by Holly Kerr
“Flora is into baseball. That didn’t come from the family. No one has any idea where her talent came from.” Ruthie laughs, brightly and a little louder than necessary. “What I was saying is that the theatres make their money from the concession stand. The movie makers get the ticket sales, so don’t feel bad about ripping them off, because I think they can afford it. And speaking of concession stands, hold my popcorn. I have to pee. Wait here.” Once again she thrusts the bag into my arms.
I’m not sure why I agree, other than I’m holding the remains of her popcorn. As soon as she disappears into the ladies’ room, I surreptitiously steal a handful.
Ruthie is not what I expected. I’m not sure why I expected anything. At Dean’s description, I quickly wrote her off as a self- absorbed drama queen. And her behaviour at the party confirmed my impression.
But while I still think I’m right, she makes me laugh.
It’s been a while since a woman made me laugh.
If Clay is right and I do have a type, Ruthie is the farthest thing from it. I date tiny, well-groomed women who speak in low tones and don’t climb over a row of seats.
Ruthie comes out of the ladies room and makes a beeline to me. “What are you smiling at?” she demands.
“I’m not smiling,” I say, even though I feel the muscles in my cheeks relax from dropping the smile.
“I think you’re smiling.” She cocks her head and stares at me like I’m being appraised. “You’ve got a really nice smile.”
“No one has ever said that.” I surprise myself by admitting that.
“Because you’re not smiling enough. But nothing is as good as the hair.” To my amazement, Ruthie reaches out and slowly runs a hand through my hair, careful not to snag any tangles, and finishes by curling a finger through a piece that flops over my forehead.
My head erupts in tingles like I’ve been shocked.
She closes her eyes with a satisfied smile. “I’ve wanted to do that since we met.” With a toss of her head, she begins to walk away. “Come on. I want chicken wings,” she says over her shoulder.
It takes a moment to regain my balance and three long strides to catch up with her. “What?” I ask stupidly.
“Chicken wings,” she explains in a patient voice. “You know, deep fried, covered in sauce. Very bad for you. I want some. Whenever I hear something about wings I have to have them. Don’t you?”
“Actually…yes.” I’ve wanted wings since I thought Dean was going to order them earlier. It’s close to eight o’clock and my stomach is hollow, so anything sounds good right now, even the cold popcorn in the bag I’m still holding.
“There’s a good place right around the corner.” Without waiting for my response, she leads me across the lobby to the exit.
And for some reason, I follow her.
The theatre is inside the mall and as we step out of the somewhat peaceful space, a wave of Christmastime cheer hits me in the face, along with a shopping bag full of something painfully hard.
The bag hits me in the leg rather than the face, but still not pleasant.
“Jeez.” I scowl in the direction of the laughing group of teenagers. “Shouldn’t they be home in bed by now?”
“You’re not in bed,” Ruthie points out. “And it’s not that late. Have you finished your Christmas shopping?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have too many to buy for, so it’ll take me an hour or two.”
“An hour or two?” she echoes with more than a hint of disbelief. “It takes me an hour or more to decide what store to go in when I’m looking for Flora. You need to make some effort with your gifts. The recipients will appreciate it.”
I guffaw, thinking of my brothers’ reactions if I get them something other than the latest in craft beer. “I doubt that.”
“I’m serious. I love buying gifts. I’ll help you!”
Her offer is automatic and sincere and sends a little warmth to the cold dark part of myself. “Thanks, but I think I might be afraid to shop with you,” I confess.
“Why? I’m not scary. Here.” She hipchecks me—an actual check that proves one hundred percent that she has been a hockey player in her past—and I practically fall into a window before Ruthie grabs my hand and pulls me into the store.
Winners. I’ve never been inside a Winners store. According to my mother, they have a little bit of everything.
“Check out that purple sweater,” Ruthie demands. I glance around in confusion, looking for the women’s department. “I think that colour would look great on you.”
“I don’t do purple.”
“Why not? I think you’d look great with a flash of colour now and then. Give you a little pop.” She drags me to the rack with the sweater in question displayed at the end.
“Have you always been so colourful?” I ask. “So bright?”
“I like to pop,” she admits. “My mother dressed me in pastel pink and yellow when I was growing up. As soon as I could afford to buy my own clothes, I said no way to anything soft and comforting. I love colour. You should try it.”
“You think I should pop?” I finger the fabric of the sweater. Soft, thin, V-neck; just like the other dozen sweaters in my closet. But a dark purplish-blue.
Nope. I can’t even call it blue. It’s purple.
Other than the colour, though, it’s exactly my style. Ruthie called it dead on.
“What have you got to lose? Try something new. Women love a man confident enough to wear colour. Here, try it on.” Before I can respond, Ruthie pushes at the shoulder of my jacket until I’m forced to shrug it off.
“I’m not taking off my shirt in the middle of a store,” I exclaim. Already I can feel the heat on the back of my neck from the interested stares we’re getting.
“You’re wearing a T-shirt,” Ruthie says scornfully. “Over top is fine.”
Ruthie helping me put on the sweater is like when my mother used to dress me.
Strike that. It’s nothing at all like the way my mother used to dress me. Even the touch of her hands, as impersonal as it is, is somehow intimate.
I liked it better in the movie theatre. At least then no one paid any attention to us. In the store, there’s a lot of staring going on. I smile weakly and let Ruthie have her way with me.
Maybe it’s kind of enjoyable.
She’s stands behind me, smoothing the fabric along my shoulders when she’s forced to lean in close to let a shopper pass. I feel the hiss of warmth of her breath against the back of my neck.
“I think it looks good,” she says finally after she’s finished primping me.
“Maybe.” I glance down at myself, wishing for a mirror, wishing for another colour. “I don’t know if it’s me.”
“I think it is.” Her tone is decisive, no-nonsense. It’d be a great teacher voice. “Take it off. I’m going to buy it for you.”
“What? No!
“Yes! I ruined your sweater and I need to replace it. Now, c’mon, let’s go get those wings. Shopping always makes me hungry.”
Chapter Eight
Ruthie
I’m not sure why I bring Trev with me for wings.
I sat with him at the movies because I love finding people unexpectedly. Like the time I found Flora’s neighbour Mr. Cullen at a bowling alley one night. Thanks to his tutorial, I bowled a one-ninety with three strikes.
Plus, even though I do it all the time, it is lonely going to the movies alone.
But the wings invite was a surprise, even for me, and I’m the one who invited him. He’s not my type, and even if he were—Colton. But there’s something about Trev that intrigues me. Maybe because he seems more real than the guys I’m usually attracted to. I go for larger-than-life; big guys with big personalities.
It’s not always worked out for me. I have a big personality, and I like to be the centre of attention. It’s hard to be constantly competing.
Anyway, fifteen minutes later after the quick shopping trip, we settle into a booth at Wild Wicke
d Wings, the plastic bag with his new sweater sitting in the booth beside me. “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I begin, resting my elbows on the table.
“Do you know anything about me?” he asks with confusion.
It’s amusing that Trev is confused about me. Like he has this idea about me, and then I shift into someone else. It’s fun to keep him on his toes.
Keeps him interested.
“Just what I’ve heard from Dean and Flora, which isn’t much, considering you’ve been angry with me since we’ve met.”
“I haven’t been—why would that affect what they said about me?”
“If I know you’re mad at me, then I’m less inclined to ask about you.”
Trev opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but shuts it with a puzzled expression. “Okay.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? I don’t chase guys, I don’t play games, and I don’t bother with those playing hard to get.”
“You think I’m playing hard to get?”
“No.” I chuckle. “You were sincerely pissed at me. But I think you’re seeing another side of me.”
“The shove-people-into-theatres-when-they-didn’t-buy-tickets side?”
“The only way anyone would have noticed you is if you had worn an Elsa costume. Which I would pay money to see, by the way.” I give him a wink and reluctantly turn away from him as the waitress approaches.
“What can I get you tonight?” she says, clicking her tongue ring against her teeth.
Trev gestures to me. “I want hot wings, with extra sauce,” I say. “A double order.”
“Is this all for you, or does it mean you want to share?” Trev asks. “Because I thought you don’t share.”
“That’s popcorn. I guess I’ll share,” I say, feigning reluctance. “But you can’t hog the fries. Extra-crispy fries, please. And a bourbon sour.”
Trev raises an eyebrow at my drink order. “I’ll have a pint of Rickard’s, please.”
“Beer is over-rated,” I say as the waitress walks away.
“How did I know you’d say that?”
I clutch my chest. “Am I getting predictable?”
“You—never,” he assures me. “Not that I really know you.”
I spread my arms wide. “Ask away. I’m an open book. A question for a question.”
“I can ask you anything?”
“Anything at all. It’s a really good way to avoid the awkward silences that happen when two people who really don’t know each other are forced to spend time in each other’s company.”
“How can this be forced when you asked me to come with you? Demanded, actually.”
I roll my eyes. “Since you’re being picky, we’ll leave out forced. But you have to admit that we really don’t know each other, and this could get awkward fast.”
“You have low expectations in my conversation skills.”
“And you had low expectations of seeing a movie with me, so we’re even.” I look up with a smile, happy to see the waitress with our drinks. “And that’s another thing that can always break the ice. Alcohol.”
“Especially when it gets spilled. Or thrown.”
“I didn’t throw it,” I defend myself. “It spilled. An accident.” I pick up the bag beside me and toss it across the table at him. “And now I’ve made up for it.”
“You didn’t have to.” Trev sets the bag on the seat beside me with a fond smile that catches me off guard. I don’t know if it’s because there’s no longer any anger in his tone or if it’s because it’s a really nice smile. I said it earlier, but did I really mean it?
I do now.
“I know.” I pick up my glass to take a sip, the bourbon warming my insides almost as much as Trev’s smile. It’s slow to start at one corner, then travels across his mouth picking up speed. His lips are full and look soft, like he uses lip balm.
When I realize I’m still staring at his mouth, I pull my gaze away with difficulty. “When I was in Las Vegas, I threw a glass of ice in a guy’s face,” I say to regain my footing. “He was being obnoxious.”
Trev chuckles before he takes a healthy swig of beer. “Do you do that a lot? Should I be happy I only got wine on my sweater?”
I laugh and the spell of his soft mouth is broken. “Definitely. I kicked the crap out of a guy in a bar for being a jerk one night. Broke a finger and landed up in jail. The charges were dropped, though. Three other women came forward with the same story about him.” I give Trev a Cheshire cat smile, catching his glance of approval and raising my glass. “I could totally take you. Four years of rugby, six of hockey and a handful of Krav Maga classes.”
Trev pretends to tip his hat at me. “I’m not taking that bet.”
I lean back against the booth and try to keep my gaze off his mouth. “I just gave you a bunch of info. Now, it’s my turn to ask you a question.” He has nice skin tone, with the faintest of after-hours stubble along his chin.
I like a bit of stubble.
“But I never asked anything,” Trev argues, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “That was just a tiny sample of my exemplary skills as a conversationalist.”
I pretend to be bored. “So ask.”
Trev furrows his brow, clearly giving it some thought. “So, Flora is your…cousin?”
“Aunt, actually. My father is quite older than Flora.”
“You seem pretty close, from what Dean says.”
“That’s not a question, it’s a statement.”
There’s that flustered expression again. “Okay, why?”
“Why am I so close to her? She’s only five years older than I am, considerably younger than her brothers. I have no siblings, so Flora was it. Growing up, we played together, then when we got older, we started hanging out. My family is fairly close-knit, other than Uncle Harrison, who is super cool, but the typical black sheep, so it’s not unheard of for me to be close to my aunt. She is all that is good in the world,” I finish dramatically
“She’s your favourite auntie, then?”
“She’s my favourite person, period. I love her more than anyone, except maybe my father. Which might be a reason that none of my relationships work out.”
“Because you compare them to your father or your aunt?” Trev asks with confusion.
“Both. Neither. Anyone I get involved with needs to know they will come third.” I pause. “Maybe fourth if I’m feeling kindly towards M.K. And, of course, Patrick.”
“It’s not unheard of to put your family first,” he says. “Do the guys you date have issues with that?”
I roll my eyes. “They have issues with a lot of things. Or maybe I do.” I toy with the cutlery tucked inside a napkin. This is getting into dangerous territory, so time to change the direction. “You’ve had your turn of questions. Me now—what do you do, Trev with the good hair?”
“You think I have good hair?”
I like the way he smiles as he asks it, like he has no idea. “I don’t run my fingers through just anyone’s hair. Have you looked in a mirror? It’s nice.”
“Thank you.” He rubs his thumb nervously along his stubbly jaw. “I—uh, I’m a teacher.”
I lean back against the seat. “That makes a lot of sense.”
“What sense is that?” Trev asks with a frown.
“You seem like the type who likes routine. Structure. You’re not very spontaneous.”
The frown deepens. “I can be spontaneous.”
I don’t bother to hide my smile. “When is the last time you did anything impulsive?” My tone is indulgent, bordering on patronizing. I can’t help it. His reaction with the wine, how uncomfortable he was in the movie screams serious. Stable. Constant. Everything I’m not.
A little boring, but I don’t say that out loud.
Nothing like what I’m used to, but I’m always open to new adventure.
Trev’s more like an experience than an adventure. I don’t know who’s better at pushing the other’s buttons.
“A movie. That’s definitively impulsive.”
He scowls at me and fixes his attention on his beer like he’s deep in thought. “Nothing comes to mind, but I know there are times I’ve been impulsive,” Trev says after more than a few minutes of quiet.
“I’m sure. Don’t be offended. You’re the type to prefer a nine-to-five job. Your activities are scheduled—you play baseball one night a week.”
“Sometimes two,” he says defensively.
“And the other nights—I bet Fridays and Saturdays are your date nights, so you always leave those free.” I run an appraising eye over him. “You probably go to the gym once a week. Maybe twice.”
I don’t think he appreciates my appraisal. “I try for three times, actually.”
I smile flirtatiously. “Ah. Three.”
“And you get all this from me being a teacher.”
“I do. I’m very observant and I can read people.”
“What else do you think you know about me?” he asks skeptically.
Now he’s getting into it. I love picking people apart. “You’re loyal and responsible. And,” I remember his anger about the sweater. “You’re close to your mother. But there’s creativity there too. Writer or painter.” Cocking my head, I stare into his eyes like I’m trying to read him, when all I’m doing is admiring those lashes. “I say writer.”
The way he leans back from the table tells me I’ve hit the nail directly on the head. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “How can you tell?”
Because ninety percent of teachers are wannabee writers, but again, I don’t say that. “I can just tell. Where do you teach? And what subject? They’re included with the first question. It’s a three-parter that took a while for you to answer.”
“I teach English, at United Canada College.”
I hum. “That’s the big private school? Boys only.”
“Are you happy about that?” Trev asks. “You hummed. You said you hum when you’re happy.”
“True, but that wasn’t a hum. That was hmm, you work in a private school, noise.”
“There’s not much difference in the two.”
“If you know me, you can always tell.”