Thankfully it works, because she smiles back at me. “Just talk, huh?”
“Yeah, like how you spoke about your vibrator this morning.”
“That was easy. This is much harder.”
“Good thing I’m patient and a good listener, huh?” I wink, and I catch her eyes darting from my mouth to my eyes before she turns away to stare intently at her water bottle.
“And persistent.”
“Get used to it . . . neighbor.”
She’s silent for a few more seconds and then says, “Losing my parents was devastating. Unexpected and instant. I lost the two most important people in my life when I wasn’t even close to being ready to understand it. Rather than spending my nights crying myself to sleep, I . . . became numb. It’s helped me survive. Emotions hurt . . . especially when they involve loss and people I love.”
“I can understand that.” I can’t. I have no clue what that devastation feels like. God, I hope I never do. “I couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like losing my parents, let alone at such a young age. But you know you can’t walk around the world numb, right, Ruthie?”
She nods. “I know. It’s hard to change though when something works so well, even if it’s an unhealthy habit. I’m trying to open up, to slowly change my way of thinking. It will take time, but I feel like I’ve spent too many years hiding.”
“I’m here if you ever need to talk.”
“I appreciate that,” she says barely sparing me a glance. She brings the water bottle to her lips and takes a large drink, and it makes me wonder. It took Griffin a long time to realize that he’d closed himself off from the world, from his family, from the idea of falling in love again after he lost Claire. As much as Ruth is saying the right words, does she know what it would take to see the world differently? To not be numb? She’s so . . . self-contained. Self-reliant. Strong. “Okay, we should get back to work.” Determined.
“Yes, we should because I have plans for us later.” I didn’t. But I do now.
“Uh, what?”
“Well, we’re running tomorrow, right?”
“Depends if I wake up with legs tomorrow.”
“They don’t disintegrate that fast. It’s usually day two that’s the worst, and if we run tomorrow, you’ll feel better. But I can’t have you running in those abominations you called running shoes this morning, because your legs really will fall off if you do.”
“Are you saying you’re taking me shoe shopping?”
“Yup.” I smile. “Pottsmouth has an awesome running store that I go to all the time. I get a great discount now.”
“Aren’t you fancy,” she says, standing up. I do as well. “And you don’t have to take me, Brig. I’m sure you’re busy. I can go tonight so I don’t offend you with my shoes tomorrow.”
Her voice is light, but I feel her brushing me off, and I don’t like it. “Sorry, can’t send you on your own. I want to help you pick out some shoes and we can use my discount. Sorry, Ruthie, you’re stuck with me for another night.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get sick of me?” she asks, going to the wall where she starts running the steamer over the wallpaper.
“Not in the slightest. You keep me on my toes. I don’t think it’s possible to get sick of you.”
I give her a smile and catch a brief touch of crimson to her cheeks before she turns away. Looks like that’s a yes.
Ten minutes before I’m meeting Ruth at Snow Roast, there’s a knock at my door.
I quickly open it to see a messenger on the other side, holding an envelope. “Secret Pen Pal delivery.”
“Christ, I could kiss you.” I snatch the letter from the high schooler, who probably wants to dig his own grave for volunteering to tote love letters around this summer. “Thanks, pal.”
“Sure,” he says in a monotone voice and walks off down the hall.
Shutting the door, I run to the living room, jumping onto the couch and landing completely on my back. I tear the envelope open and see a recipe card and a letter with her signature red lips at the bottom.
I’m giddy.
Composing myself, I take a deep breath and read.
Dear Secret Pen Pal,
Because I’m always here to help, I included the recipe for the whoopie pies. I suggest you make your brother work for it. This isn’t some regular recipe you find on the Internet. This is from my grandma’s kitchen. Heads-up, I left out a secret ingredient, but he doesn’t have to know that. It’s another thing you’ll have over him. He’ll never be able to perfect the whoopie pies and you can thank me for that.
Favorite season, huh? Fall is beautiful. I agree with you about the certain crispness in the air, and I do enjoy when it turns into scarf weather, although I’m sure everyone on the Northeast would disagree with me. But fall isn’t my favorite season. And if you guessed that winter might be my favorite because of the way the snow clings to the trees, you’d be wrong. Yes, it’s pretty, especially after a fresh snowfall, but it’s pretty for about a month, then it gets tiresome. Spring, well . . . spring is a hot mess. Melted snow, dirty slush in the parking lots. It’s not quite pretty yet but trying to be pretty. Not my favorite, which leaves summer.
Summer reminds me of good memories.
Summer keeps me busy.
Summer helps me forget how lonely I am at times.
The best things happen in summer.
Summer rolls into fall, so at least our two seasons connect. We have that going for us.
Without exposing who you are, tell me your favorite childhood memory.
Can’t wait to hear from you.
Hugs Right Back,
YSPP
I feel the smile pulling at my lips.
I feel the lightness in my shoulders.
I feel . . . happy.
Chapter Ten
RUTH
There’s something about watching a guy drive a car that’s satisfying to me.
Well, not just any guy.
Brig.
I’ve been trying to keep my eyes trained forward the entire trip to Pottsmouth, but it’s been difficult, to say the least. Especially since he thought it would be fun to take out one of the Mustangs that he rents to tourists.
He pulled up to Snow Roast in a bright red 1965 convertible Mustang with matching red interior. Wearing a white T-shirt and black Ray-Bans, he took my breath away. And when he called out to me to get in the car, like some scene in a movie, I swooned hard.
How I went from yearning to talk to Brig about more than coffee orders to actually spending time with him, I have no idea. But here I am, driving up the coast of Maine in a convertible, wearing a simple white sundress and begging the question, am I dreaming?
Even though the car is automatic, he has kept one hand on the thin steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. Occasionally when he’s looked over at me, I’ve felt my heart skip a beat.
The sun’s shining, casting a warm glow on his bronze skin, his smile’s stretched across his face, and his voice hums around me over the whip of the wind.
I’ve never enjoyed a trip to Pottsmouth as much as I’ve enjoyed this one.