“Fine,” Ruth huffed, turning back to the sink. “I made a friend and then I fucked it up.”
“Okay…” Hannah sounded mildly confused. “So apologise. Check their Amazon wish list or something.”
“I don’t think I can fix it with presents. Also, it’s a real-life friend, so I—”
The sound of cutlery scraping against dishes came to an abrupt halt. “Like, a real person?”
Because, to Hannah, Marjaana and all of Ruth’s other friends weren’t ‘real people’. She rolled her eyes and clipped out, “That is what I said, yes.”
There was a pause. Then Hannah asked, sounding almost casual, “How did you meet?”
“He’s my neighbour.”
“So how did you meet?”
Ruth bit back a smile. “He came over to give me a shepherd’s pie.” She omitted their actual first meeting. She couldn’t mention Daniel Burne in front of her sister. Not ever.
“A shepherd’s pie?” Hannah echoed. Her voice was slightly shrill, as if shepherd’s pie was threatening rather than delicious. “When was this?”
“I don’t know… a few weeks ago?”
“And you’re just now telling me?” Hannah’s worried face filled Ruth’s peripheral vision. The older sister was crowding the younger, using her extra inch of height to command authority. “Look at me,” she demanded.
With a sigh, Ruth dropped the glass she was washing and turned. “What?”
Hannah pressed a hand to Ruth’s cheek. Her palms were rough. They hadn’t always been. “You have tons of friends,” Hannah said. Which was rich, since she was the one who insisted that online friends didn’t count. “And you fall out all the time because you’re snippy. It’s never made you come over all empty-headed.”
“I’m not empty-headed,” Ruth snorted.
“You didn’t even finish your yam. You are the definition of empty-headed-Ruth. Now you tell me some man has brought you shepherd’s pie. Did you eat it?”
“Yes,” Ruth grumbled.
“You didn’t tell him to fuck off and throw it back in his face?”
“No,” Ruth admitted. I saved that until last night. Pushing away her morose thoughts, she added, “If I’d done that, we wouldn’t be friends, would we?” Then, because she was feeling vulnerable: “He made me a lasagne too. He made me a lot of things. He cooks for me.”
Hannah threw up her hands. “So you are half-in love with him already.”
Ruth wondered why her first instinct wasn’t to vehemently deny those words. Disturbing. But she’d worry about it later.
For now, she focused on managing her sister. “I certainly am not. I just… I was quite rude to him yesterday, and I feel bad about it, and I’m not sure how to apologise.”
Hannah huffed, turning back to the leftovers. “Well, it’s reassuring to know that I’m not the only one you’re rude to.”
“How helpful. Thank you for that wise, sisterly guidance.” Ruth scrubbed the glass in her hands, watching light flash off of its gleaming surface.
“You don’t need guidance,” Hannah said. “You need me to tell you to apologise, because you can’t bear to do it on your own. Because you want to fix things, but you don’t think you deserve it.”
Ruth considered that for a moment, biting back the instinct to deny it. Eventually, she was forced to say, “True.”
There was a moment of disturbing tension, when the cat’s cradle of unsaid words and pent up frustrations between them seemed dangerously close to coming loose. Ruth had no idea what it would mean, if that did happen; she understood very little about the distance between she and Hannah.
She only knew that she disliked it, and was too cowardly to face it.
But then Hannah sighed. “Just put on your big girl knickers and tell this friend that you’re sorry. I can’t stand it when you’re distracted. You’re like a robot.”
And everything was okay. For now.
Ruth snorted. “You do realise that you’re just as rude as me?”
“I’m your elder, and I keep it in the family.” Hannah slid another plate into the sink with a wicked smile. “Maybe if you did too, you wouldn’t have to apologise so often.”
“Bugger off.”
“I love you, too.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ruth had been carrying a certain amount of guilt for quite some time, and she’d become used to it. Too used to it, clearly; because the extra guilt created by the way she’d treated Evan was unbalancing her quite horribly. She felt too big for her own skin.
Ruth had come home from her mother’s yesterday, determined to knock at 1B and apologise profusely. She’d managed step one just fine: knocking. Step two had been thwarted by the fact that Evan had not answered, because he was not in.
The man was bloody inconvenient sometimes.
But she found herself grateful for his absence. If he’d been there, what would she have said?
Sometimes my mind gets overwhelmed and all I can do to cut through the confusion is lash out.
Sometimes I think about one thing and remember another and see another and hear another, and that’s just too many things, and I don’t handle it well.
You shouldn’t want to kiss me, because I clearly don’t deserve you.
There. That one worked. That one worked just fine.
Her determination faded overnight, and so did the bravery it had provided. Ruth wasted most of Monday trying to work, failing utterly, and talking to herself about why she should or should not apologise.
When she heard Evan unlock his front door that evening, she abandoned the pretence of work completely and lay down on the floor in her hallway, staring up at the ceiling.
The carpet was thin and scratchy. The floorboards beneath it were hard. She didn’t mind, because the blankness of it all helped her to think, and she wasn’t fit to do anything else.
It wasn’t even that bad. You tell him to fuck off all the time.
But you never meant it, and it never hurt him, so it didn’t matter. This is different.
The worst part was that he hadn’t seemed upset at all. He’d remained composed, had barely even flinched, while she pushed him away with careless, reckless words.
So why was she so sure that he’d actually been devastated?
“I just am,” she mumbled.
And what if she went over there, and apologised—and therefore admitted that she actually gave a shit about what he thought—and it turned out that he wasn’t even bothered?
“Of course he’s bothered,” Ruth sighed. “He wanted to kiss me. He… he caught me off-guard.”
No; the flowers had caught her off-guard. And she’d taken it out on Evan.
You crazy bitch.
“Fuck off,” she muttered. Sometimes her mind spit out recycled epithets instead of actual thoughts. Sometimes her mind was someone else’s weapon.
And sometimes Ruth reacted badly under pressure and made very poor decisions and pushed away people she kind of sort of needed desperately.
Things happened, sometimes.
“So fix it.” She let those words dissolve into the air. Usually, telling herself what to do elicited more efficient results.
It didn’t work. She remained on the floor for at least another hour, or possibly ten minutes. She wasn’t sure. Her phone was in her room. Evan had her number, but she hadn’t heard it beep. She had heard him shower, which meant he should be coming over soon, except he wouldn’t because she’d effectively told him to fuck off.
Actually, you literally told him to fuck off.
Oh, yes.
She got up off the floor.
But wait—she couldn’t go over there. If he was avoiding her, she had to give him… space. Right? That was what you did, after a fight. Was it a fight? That word seemed to belong exclusively to couples, to people with actual relationships.
Well, whatever. They weren’t a couple, but they’d had a fight anyway. And in Ruth’s experience, trying to make up after a fight was… horrible. It involved m
any cruel words and lots of grovelling and, eventually, mildly painful sex.
The sex part probably wouldn’t happen, at least.
What about the cruelty? The grovelling? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure. Because Evan… well, Evan simply wasn’t cruel. She didn’t think he was physically capable; like an AI with morality parameters, his mouth wouldn’t open to emit unkind words. She couldn’t see it.
Okay. So she’d be an adult and go over there and apologise. And then she’d see what happened next.
She had a feeling that he’d surprise her.
Ruth had never felt self-conscious about her pyjamas until she found herself standing on Evan’s doorstep, expecting him to open it and tell her to go away.
It was one thing giving herself pep talks from the safety of her flat, but it was another hearing his footsteps come down the hall. Knowing they were about to come face to face. Realising that she was essentially about to admit that she… missed him after a day apart? Desperately needed him not to hate her? Something along those lines.
Before she could psych herself out further, he opened the door.
He looked like shit. There were dark circles under his eyes. His handsome face seemed tight around razor-sharp bones. His thick, blonde hair stuck out at all angles, and when he looked at her, his expression betrayed… nothing. Not even a hint of recognition. She might as well have been made of smoke.
“Evan?” She raised a hand to touch him, hesitated, and the moment—the few seconds when it would have been a reflex, and thus justifiable—passed. Her hand fell. “Are you okay?”
He blinked, then rubbed a hand over his face. Just like that, he became more human than hollowed out husk—but his eyes were still dull, his face still hopeless.
“Ruth,” he said. “Fuck. I forgot to make you dinner.” His head fell back, and he sighed like a teenager who’d forgotten his homework.
She stared at the column of his throat for a second, the bob of his Adam’s apple just beneath his beard, then gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. This was really not the time to ogle his neck.
“You don’t need to apologise,” she said. “Actually, I should—”
“Quiet,” he instructed firmly.
“Um… what?”
“You’re going to say sorry. I’m going to say sorry. Everyone will be sorry. I can’t take it.” This odd little speech was delivered with enough bone-deep weariness to spark Ruth’s concern. He looked down at her and said, “Can we just be okay?”
Well. She’d certainly been right to expect a surprise.
“Ooo-kay,” she said slowly. “Um… Are you alright?”
He shrugged. That was the final straw. Evan never shrugged.
Ignoring the rampaging butterflies in her chest, Ruth manoeuvred her way into the flat—which was difficult, considering Evan’s size and the narrow doorway. But she managed it, easing into his hallway and saying, “Come on.”
He stared at her for a second, blinking slowly. Then his lips tilted in a ghost of his usual smile. “You’re voluntarily seeking out my company? I don’t have to force it on you?”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” She rolled her eyes and stalked off to the living room. After a long, heavy moment, she heard him shut the front door and follow.
She’d only been in his flat once, but she remembered it well. She’d replayed that evening in her mind countless times, going over every word and look and almost-touch between them, trying to decipher their meaning. And the moment he’d actually touched her, the moment he’d reached out to stop her leaving…
Ruth came to stand by his living room window, staring out at the Elm block’s car park with unseeing eyes. Piecing together the snatches of memory, the rasp of his rough palm against her skin.
She heard him enter the room, and turned to find him watching her, quiet and intent as always.
“Why do you look at me like that?” She blurted out.
His lips tipped into a sharp, unfamiliar smile. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
Ruth raised her chin. “If we’re okay,” she said, with ice in her voice, “let’s be okay. If we’re not, say so and I will leave.”
With a sigh, Evan sagged. His broad shoulders slumped, his face darkened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really fucking sorry. Sit down. Let me get you something.”
Ruth shook her head. “You sit down. You look terrible.”
For a minute, she was certain he’d argue. But then, with a shrug, he came to sit on the sofa, just a few feet away from her.
“Stay there,” she said, walking past him. She had a plan. It was heavily based on the sort of thing her sister might do in this situation. In fact, as she walked, her mind asked on a loop: What Would Hannah Do?
As she passed the sofa, Evan reached out for her. Ruth stopped dead, feeling as if he’d punched her in the stomach, stolen her air and shocked the shit out of her, when all he’d done was wrap an arm around her waist.
She looked down. His head was bowed, resting against her hip. He took breaths so deep that she could see his shoulders rise. Then, his voice muffled slightly, he asked, “What are you doing?”
Really, she should be the one asking him that. Instead, she said lightly, “I’m looking after you.”
He swallowed. “I don’t need looking after.”
“Why? Because you’re the world’s saviour?” Ruth smiled as he looked up sharply, surprise all over his face. “Everyone needs looking after, Evan. And you have stolen my apology, so you can let me do this instead.”
He gave a weak imitation of his usual laugh. But it still counted. Ruth allowed her hand to settle on his head, just for a second. Her fingers sank into his soft, sandy hair, and she watched as his eyes widened.
Then she pulled away and walked briskly to the kitchen. Her hand tingled all the way.
She wasn’t surprised to find his cupboards fully stocked. Ruth chose some bread and three tins of chicken soup. Then she figured out the microwave, because setting his kitchen on fire wouldn’t make him feel any better.
Ignoring her still-tingling palm, she heated up the meal.
It was what Hannah would do.
Chapter Seventeen
The sight of Ruth approaching with food should’ve shocked Evan half to death. But he wasn’t exactly himself, so he only felt a muffled sort of surprise as she pushed the tray into his hands. A tray containing buttered bread and a steaming bowl of chicken soup.
He looked up at her, slightly worried. “Did you slice the bread yourself?”
She held up her hands. “I still have all my fingers. See?”
That was true. He stared at her outstretched hands for a moment, at the fine, brown lines etching her palms. Probably for too long. Only, he’d like to trace the lines.
She dropped her hands and said, “Eat.”
“Are you going to loom over me until I do?” Huh. Ten minutes with Ruth and he was able to make bad jokes.
She didn’t laugh, of course. After a shrug and a wary look at the space beside him, she sat on the far end of the sofa. She crossed her legs, her fluffy, spotted socks peeking out from beneath her knees, her hands folded in her lap. Then she said again, “Eat.”
He ate. The hot soup seemed to fill the icy chasm in his chest with something warm and soothing.
Or maybe that was Ruth’s glowering presence.
When he was nearly done with the enormous bowl of soup, and feeling halfway human, she spoke again.
“Are you sick?
“No,” he said.
“But you’re not okay.”
Evan felt himself smile. “I’m flattered that you noticed.”
“I was just hungry,” she shrugged. “Usually, when I’m hungry, you arrive. So I decided to investigate.”
“Bollocks. You were worried about me and you wanted to see me.”
“Your head is the size of a hot air balloon. What’s wrong?”
Those last words were forceful enough to make Evan look up from the dregs of his
soup. He frowned over at Ruth, guilt breaking through his foul mood as he realised that she was actually worried.
Did he really look that terrible?
“I had some… bad news,” he began.
She nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. It was a movement she made a lot, apparently absent-mindedly; slowly rolling her hands around each other, wringing them gently.
He had no idea how to explain what had happened to him today. He barely understood it himself. But he had the oddest feeling that if he told Ruth everything, she’d see it from a perspective he hadn’t considered and say something that would make it all better. So he told her. Everything.
“When I was 15, my dad died in active duty.”
Ruth didn’t make any exclamations of shock or horror. She didn’t apologise. She just nodded, which was good, because if anything interrupted the story he might never finish telling it.
“We got some money. My mum hadn’t worked for a while, but she’d been a librarian. So we moved to some town in the south, and she started working at a library again. After a year or so, I started to feel better. You know; happy. Like there wasn’t a gaping hole in the family. We were doing okay. But then she got cancer.”
He heard Ruth swallow. He watched her bite her lip.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, suddenly concerned. “You haven’t eaten.”
She looked at him, her eyes gentle for once. “Keep going.”
Right. She wouldn’t let him stop now. He nodded. “So, she got cancer. Breast cancer. Had chemo, had surgery. Was in remission for a little while, but I feel like she knew…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It ended up in her spine, and I feel like even when they said she was better, she knew she wasn’t. But my mum was very cheerful. She was always smiling and focusing on everyone else, on helping people. She didn’t think about herself much.”
“Like you.” Ruth said. Not as if it were a compliment, exactly; more like she was clarifying, verbalising her understanding. So Paris is the capital of France, and your mother was like you.
He shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. “I don’t know. I’d like to be like her. She was a good person.”
A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1) Page 10