The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)

Interesting development

“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DO THIS,” SHANE SAYS AS WE PULL OFF THE INTERstate. It’s the tenth time during our three-hour drive that he’s informed me I didn’t have to tag along. One might think he’s the one second-guessing our weekend jaunt.

Me, I’m happy as a clam in the passenger side of his Mercedes. I love this car. I wish I could steal it from him. The seats are stupidly comfortable, and every time I’m in here, it smells incredible. You’d think having a hockey bag perpetually in the trunk would give it that smelly boy fragrance, but it still boasts that expensive leather scent. It’s intoxicating. I vow to be well-off enough one day to afford a Mercedes.

“We both know I couldn’t say no to your sister,” I tell Shane.

Last weekend, Maryanne overheard Shane laughing about how his mom wanted me to come to their anniversary party, and the next thing I knew, I had this cute kid tugging on my hand and pleading, “Please come!”

Seriously, those big, dark eyes? Can’t say no to them. Besides, I love a good party.

“Hey, is Lynsey going to be there?”

“At my parents’ anniversary party? Uh, no.” His tone is dry.

“Did your parents like her when you were together?”

“I think so.” He keeps his gaze straight ahead as he flicks the turn signal. “They said they did.”

The response lacks conviction. Interesting. The nosy part of me rears its head. Hopefully I can poke Shane’s parents this weekend and get the real story. Because if they weren’t enthusiastically welcoming the girl he dated for four years, then there’s definitely a story to be told.

Shane gives me a sideways look. “Are you really not bothered about attending a family event with me?”

“No. Why would I be?”

“You’re not nervous?”

“I don’t get nervous.”

He seems impressed. “Ever?”

“Nope.”

Well, except for those pesky anxiety attacks that I’m apparently unable to keep at bay anymore. I thought if I just didn’t think about Percy, they would go away. But lately I’ve been waking up to random bursts of panic. This morning, for example, I opened my eyes and the first thought that breached my mind was the memory of Percy’s fist flying toward my face. They started coming at night too if I’m working the late shift at Della’s. I finally had to inform my manager I needed fewer evening shifts, blaming the schedule change on my dance rehearsals.

The only saving grace about this entire fucked-up situation is that Percy has kept his distance at Meadow Hill. I assume it’s because of Shane, and I’m beyond grateful to have Shane at the apartment complex…

…words I never thought I’d say in my entire life.

But if Shane weren’t around, I can’t imagine how excruciating it would be running into Percy on the path or at the pool. I’d be locked in my apartment, probably suffering from even more anxiety attacks than I am right now.

“When we’re there, let’s try to tone down all the fighting, okay?”

Shane’s voice draws me back to the present. “The fighting?” I echo.

“You know.” He grins. “The way you’re constantly bitching at me about something.”

“I don’t bitch at you.”

“Sure you do.”

“I simply point out truths that you don’t enjoy hearing. It’s not my fault your ego can’t handle it.”

“My ego is doing fine, thank you very—this,” he interrupts himself, waving a hand between us. “This is what I mean. The bickering. My parents aren’t like that. They’re super chill and madly in love. They don’t fight or make fun of each other.”

“I don’t know if that’s boring or sweet.”

“Nah, trust me, they’re fun to be around. They’re not boring. All I’m saying is, let’s tone it down.”

“You mean me.” I fight a bristle of annoyance. “You want me to tone me down.”

“Come on, you know that’s not what I mean.”

No, I don’t know that. But whatever. It’s a good thing we’re not actually together because that’s not something I’d ever want to hear from a boyfriend. That I ought to tone any part of my personality down. It means he doesn’t love me for who I am. It means—

And why am I dissecting how Shane feels about me? All I care about is how good he makes me feel—in bed. And oh my God, does he know what he’s doing in that department.

In fact, the only thing that “bothers” me about spending the weekend in Heartsong, Vermont, with Shane’s family is that it likely means we won’t be having sex.

A winding country road unfurls ahead of us as Shane drives past a blue sign that welcomes us to Heartsong. Not long after, I find myself in a literal storybook. A quaint, little town nestled between rolling hills and framed by a canopy of oak trees. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers into my open window.

Up ahead, I spot another sign: a vintage wooden one proudly declaring the town’s name again.

“Oh my God, this is the most Vermont thing I’ve ever seen.”

He sighs. “I know.”

We cruise down Main Street, which is lined by storefronts frozen in time—a general store, a pharmacy, a cidery, a tavern. Each building is adorned with colorful awnings and ornate metalwork. When the town square comes into view, I honest to God gasp. The square features a clock tower and a fountain.

We pass a small park where children are shrieking with laughter and an ice cream shop that has a line down the block of hopeful patrons.

“God, it’s like a quaint town ate a quaint small town and then threw up over a third quaint town to create a—”

“I get the point,” he cuts in, snorting.

“Like, I’m talking nauseatingly cute. This is where you grew up?”

“Yep. I was born in Burlington, which is where my parents met. But they moved out here after they had me. How about you?”

“Not far from here, actually,” I reveal. “I grew up in a small town too. Oak Ridges. It’s in northern Massachusetts, right by the Vermont border.”

“Oh wow, that is close. I drive past it all the time.”

“My dad and stepmom live there. My mom’s from Savannah, but she went to MIT and then got a job as a professor in Boston. Met my dad there.”

“He’s a cop, right?”

“SWAT.”

“That’s hardcore.”

“I know. If you ever meet him, ask him to tell you some of his stories. He’s been involved in two hostage crises, one where they had to shoot the hostage taker.”

Shane whistles under his breath. “Shit. Did he pull the trigger?”

“No, one of his snipers did, but he gave the order. Dad says sometimes that’s even harder to swallow. The knowledge that you ordered someone’s death but then had someone else do the dirty work.”

“Yeah, I can’t even imagine.”

He turns right on a residential street lined with more of those ancient trees. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting a dappled pattern on the road. This town is stunning.

“This is us,” Shane says, pulling into the wide driveway in front of a beautiful Victorian home with a wraparound porch and three-car garage. “Ready, Girlfriend?”

“Born ready, Boyfriend.”

Inside, we’re welcomed by Shane’s parents and a Maryanne tornado who throws her arms around my waist in an ecstatic hug.

“You came!” she exclaims. “I’m so happy!”

I’m obsessed with Shane’s parents from the moment I meet them. His dad, Ryan, is all jokes and smiles, and his mom is more welcoming than I expected. Usually, I’m a hit with my boyfriends’ dads, while the moms grill me at every chance they get. But April Lindley, while asking the occasional prying question about my relationship with her son, treats me like a long-lost daughter from the get-go.

I feel a bit bad lying about our relationship, but the more we talk, the more I realize I’m not doing much lying. I laugh about how he annoyed me all year. How a part of me still can’t believe I let him convince me to be his girlfriend. And none of that is a lie—swap the word girlfriend for friend with benefits, and that’s exactly what happened.

God help me, but we’re friends now. We have a TV show we watch together almost every night. We’re dance partners, for Pete’s sake. A fact that Shane’s mom finds downright hilarious when we discuss it during dinner.

“I don’t even want to know how you got that boy to agree to this,” April says, giggling into her water glass.

“You must be something special,” his dad agrees, grinning at me.

The Lindleys make an unlikely couple. April is elegant. Extremely put-together. She’s wearing khakis and a silk blouse for a dinner in her own house. Ryan, meanwhile, gives off scruffy vibes with his sweatpants and dirty-blond hair to his chin. He looks like he should be surfing the waves, not running a successful, multimillion-dollar business.

And then Maryanne, well, she’s Maryanne. She shows me her room, her science trophies, her favorite books. My head is spinning by the time she takes me to the guest room, where I’ll be staying. I’m sort of relieved by the Lindley house rule: no sleeping in the same room. If I were sharing a bed with Shane, there’s no way his considerable penis wouldn’t make an appearance, and there’s no chance in hell of me being quiet while he uses it on me. Better to resist temptation.

I deposit my weekend bag on the bed and fish out a pair of loose plaid pants and a T-shirt. Maryanne informed us that we were watching a movie after dinner, and I want to throw on some comfy clothes. Shane’s making the popcorn as we speak. I also pull out my little black dress and hang it in the closet. It’s what I’m wearing for the anniversary party tomorrow.

“Hey.” Shane appears in the doorway. “My mom says if you need extra pillows or blankets, they’re in the linen closet next to the guest bath.”

“Thanks. Close the door? I want to change.”

He steps in and shuts the door behind him. As I pull off my tight top and replace it with the baggy tee, Shane tips his head, his eyes gleaming with seduction.

“Do you want me to sneak in here after everyone’s asleep?”

I was just thinking how we shouldn’t have sex. Which means the answer to that question should be no.

Yet when I open my mouth, the wrong one-syllable word slips out.

“Yes.”

The Lindley anniversary party is being held in a large private room at a restaurant that doubles as a banquet hall. When we walk in, we’re greeted by the animated hum of conversation and the inviting aroma of Italian food. The large room, with its soft lighting, earthy tones, and rustic wooden furniture, offers a warm ambiance that brings a smile to my lips. At the far end of the room is a small band playing acoustic bluegrass music.

I think I’m in love with Heartsong, Vermont.

There are about sixty people in attendance, but Shane only has time to make a few introductions before we’re ushered to our table for dinner. All the tables are adorned with simple centerpieces, and we’ve been seated with his parents, sister, his mother’s twin Ashley, and Shane’s maternal grandparents.

Like I told Shane yesterday, I don’t get nervous for these events. Tonight is no exception, although that could have something to do with how friendly and welcoming everybody is.

While the restaurant staff moves gracefully among the tables, Shane’s family regales us with stories that have me in hysterics. Turns out Shane’s parents were high school sweethearts. His grandmother tells me about the first time April brought Shane’s dad home to meet her parents, how a seventeen-year-old Ryan was so desperate to make a good impression on his girlfriend’s parents that he didn’t want to admit his stomach couldn’t handle spicy food. So when April’s mom served him a five-alarm chili for dinner, he ate every last bite—and wound up a red-faced, snot-nosed, puking mess in their upstairs bathroom.

Shane’s grandfather pipes up, telling me that’s when he knew “the white boy was a keeper.” According to April’s father, you know a man truly loves a woman when he’s willing to humiliate himself in front of her family.

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I swear I glimpse sadness on Mr. Lindley’s face while his in-laws tell the story. He reaches for April’s hand, and this time I know I’m not imagining the way she squeezes his hand, almost as if in warning. Yet when their eyes lock during her sister’s toast, there’s no disguising the love they feel for each other.

“You’re lucky,” I whisper to Shane as the staff begins clearing our plates. “I love my stepmom, but sometimes the little kid in me still wishes my parents had stayed together.”

“Honestly, I couldn’t even imagine what I would do if my folks got divorced. My whole life, they’ve set the bar, you know? Showed me what love is actually supposed to look like.” In an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability, Shane’s voice cracks.

My heart softens at that. It’s nice to see the deep love for his parents reflected in Shane’s eyes. I get the feeling he has a lot more depth to him than he’s willing to show. That he’s more than the cocky, obnoxious hockey player who wants to get in my pants.

So of course, he has to ruin the moment by staring at my boobs.

“Stop looking at my cleavage,” I scold.

“I can’t help it. Like, how is there that much of it? Your tits aren’t that big.”

“You’re not supposed to comment on a woman’s breast size. It’s uncouth.”

“I didn’t say I don’t like them.” He drags his tongue over his lips. “I don’t discriminate. All shapes and sizes are welcome in Lindley Land.”

“Ew. Shane.”

He just snickers. He’s incorrigible.

With dinner over, the dancing starts. The room transforms from a chill acoustic affair to a lively party, the band now playing a mixture of blues, country, and soul.

The dance floor, always a sight to behold, beckons to me. I think that’s the reason I never feel out of place at parties. Even ones like this, where I hardly know a soul. As long as there’s music in the air and something solid beneath my feet, I will always belong.

I’m about to pull Shane on his feet to dance when his father surprises me by asking me first.

“How about it, Diana?” Ryan offers his hand and a smile.

“Absolutely.”

We join the growing group of people on the dance floor. Shane’s dad curls one palm around my waist and grips my hand with the other, and we start moving to the up-tempo beat. The loud music, combined with sounds of chatter and clinking glasses, makes it difficult to hear each other, so he brings his face closer to my ear.

“You’re an interesting development,” he teases. “Different.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs and spins me around, displaying some pretty decent footwork.

“Hey, you’re a good dancer,” I inform him, pleasantly surprised. “Better than Shane.” Grinning, I cock my head. “Do you want to do the competition with me instead?”

“I certainly do not,” he says cheerfully.

I laugh. “Fair enough. It’s not for everyone.”

“I still can’t believe you dragged my son into it.”

“Yeah, he’s being a very good sport,” I say grudgingly. Curiosity continues to tug at me. “What do you mean I’m different?”

Just saying that word—different—brings a slight clench of insecurity to my chest. Because I know he’s right. I am different. I’ve always felt it and not only because I’m weird and have a temper.

I’m different from my family in Savannah, who view me as this outspoken, confrontational girl corrupted by the north, who doesn’t know when to sit quietly and look pretty.

I’m different from my little brother, who’s so freakishly smart and determined to save the world.

And I’m definitely different from my mom, who doesn’t think I’m intelligent enough to be in the same room as her.

I suppose that’s why I love the way my dad sees me—as unstoppable, invincible. I know there’s only one opinion that should matter, and that’s my own. But to me, the person whose lens I want to view myself through is my father’s. Because his vision of me is the best one.

“You make him laugh a lot,” Shane’s dad says, his rough voice jolting me from my depressing thoughts.

I crack a smile. “I think I just annoy him a lot.”

“That too.”

“Thanks,” I say with mock hurt.

Ryan smiles. “But he needs that. My boy needs the challenge.” His gaze drifts across the room. “All Lindley men do.”

He’s gazing at Shane’s mom, who’s chatting with her twin and a few other women I wasn’t introduced to. An uneasy feeling pricks at me when I notice the longing in his eyes. The hint of sorrow. I’m sure of it now, and I find myself praying that Shane’s parents aren’t having issues. They seem like such a great couple.

Ryan spins me around again. “I also notice how much more relaxed he is. Around you, I mean.”

Compared to Lynsey? I want to ask.

I resist the urge. I already have the answer anyway, because I saw it for myself, how Shane acted when Lynsey was around. That night, he’d been more serious. Guarded, watching his words. I don’t know if that was to impress Lynsey or to avoid angering her, but I certainly noticed a difference. I find it validating that his parents also observed his change of behavior with his ex. Or at least I suspect they did.

“I like you two together,” Ryan says. “I think—”

“May I cut in?”

Shane, of course.

His dad relinquishes me without complaint, clapping his son on the shoulder before walking off. Shane takes his place, placing one arm around my waist to pull me close.

“Should we perform our tango for the guests?” I tease.

“I’d rather die.”

I press my face against his chest to smother a laugh. “And you say I’m the dramatic one.”

When I raise my head, he’s once again fixated on my cleavage. Warmth spreads through me, and not just because his eyes are telegraphing how badly he wants me naked. Dancing with Shane is pretty great. He’s so tall and I’m so short, so it really shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. We fit together.

“What was my dad saying to you?” he asks curiously.

“Oh, you know. That I’m wonderful and he loves seeing us together and I’m the best girlfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Yes. I’m sure he said all that. In those exact words.”

“Well, he did say he liked us together. That part is true.”

“You know who else would like us together?” Shane winks at me.

“Your penis.”

“Exactly.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Ms. Dixon,

We are pleased to inform you that your entry for this year’s National Upper Amateur Ballroom Competition has been approved. You are entered in the following categories:

American Smooth Duo

American Rhythm Solo

Please see the attached welcome package for important information.

Best,

Susan HiramProperty © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

Director of Operations