Chapter Fourteen
RUTH
“So, word on the street is you’ve been ‘grouchy’ to Brig,” Rylee says, coming up to the counter as I close up. She’s spent the day in her “sex chair” finishing up a manuscript that’s been giving her trouble. Something about not connecting with the characters, not feeling their passion?
Ugh, artists. Am I right?
I just finished up today’s tabs, and am ready to call it a day and kick my friend out so I can wallow in a frozen pizza by myself.
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Ren, who heard it from Harper, who heard it from Eve, who heard it from Reid, who heard it directly from Brig in their family group text message.”
“Oh, is that all?” I ask sarcastically.
She sits up on the counter and crosses one leg over the other. “Why are you torturing the boy?”
“Why am I torturing him? Uh, hello, he’s the one who’s driven me to drink. DRINK, Rylee. I swear, I couldn’t be any more obvious at this point.”
“Oh, you could. You could tell him it’s you he’s been writing, and that he’s the one you’ve been pining after.” I bite the corner of my lip. “Ah, but that would put you in the position of putting your heart on the line and you would never do that.”
I shake my head. “I’ve endured too much hurt for a lifetime. I don’t think my heart could take anymore.”
Rylee places her hand on mine and I stare at the connection. “Why do you think he’s going to hurt you?”
“Rylee, if he was interested, he would have made a move by now.”
“You don’t know that.”
I let out a sigh. “In his letters, he’s measuring and offering his dick size, and suggesting that we’re two steps away from the bedroom. With his pen pal. Whereas, he refers to me, Ruth, as his friend. He wants her, Rylee. Not me. He’s flirting with her. He wants to kiss her. I’m right in front of him, and if he wanted me, he’d take me. Literally . . . He had his nose in my cleavage the other day and fucking looked away. In. My. Boobs. So, don’t tell me I don’t know. If he wanted me, he’d be as upfront as he is with his pen pal. I’m done trying. This fucking hurts, Rylee, and I just can’t keep doing this to myself. He’ll be expecting another letter tomorrow, but I just don’t have it in me anymore. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Davenport, and tell her I’m not interested. It’s time to put an end to it before my heart breaks even more.”
“Ruth, you can’t quit now. You’re so close.”
“No, I’m not.” I shake my head. “Listen to what I’m saying. You’re not there with him, you don’t see it firsthand. There is nothing between us. But he desperately wants the girl he’s writing to, and that’s not me. Not in his eyes.”
“I see the way he looks at you though.”
“I love you, Rylee, but you’re also a romance novelist who has unrealistic expectations when it comes to love and relationships. You live in a fantasy—”
“That’s bullshit, and if you would read my books you’d know that. I write realistic characters. Characters with faults, with cracks and bends in their souls. They’re human. They make mistakes. They say the wrong things at the wrong times. They experience pain, they understand what it takes to earn someone’s love back, and yes, there might always be a happily ever after but isn’t that what life is supposed to be? A happily ever after? Where’s yours, Ruth?”
“Not with Brig, and I think we need to—”
The bell to the shop rings and we both turn to find Brig walking through the door.
Why?
Why does he have the worst timing?
Hands stuffed in his front jeans pockets, he walks toward us looking a little frightened but also excited.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Can I continue to approach the counter or am I going to be yelled at?”
“I’m closing up right now. Rylee was just leaving,” I say, stuffing away all the tabs and packing up.
“I’m not here for coffee.”
I watch Rylee place a hand on Brig’s arm as she says, “Be cautious, she’s still biting.”
He doesn’t pay Rylee any attention, but looks at me, the pleading in his expression piercing the wall I’m trying to build around my heart. His eyes, sad, regretful, almost desperate, are calling out to me and I’m doing everything in my power not to look at him.
“I’ll catch you tomorrow,” Rylee calls out as she takes off, the quickest retreat I think I’ve ever seen from her. The door rings and then shuts, leaving me alone with Brig.
“Listen, I’m tired and hungry and I would really like to—”
“Please come with me,” he says, his voice flat. “Please, Ruth, I really want to show you something.” When I don’t look at him, he lifts my chin and forces my eyes to meet his, and that’s my undoing. My fate is sealed when he says, “Please,” one more time.
I might be irritated with him, but I still can’t resist the man, not when he looks at me like that, like if I don’t say yes, he might not take his next breath. So I take off my apron, hang it up, and round the counter where Brig immediately takes my hand. I snag the keys to the shop, lock up, and then allow myself to be guided down Main Street.
“You said you’re hungry?” Brig asks, quietly walking next to me, our hands linked together.
I’m happy and sad. Happy that I can steal this moment with him, but sad because I know it doesn’t mean anything to him . . . like it means something to me.
“Yeah, but I can eat after we’re done with this.”
“I can order us a pizza and we can—”
“Brig, just show me what you have to show me, okay?”
I feel him tense next to me, and I actually feel bad. I know he’s confused, has no idea why I’m acting the way I am, but it really has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the feelings I’ve been harboring. It’s not fair for me to be so mean to him.
“Look, I’m—”
“The rehearsal dinner,” he says quickly, not letting me get in another word. “We can still use your kitchen, right?”
“Of course. And hey—”
“Will you join me?”
“Wh-what?” I ask, wondering if I heard him right.
“The rehearsal dinner,” he repeats. “I was hoping you’d accompany me to it.”
“You want me to go to the rehearsal dinner with you?”
“Yeah.” We reach the Parlor and the garage and he turns me toward him, planting us right under a streetlamp. The soft yellow glow casts a globe of light around us as he takes both my hands in his. “I know things have been weird between us lately, and I’m really sorry for whatever I might have done, but I miss you, Ruthie.” He looks down at our hands. “I’ve missed our runs, talking to you, joking with you. And I hate that we’ve suffered from some distance. It doesn’t feel right, and I’ve felt . . . fuck, I’ve felt awful since.”
Oh God, now I feel really terrible.