“Your vibrator is a she?”
“Uhh . . . isn’t your vibrator a guy?”
“My vibrator is a tool for pleasure. No emotions, remember?”
“Huh, so that would mean hot pink is not your favorite color?”
“Nope.” She sucks in a deep breath and I glance over just to make sure she’s okay. When she doesn’t stop, I keep moving forward. “Red. I love red.”
“I never would have pegged you for a red girl before a few days ago, but now that I know you better, I’d say red is very accurate.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks. I love how her messy bun is bouncing on the top of her head.
“Because you’re what people like to describe as a spitfire, or dare I say, a firecracker.”
“What?” She laughs and then coughs for a few seconds.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “Fine.” Once composed, she asks, “How am I a spitfire?”
“Uh . . . you announced to the world yesterday that you were going home to masturbate. Excuse me for being shocked, but I’ve only known you as the quiet girl serving coffee. I nearly swallowed my tongue and then wanted to ask you at least twenty questions about position and pulse.”
“First of all, I didn’t announce it to the world.” We turn around, halfway done and she’s doing great. “I announced it to a few people, three of whom weren’t the least bit fazed. Secondly, what do you mean by pulse?”
I laugh out loud, and it’s my time to cough for a few seconds. When I’ve gathered myself, I say, “You know, the pulse of going in and out.”
“Oh, yeah. I just, you know, buzz the old golden zone. Not much in-and-out action. That’s only on occasion.”
I don’t want to stop.
But . . .
I pause and she stops too, looking me up and down. “What?”
“I think next time we run, we don’t talk about vibrators.”
She chuckles and starts up again; I fall in line with her pace. “You’re the one who brought it up.”
Yeah, and now all I’m going to think about all day is “buzzing the old golden zone.”
Fuck.
“Do you really call it the old golden zone?”
“Oh my God, Brig, get over it,” Ruth says, tearing down a strip of wallpaper.
After we got back to Snow Roast, I was happy to see that not only did Ruth endure our one mile, but she seemed to endure it well. I’m pretty sure she could have gone longer, but the first day I wanted to keep it simple, not blow up her legs so she’s wrecked for tomorrow.
We talked about the run. She said she was doing okay and that it wasn’t as bad as she thought it was going to be but not to get any ideas about forming her into a runner. Little does she know, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I’m still not completely sure why though. It’s good for her. That’s one reason . . . I have friends who could go running with me, but more often than not, I run alone. Especially since my brothers found their other halves. Am I that lonely that I’d force a new friend to run with me? What gives, Knightly?
I held the door open for her when we went into Snow Roast, she grabbed us cinnamon buns—not the best post-workout fuel—and we had coffee and talked about the task for the day: ripping down wallpaper.
“But . . . do you?”
“No,” she says, exasperated. Turning toward me, she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t really talk to myself when masturbating. Do you?”
I think about it. “Uh . . . not out loud. But I’m pretty sure I say things in my head like ‘oh yeah’ and ‘fuck, that feels good’.”
“And who are you talking to?” she asks, hand on her hip. She’s wearing cut-off shorts again, her work boots, and a red tank top. How many of those tank tops does she have, and how come it’s taken until now to see her in them? Wonder if she wore them around Snow Roast and I never noticed because she’s always wearing an apron when there. Either way, they look good on her.
“I don’t know, my hand?”
“So then you treat your hand like your lover?”
I chuckle. “My hand has been my only lover for a while, so I think some encouragement is a kind gesture. I’m sure you appreciate the heavy work your vibrator does.”
“It’s quick work. And remember, no emotions.”
“Sheesh.” I rip of a piece of wallpaper and toss it to the floor. “Do you allow yourself to feel any emotions?”
She’s mid-rip when she pauses. Just staring at the wall, she doesn’t move, and I feel like I struck a nerve that I didn’t mean to.
“Ruthie, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” She clears her throat and tacks on a smile. She finishes the strip she was ripping down and then says, “I’m uh, going to go get a drink. Want anything?”
“Hey,” I say, walking up to her and forcing her to look at me by lifting her chin. Her eyes quickly search mine, almost looking panicked, and I feel her retreat. The bold confidence is whittling away the more I stare at her, the more I hold her chin in my fingers. Resurrecting is the nervous, fidgety girl I know all too well. I’m learning that it’s her shield. Her protection against . . . showing too much. I don’t want her to retreat. I want the bold, sassy girl to stay. I don’t want Ruthie to hide how amazing she is. Funny. Kind. “I’m sorry if I said something that upset you.”
She lightly shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m just being dumb.” She lets out a deep breath and then puts on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Need anything to drink?” she asks again but in a chipper tone that doesn’t settle well with me.
“No, I need you to not brush me off and talk to me.”
“We don’t need to make a big deal about this, Brig, okay? Let’s just move on.”
“Yeah, I see where you would want to do that, given how it might make things awkward.” I scratch my cheek. “But that’s not how friendships work. The purpose of a friend is so you can confide in them, work through things. So”—I fold my arms over my chest and say—“go ahead, confide.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“Couldn’t be easier. All you have to do is talk. It’s not like I’m asking you to do it while balancing on a rope forty feet in the air, holding a can of air freshener in one hand and a lady’s razor in the other.”
Her brows pull together. “Why those two things?”
“Can’t be sure.” I chuckle. “First things that came to mind.” I tap the side of my head. “You never can tell what’s going to come out of here.”
“Apparently.” When I don’t budge, she sighs and takes a seat on the ground, moving her hands behind her to prop her torso up. “Well, are you going to join me?”
“Let me grab drinks quickly.” I grab our water bottles from the cooler on the counter then join her on the floor. I rest my back against one of the still wallpapered walls and hand her the drink. “Okay, now tell me why you’re so emotionless.” I say it in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood.