“Yeah, Mom,” Dyma said. “I’m not even going to let you figure out how to finish that sentence. Sorry. I had to come back and grab some clean underwear. Owen bought me a really cute crochet bikini. It’s a very pale pink and has this fringe of pearls and puka shells, and it cost more than two hundred dollars, which you’d probably object to, except, wait, you let a guy take you to a resort for the night on a private jet, so …”
Jennifer said, “Excuse me. Underwear?” She didn’t say, “Owen didn’t take you lingerie shopping, too, while he was at it?” Harlan could tell she wanted to, though.
“Except,” Dyma said, “on the way back, my period started. Surprise! Owen was cool about it when I told him, which I’ve decided is why I’m glad I won’t be dating high-school guys much longer, but I can tell I’m kind of a mess, and it’s a little hard to enjoy a romantic evening with a guy when you’re thinking about your bloody underwear, so …” She made an airy gesture. “Here we are. Also, do you have an Advil? I’ve got cramps.”
Harlan said, “You know, girls in North Dakota weren’t nearly this forthcoming.”
“Well, that was a long time ago,” Dyma said.
He had to laugh. “Point taken.”
“Also,” she said, “period shame is just about the definition of misogynistic, so if you’ve got a problem with it, I figure it’s your problem. We all get born because women’s uteruses prepare themselves for implantation, and we shouldn’t have to hide our tampons up our sleeves or make up cute little euphemisms or spend five days in the menstruation hut so men don’t have to think about that. Also, I guess Owen had better not be planning on getting lucky tonight.”
“Dyma …” Jennifer said.
Owen said, “I’ve got a couple answers to that. I’m just going to say them right now, because your mom might want to hear them, and then I think it would be a real good idea for us to get out of here pronto. First, did I seem bothered? I’m an offensive lineman. I’m also a cattle rancher. If a little thing like a woman having her period was going to bother me—in any situation, let’s just say—I’d need to find some different lines of work. Second, I wasn’t planning on getting lucky tonight. I thought I’d made that pretty clear. I don’t sleep with high-school girls. I’m saying that again, since we’re being open. And third …” This time, he hesitated, and Harlan took a good hard look at him. If Owen was hesitating, this next part was going to be really special. He wasn’t exactly the mysterious type. He was right out there. Kind of like Dyma.
Who chose this moment to snuggle up to Owen, pull his head down, kiss his mouth in a way that wasn’t going to be helping him with his resolutions much, and breathe out, “I like you so much.”
He cleared his throat and set her on her feet, since he’d somehow lifted her all the way off them during that kiss. With one arm. On the other hand, he could probably bench-press two of her without any problem. “Right,” he said. “That brings me to the third thing, which I might regret saying, but I’m going to do it anyway. You’ve got a prom or something coming up, right?”
“Uh …” she said. “Right. End of next month. It’s probably an outmoded custom, but it’s prom, so there you go.”
“I think you’d better plan on going with me.”
For once, Miss Dynamite was lost for words. “What?”
Owen said, “I find I don’t much care for the idea of all those high-school guys you aren’t going to be dating much longer. I’d kind of like you to put an end to that career. Starting now.”
She had her hands on her hips. Not a good sign. “Uh … Owen? Excuse me? You aren’t going to date me, not for real, but I’m not supposed to date anybody else? Could you be any more … Mom, what word do I want?”
“Romantic?” Jennifer suggested.
“It is not,” Dyma said. “It’s like that dog in the manger story in the Aesop’s Fables book you used to read me when I was little. Like—you don’t want me, but nobody else can have me, either? Why, exactly? And why do you get to decide that?”
“I can go out with you,” Owen said. “I’m planning to do it, too. I just don’t get to sleep with you. And I don’t get to decide that. I get to ask you. Which is what I’m doing.”
“So, what can we do?” she asked. “Is there some number of … of …”
“Bases?” Jennifer suggested.
“What is this,” Dyma demanded, “the … the … I can’t even think of an old-timey enough movie. Bases? You kissed me back, Owen. You keep on kissing me back.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I did. I’m probably going to do it some more, too, because I might not be as tough as I’ve always thought. You really want to negotiate how far we’re going to go and when in front of your mom? I mean, I’m down, but …”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to negotiate it at all. What happened to letting things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like?”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t make choices,” Owen said. “Or set limits.”
“I hate you right now,” she said.
He grinned. “Yep. I get that. I kind of hate myself, too. And I want to go swimming with you anyway. Seems I’m a masochist that way. So come on. Change into your suit, grab those clean underwear, and let’s go.”
Dyma said, “I’m doing it because I want to. That’s why.” And Owen grinned some more.
Jennifer said, “Advil’s in my toilet kit, in my bathroom.”
Dyma disappeared into her bedroom, and Owen said, “Know what? I think I’ll wait out in the hall. Sorry, guys. Swimming, then dinner. I plan to take my time, so you know. Make the most of my date. At least two hours. Probably more.” And then he was gone.
Jennifer told Harlan after a second, “She actually is embarrassed. That’s why she said all that.”
“You know,” Harlan said, “I think I got that.”
“I keep forgetting that you’re perceptive,” she said. “Also, I’m pretty desperately embarrassed myself.”
He put an arm around her, and she leaned her head into his chest and sighed. Dyma came out again wearing a hotel robe and carrying a plastic bag, and said, “Not looking. Leaving.” Another wave of her hand. “Carry on. We’re gone. Swimming. Restaurant. Not having sex. Et cetera.”
“So,” Harlan said as the door closed behind her. He kissed Jennifer on the forehead, then pulled back and smiled into her eyes. “Remind me. Where were we?”
23
Not Letting Go
She tried to think of what to say. All she could come up with was the truth.
“I always have … too many thoughts,” she tried to explain, aware that her hair was messy, and she was wearing a not-closed-enough hotel robe and absolutely nothing else except some body lotion, and he was still completely dressed. Jeans. Belt. Plaid flannel shirt, the kind that felt so wonderfully soft under your fingertips, and probably another shirt under that. Boots, the Western kind. So many clothes. All she could really see of him was his face. That mouth.