put her face in her hands. They pulled into the farm lot, where Hank stood, waiting with his arms crossed.

“Here we go,” Rosie said darkly. “Here’s where I find out what I’ve done wrong. Thanks for the ride.”

She unbuckled her seat belt. But as she opened the door, Hank got into the back seat. “You’re late,” he said, shutting the door and pulling on his seat belt.

“Am I?” Rosie looked at the dashboard clock.

“Not you,” Hank said. He punched Rosie’s shoulder lightly.

“Please,” Dylan said. “Five minutes.” She turned to Rosie. “I’m not actually taking you to work. Can you shut the door? It’s freezing.”

“Where are we going?”

“All will be revealed,” Dylan said.

Hank handed her a small package wrapped in butcher paper. “Happy birthday.”

“I didn’t know,” Rosie said. “Happy birthday.”

“If I’m getting up this early on my birthday, I’m going to watch the sunrise,” Dylan said. She slid a finger along the edge of the butcher paper. Rosie had never wanted to be a piece of butcher paper before. She averted her eyes for a moment but couldn’t contain her curiosity as Dylan drew a small white box from the paper and lifted its lid to reveal four domed, shiny chocolates. “Oh yes,” Dylan said. “Are these what I think they are?”

“Locally sourced,” Hank said. “Nothing too crazy.”

“Do you like mushrooms, Rosie?” Dylan slung an arm around Rosie’s headrest and started backing out. “You won’t hallucinate. Just a nice... shiny feeling.” She put the car in Drive and held out the box.

“Sure,” Rosie said, though she had never tried one. She followed Dylan’s lead, popping the chocolate into her mouth, bracing herself for the taste of dirt. But it only tasted like chocolate.

“I let Dylan bully me into a day off once every blue moon,” Hank said. He took a chocolate for himself. Rosie tried to adjust to this nicer version of him but failed not to take the difference personally.

“I would have gotten you something,” Rosie said.

Dylan merged onto a county road. “I don’t really celebrate it.” Stands of trees bent toward them. A spike of adrenaline was making its way through Rosie’s body. They bumped along winding dirt roads as the morning loosened around them. Dylan pulled off the road suddenly. “OK,” she said, pulling up on the emergency brake. “Lark should be waiting for us.”

Rosie strained to see through the window, beyond a tangle of trees. “Am I being kidnapped?”

“Yes,” Dylan said, “but in a fun way.” She reached a hand to Rosie’s knee and squeezed. Rosie’s heart hammered. She stared at her knee, then glanced in the mirror at Hank, who was making his way out of the truck.

The trail was dark, and Dylan led the way with her headlamp through the clean, mossy morning. Shadows straightened into trees, which became shadows again. Animal sounds pulsed in every direction. Dylan’s headlamp spot-lit a shoe, then a leg, then all of Lark, who sat on a rock with Justin at her side. She wore a dark green jumpsuit and a backpack made of straw. Her hair was pulled back behind an indigo bandana, a long blue feather tucked behind one ear. “Good morning,” she said. She pushed herself up from the rock and gave everyone a meaningful look, as though this reunion had been years in the works. Justin writhed ecstatically on his back. Dylan kissed Lark, and Rosie looked away, paralyzed by envy.

“I missed you,” Lark said. “Happy birthday.”

“I missed you, too,” Dylan said.

“Rosie,” Lark said, pulling her into a hug. “How have you been feeling?”

Rosie searched for the most authentic response to the question. I’ve been feeling like I want your life would have been the honest statement. But instead she said, “I’ve been feeling really energized.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Lark looked so intensely into Rosie’s eyes that Rosie felt fully transparent.

“And you, Hank?” Lark said, holding his face in her hands.

Hank swatted her away. “I can see that you’re returning from another one of your... workshops. I love you, but you know I can’t with that stuff. I’ve been working. I guess you could say I’ve been feeling busy.”

“Busyness is its own gift,” Lark said.

“I would have to disagree,” Hank said. He pulled the white box out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“It’s true!” Lark said with a laugh. She opened the box. “Oh, incredible!” She held the chocolate up to the sky, then popped it into her mouth.

There was no marked trail, but Dylan knew the way. She held back branches as they stepped through the underbrush. Justin trotted ahead, sniffing the bases of trees. When he barked, Dylan went to him, returning each time with mushrooms, which she placed carefully in Lark’s pack. Occasionally, she’d pluck something from the side of the trail and hold it beneath Rosie’s nose. A twig that smelled like root beer. A thistle that smelled like musk. A mushroom that smelled like garlic. “Bears love these,” Dylan said, holding one in her palm.

Rosie stared at it. The thought of encountering a bear had started as a fear but had become a wish. “Do you think we’ll see one?”

“This time of year they’re getting ready to hibernate,” Dylan said. “So probably not.”

“Do they eat people?”

“Did you hear what happened to Sasha?” It wasn’t clear who Dylan was talking to, so Rosie didn’t respond. “She keeps dog food high up in her garage,” Dylan continued, “and a bear got into it. Totally ransacked the place.”

“Poor bear,” Lark said. “I hope she didn’t eat anything poisonous.”

“Poor bear?” Hank said incredulously.

They pushed uphill in the dark. Rosie’s pulse thudded in her ears. No stopping, she thought. No stopping. She had no concept of how long the hike would last, nor did she feel she could ask. No one else in the group appeared to be exerting much effort. They all had enough breath to banter and laugh, but not Rosie, who could only focus on each step in front of her.

“You good, Rosie?” Dylan said, turning around, and Rosie, out of breath, held up a thumb, the path zigzagging upward. When finally it veered steeply downhill, she wanted to cry with relief. She grasped onto thin, insufficient saplings to keep her balance. Eventually she heard the soft rush of water.

“Home sweet home,” Dylan said, holding back a branch for everyone.

The clearing was vast, and the waterfall somehow came as a surprise. The current roared indigo down the steep face of a cliff, into a large pool of water that overflowed into shallower pockets, spreading itself around large flat stones. The water looked still, its movement clear only at the edges. The sun had just climbed above the horizon, and the light skated across the pools, which glowed like stars. The sky was the color of cantaloupe.

Dylan, Lark, and Hank removed their shoes and hopped along the stones toward a tiny A-frame hut perched on one of the rocks. Rosie scrambled to catch up.

“Dylan built this a few years ago,” Lark said energetically, hanging up her jacket on a wooden hook on the side of the hut. The exterior was charred black. Dylan appeared with a bundle of branches. “What do you think?” she said to Rosie, but the question seemed rhetorical; as soon as she’d asked it, she began to make her way behind the hut, where a small clay chimney jutted up. A fire roared to life, on command.

“All right,” Dylan said, reemerging and brushing her hands against her pants. “The sauna should be warm in a few minutes. Ready to dip, Rosie?”

Rosie stuck a toe in the water. She felt the chill in her neck. “You’re joking.”

But she could see that Dylan was not joking. She and Hank had started removing their clothes. Dylan tugged her pants down in one motion, revealing black boxer briefs. With one hand she pulled her shirt off from the collar, over her head. Her shoulders were broad and knotted with muscles. She had small breasts—model breasts, Rosie thought, not unlike her own. But the rest of her was completely unlike Rosie; she was substantial and sculpted, as if each of her muscles was constantly put to use. Her abs caught the glow of morning light; her obliques cut sharply into a V that disappeared into her briefs. Next to Dylan, Hank was compact and stocky, with a dramatic farmer’s tan. A faded silver scar ran the length of his chest, which was—along with the rest of his torso—covered in a constellation of tattoos. She began to catalog them: a pickup truck, a pair of swans, a slice of cake, a monkey on a skateboard, a diamond ring, the word “cowboy,” the word “dreamy,” the word “pressure,” a wishbone, a horse bending to drink, the ice skate at his collarbone—

“Rosie,” Lark said. “I think you have a tick. Come here.”

“Where?” Rosie said, panicked.

“On your arm. I’ve got it.” Lark pinched the tick and held it in her palm. Rosie shuddered. “Can you kill it?”

“It’s just a wood tick,” Lark said gently. She released it onto the stones. “Ready?”

“No,” Rosie said.

Lark laughed. “The sauna is waiting for us. Contrast hydrotherapy is amazing for circulation.”

“Contrast what?”

“Contrast hydrotherapy! Switching between hot and cold. It’s life-giving. It moves the energy through your body. Trust me.” She stripped down to her crisp white underwear and faced the water. She was smattered with birthmarks. Her frame was tiny but full, every part of her soft and inviting. What could Rosie do but picture the two of them together? She could imagine Dylan lifting Lark easily, pressing her against the shelves of elderberry and echinacea tinctures. Dylan’s tongue on Lark’s nipple; Dylan’s muscular thigh between Lark’s legs. Rosie’s chest felt tight. She was freezing. Without hesitation, Lark dove in. When she rose to the surface, she let out a long, happy cry. Justin stood at the edge of the water, barking at her.

“Come on!” Lark yelled to the rest of them.

“Count us in?” Dylan said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“From what?” Lark said, treading water.

“Fifty?” Hank said.

“Five!” Lark shouted. “Four!”

On one, Dylan and Hank leapt into the water. Justin barked. Their heads broke the surface, and they both yelled. It was Rosie’s turn. She cleared her mind, unbuttoned her jeans, and tugged them down. Her thighs were covered in goosebumps. She pulled off her tank top and unhooked her bra. Her mind went to Jordan, who was somewhere in the city. She was caught between two desires: for everyone to look at her, and for everyone to turn away. The air was sharp. She wanted to go directly into the sauna. But they were waiting for her. A fog skimmed the water, obscuring their faces.

“Come on, Rosie,” Dylan called. “We can’t get out till you get in. Anyway, it’s not so bad!”

“That’s a lie,” Hank said. “It’s horrible.”

Rosie looked down at them. They were waving her in. She thought of the Alps. The mug in the cream. Thousands of stars biting through the night. Zoe’s breath against her face, the private, bucking desire. A calf struggling to stand for the first time. She cleared her mind, took a breath, and jumped. The water was ice. Knives everywhere. Everything hurt. Her hair follicles stung. Her breath was tight and fast. When she came to the surface, everyone was yelling. Justin was barking, pacing the edge of the water.

“Fuck!” she gasped. “Fuck!”

“See, not so bad, right?” Lark said. She appeared completely unaffected by the cold.

“You are crazy,” Rosie said, barely able to get the words out, still grasping for each breath, the water like broken glass.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Hank said desperately.

They scrambled onto the rocks. Dylan put an arm around Rosie as they walked toward the sauna, Justin trotting alongside them. “How about that?” Dylan said, squeezing her shoulder. “You’re one of us now.”

Rosie fought a smile, teeth chattering. Say it again, she thought.

Dylan flung open the sauna door, and they stepped through a wall of hot, dry heat. It was sharp with cedar. Rosie sat on the bench and closed her eyes, the water lifting from her skin. Dylan lay across the narrow aisle, her head in Lark’s lap. Lark rubbed some sort of balm into Dylan’s chest. It smelled like mint and lavender. Rosie felt too good to be jealous. Her jealousy was like the fog lifting off the rocks. It obscured everything, and then it was gone. Hank brought a bucket of water inside and splashed it onto the clay chimney. It sizzled, then steamed. Soon, the water in Rosie’s hair was warm. Her skin was wet, from water or sweat, it was impossible to tell. “I feel like I got run over,” she said. “In a good way.”

“Yes,” Lark agreed.

“I can’t remember any of my problems.”

“Could be the chocolate,” Dylan said. “Let me see your eyes.” She got so close to Rosie’s face that Rosie felt her breath.

“Or the Queen Anne’s lace,” Lark said thoughtfully. “Did you change your routine? Has your stress been better?”

“I haven’t tried it,” Rosie said. “I’m still on the pill.”

“At your own pace,” Lark said. She stood and wrung out her hair.

“Are we leaving?” Rosie asked.

“Leaving?” Hank said. “We’re just getting started.”

The cold coursed through her like it had been shot into her veins. It was behind her eyes. She lifted herself out of the water and looked at the brightening sky, at a smoky cloud. She touched her own numb arm and felt foreign to herself. Back in the sauna, Dylan rubbed the lavender balm into her hands, and they tingled.

Then, back into the freezing river. They let the heat of the sauna overwhelm them until sweat ran down their cheeks. After a while, they moved silently. The sun shifted across the sky. Rosie could feel every cell in her body. She was addicted to the feeling. The cold was no longer cold.

They piled into the truck. Dylan put the key in the ignition, and it whinnied and sputtered.

“Come on,” Dylan said to the steering wheel. She tried again, turning the key more forcefully.

“I could call a tow,” Rosie said. “I think I have a bar of service.” Her teeth chattered. She sat in the front seat. In the back, Lark leaned her head against Hank’s shoulder, Justin across their laps.

“We’re good,” Dylan said. She reached over Rosie and pulled something from the glove box. She popped the hood and after a few minutes climbed back into the driver’s seat, wiping her hands on her pants. “Just the ignition coil.”

The truck started right up. Rosie looked at her dazed reflection in the sideview mirror. Her cheeks were pink, and her skin was dewy. They flew through a tunnel of trees. Shredded tires blurred by.

“I’m starving,” Dylan said, accelerating past a tractor. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“Stop at the farm,” Hank said from the back seat. “We can have chicken.”

“Yes,” Dylan said, “perfect,” and soon she was pulling into the familiar, rocky driveway that led to Hank’s coop.

“You guys wait here,” Hank said, unbuckling his seat belt. “This’ll just take a minute.”

“Oh, I can’t watch,” Lark said. “I’m going to close my eyes.”

Dylan reached a hand into the back seat and patted her knee.

“Wait,” Rosie said before Hank shut the door. “I want to do it.”

Hank considered her, one hand against the truck. “Ferdinand?” he said. “Is that you?”

She squared herself to the cone. She gripped the knife. Hank turned on the scald tank. Lark waited in the truck, her hands over her eyes. Dylan sat on the hood. The barn was quiet, the sky was empty of clouds, and Rosie’s mind was clear. She had jumped into the freezing river. The small feathered head waited. What came to mind was the word “no,” laced with the panic and contempt of the morning commuter. Sometimes it was just a hand in her face, a look at the pavement, a preemptive crossing of the street, feigned deafness. No, she thought, bringing the knife against the warm, beating neck.

No, she thought, bird kicking, blood pooling. Then, a hand on her back. “Perfect,” Hank said, and she felt drunk with pride.

“Damn,” Dylan said.

At the house, they made dinner. Dylan spatchcocked the chicken, smothered it in butter, and pushed it into the oven; Lark brought in vegetables from her garden; Rosie cleaned the mushrooms at the sink. Hank arranged a fire and hooked up his phone to Jordan’s speakers.

There was a knock at the door, eliciting a single, tired woof from Justin, who was sprawled in front of the fireplace. Lark turned to Rosie. “I invited Sasha over. I hope that’s OK?”

“Of course,” Rosie said, but Lark had already set down her knife and was answering the door. She kissed Sasha, who held the child’s hand. Both Sasha and the child wore shades of red, as if they were in a well-dressed cult.

“Hey, buddy!” Dylan called from the kitchen, and the child ran to her. She lifted him and turned to face Rosie. “Do you remember Rosie? Look at these nice slippers!” She squeezed his feet. “Who made these?”

Rosie stared at his small, sheepskin slippers.

“Lark,” the child said, before mashing his face into Dylan’s neck.

“Mm-hm. Lucky you. Rosie, could you, for a second—?” She passed the child to Rosie. To her surprise, he did not protest.

“Hello,” she said. From her arms, the child watched as Dylan bent to inspect the chicken in the oven. His heavy, compact body rested against her, his mouth open slightly as he breathed, transfixed.

“He likes you,” Dylan said, straightening. She brought a knuckle to his cheek.

“I think he likes you,” Rosie said, but she was overcome by deep relief that the child had accepted her. She set him down before he changed his mind, and he tottered to Lark, Hank, and Sasha, who sat in the living room by the crackling fire. Hank tried to capture his attention with Jordan’s foam roller. The child did something that Rosie couldn’t see, but which made Sasha and Hank yell the word “ladybug!”

Dylan heated a pan with butter. The smell of garlic and cherrywood filled the living room. The mushrooms hit the pan with a sizzle. The sunset had started to fall through the west windows.

“What else can I do?” Rosie asked.

Dylan appeared where she was standing and reached an arm around her shoulder. “You can do whatever you want,” she said quietly, which made all the oxygen briefly leave the room.

“Maybe a salad?” she said, recovering. The Japanese vegetable peeler had made its way to the back of a crowded drawer, unused. She pulled it out and showed it to Dylan.

“That’s a nice-looking peeler,” Dylan said.

“Thank you,” Rosie said, blushing. She felt like one of the models in the ad as she drew the sharp blade easily across a cucumber from the general store, the ribbons falling quietly into the sink. “Hey,” she said, turning to Dylan. “Do you have a salad bowl? And some plates? We don’t have enough, and I want everything to match.”

“Sure,” Dylan said. “Door’s open. We have some napkins too that Lark just finished. Hanging on the line behind the fold.”

“The what?”

“Oh, that’s what we’ve been calling our place.” She dried her hands on her pants.

“Something about the fold is very biblical... yet also very gay,” Hank said from the living room.

“A fold,” Dylan said to Rosie, “is where sheep rest. And my last name is Shepherd, so Lark sort of thought...”

“A shepherd in the fold,” Rosie said. “I like it.”

She finished the cucumbers, slipped on a pair of boots, and made her way outside. The sun had eased behind a mountain peak, sending marbled light in all directions. The air was damp and piney. The clothesline held a pair of work pants; a fisherman’s sweater; two crisp, white T-shirts; a burgundy blanket; and six indigo-dyed napkins. She unclipped the napkins from their pins, grabbed a stack of dishes from inside, and brought them back to the house. It took three trips to get everything for the table. Matte porcelain plates, enamel serving dishes, painterly water glasses, extra-long tapered candles, and a handwoven table runner. She resisted the urge to take a photo.

Dylan and Hank set the mushrooms and garlicky potatoes on the table. Sasha balanced the child on her lap. Lark lit the candles. Dylan brought a knife to the chicken’s thigh, which came apart easily. Rosie tossed the cucumbers in a wooden bowl.

She was so entranced by the scene that she almost didn’t notice the car slowing to a stop in the driveway, the crunch of gravel under rubber.

“Tesla,” said the toddler.

“Oh! Are we expecting others?” Lark said.

“No,” Rosie said, her chest suddenly tight. “Jordan won’t be back until—at least, I thought—”

She watched through the window as Jordan emerged from the driver’s seat and then walked around to the passenger’s side to open the door. A high heel wobbled unsteadily in the gravel. His mother. She looked at the house, winced slightly, and said something to Jordan before making her way to the front door and pushing it open. “Well!” she said, taking in the scene.

Jordan appeared behind her, holding her hard-shelled suitcase, a hand on her shoulder. “What...” he said, looking around.

His mother looked from Lark to Hank to Dylan to Sasha to the child, and finally to Rosie. “Are we interrupting something?”