Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  I legitimately have nothing to be gloomy about.

  Yes, my best friend is gone, but in the past two years I’ve been through emotional therapy as well as physical therapy. I’ll always miss Claire like a phantom limb, but I’ve moved through the most vicious stages of grief. Now, I can think of her with fondness and love, turning memories of us over in my mind like treasures I want to savor instead of painful objects with sharp edges that will wound me if I look at them for too long.

  And yes, Chad, my rehab boyfriend, turned out to be a jerk, just like all the other guys I’ve dated, but I wasn’t in love with Chad.

  So what’s my problem?

  I sigh heavily, drawing a strange look from a rollerblader breezing by me on the park path. He stares and keeps staring, nearly tripping on a rock beneath his wheels before he finally turns back around.

  I frown, wondering what his problem is, triggering a twinge of discomfort near my eyebrow as the pie-sticky hairs pull against the skin beneath them.

  Right.

  I’m covered in pie.

  Of course, other people only see red goop congealed over me. For all they know, I could be a murderer fresh from the scene of my latest crime.

  In my head, I swear I hear Claire’s laughter. She would find this completely hysterical too. Just like her brother will.

  Jesse’s the only one who seems to remember Claire with the vividness that I do.

  And I love that—sharing memories with him, keeping her with us even though she’s gone.

  I take a right at the next exit leading out of the park, my feet finding their way into Flatbush and moving through bustling streets to the garage a block off the main drag, not far from where the streets become fully residential, where Jesse makes the magic happen.

  Magic—a great way to describe him. So is “dreamboat,” a term my mother would use, because she’s adorably old-fashioned enough to say things like “dreamboat” without a hint of irony.

  I step through the open garage doors into the airy space inside the shop. Jesse looks up from the other side of a vintage Harley he’s rubbing down with a shammy. A voice in my head breathes, “fuck me,” and I desperately wish I were an antique automobile.

  We’re just friends—always have been, always will be—but I can’t deny a part of me would like to be rubbed down by Jesse Hendrix.

  A part of me would like that very much.

  Maybe that’s your surprise.

  I bite my bottom lip, shoving the dirty thought from my mind.

  Bad, Ruby. Bad.

  But this is the best I’ve felt all day. Here. With him.

  How’s that for trouble?

  3

  Jesse

  I don’t discriminate much when it comes to fruit. Especially on a pretty woman who needs it wiped from her face.

  Though I’m glad Ruby’s not wearing a banana cream pie or something gross like melons—is melon pie a thing?

  I fucking hate melons.

  Peach is my favorite fruit.

  Raspberry is a close second.

  But I don’t object to strawberry.

  I don’t object to Ruby either.

  Damn, she’s looking good this afternoon. But then, she’s always looking good—great, with her dark, nearly black hair and sweet, tight curves, which is exactly how I like curves to be.

  But more importantly, she has a pretty heart. She cares about being a good person, loves to laugh, and goes out of her way to show people she cares. Ruby is a people pleaser in the best way, with a gift for spreading happiness.

  Trouble is, she doesn’t look happy, and she hasn’t for a long time. Not deep-down happy. Not the way she used to look.

  Before.

  I don’t know if that has to do with the lingering effects of the accident or something else. All I know is her big brown eyes look lost a lot of the time, like she’s trying to remember something she’s forgotten. But whatever it is, she never seems to be able to settle on an answer.

  Which is why it’s time to help her. Because friends don’t let friends get lost in their own lives.

  “I see you brought dessert,” I observe dryly as I cross to meet her by the front desk.

  She gives a cute shrug, a little coy, a little winsome. “I thought you might want some pie.”

  I grin. “I was hoping you’d bring one with you.”

  She swipes her hand across her cheek. Lifts her finger. Shows a smear of red. “Just . . . not on my face?”

  “Generally, I prefer a plate. Or a jar.” I nod to the hallway by my private office. “The restroom is clean if you need a sink. I just put fresh towels in the dispenser.”

  She gives me a flat expression. “So you don’t think I should leave it there all night?”

  “Rehab’s been good for you. Sharpened that finely tuned wit.”

  She laughs, but it fades quickly, and that far-away look returns for another moment, infecting her voice as she says, “Yeah. I’ve got that going for me.”

  Hmmmm . . . she seems more off than usual.

  All the more reason to invoke the One List to Rule Them All.

  But first things first. “We can get pie-free going for you too. Come on.”

  I take her to the bathroom in the back, dampen a few paper towels, and wipe off her cheek. Which is a gorgeous cheek, by all measures of cheeks.

  But it’s also hers, which makes it precious.

  What am I going to do with this woman? With her moody eyes and full lips and all the things she makes me feel? The off-limits things. The stupid things—because even if it was all right to lust over my little sister’s best friend, especially when my sister can’t ever give her permission for me to cross that line, our lives are headed in opposite directions.

  I run the thick towel under the faucet once more then turn off the tap, sliding the damp paper along her jaw. Her very kissable jaw. Hmm. Why did I offer to do this? Oh, because it gives me the chance to get close to her.

  Even though getting close to her isn’t smart.

  Focusing on the task in front of me, I finish the pie cleanup and toss the paper towel in the trash. “Good as new.”

  “Thanks.” Her breath rushes out with a soft laugh. “So that’s what it feels like to be one of your cars?”

  “Probably. They don’t give a lot of feedback, though, so . . .”

  “Right.” She bites her lip and turns toward the door. As she moves, I catch a glimpse of a few pie-oozed strands of hair.

  “Wait.” I catch her arm and she shivers, a shiver that echoes across my skin as I add, “Not done yet.”

  I tug her gently back in, wetting my fingers and smoothing them over the sugar-covered curl.

  “Thanks again,” she whispers.

  We’re quiet for a beat, and in that silence, I’m keenly aware that this is more intimate than I’ve been with her in . . . well, since the days right after Claire died. Not that we were intimate in a sexual way. More in a cry-on-each-other’s-shoulder-as-grief-rips-your-heart-apart kind of way. The I-can-comfort-you-with-a-hug-and-you-can-comfort-me-too-because-what-else-can-we-do-after-a-life-changing-loss kind of way.

  In my life, there is before and there is after.

  The line between is my sister’s death. Considering Ruby and Claire had been best friends since they were six, I know Ruby has the same before and after in her life.

  Which is why I have to tell her.

  About the list.

  After I deal with one final rebel berry.

  “And there’s a strawberry sliver on your ear.”

  She winces and laughs. “Oh my God. I’m a disaster.”

  “No, you’re not. Not even close.” I catch the berry slice on my finger. Our gazes hold. My pulse spikes.

  That happens every now and then when I’m close to this woman. The first time, I’d been home from college and she’d stretched out on the hood of my car, colorfully cursing the douchebag who’d dumped her at prom.

  I’d stretched out beside her. Her cheeks had flushe
d as she’d detailed all the reasons Hayden was an asshole—in between pointing out star formations she’d memorized—and for the first time, I’d seen Ruby as something more than my little sister’s best friend.

  It wasn’t the last.

  And lately . . .

  Lately, I can’t seem to stop noticing her in ways I shouldn’t, which is going to complicate things. The last thing I need is the kind of prolonged Ruby exposure that dealing with The List is going to require.

  But it doesn’t matter what I need. It’s what she needs that matters.

  It’s time.

  I tip my head toward the bathroom door. “Let’s go out to the garden. I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Something serious, I’m guessing?” She arches a brow. “The garden is for serious conversations.”

  I shrug and say, “Not always,” but I don’t deny that this conversation is going to be. “Come on. It’s about your surprise.”

  “Okay.” She follows me down the hall, past the last massive piece of art I need to take down—the hood of a VW bug too damaged to be restored that now sports a shadowy New York skyline on it, courtesy of yours truly and a can of spray paint. I sell most of my art—or give it to good friends—but this one is special, the first piece that came out exactly the way I imagined it in my head. It’s a keeper.

  We push through the glass door leading into my little patch of heaven. I’m going to miss the garage for a lot of reasons, but this peaceful sea of green with the fountain bubbling in the corner of the courtyard is a big one.

  This is where I come for inspiration, and that’s what I need right now. I have no idea how Ruby’s going to react to this bombshell.

  A blast of tension digs into my shoulders as we settle onto the wooden bench in the late afternoon sun that shines through the vines crawling up my neighbor’s brick wall. “You know how Claire was always making lists?”

  She blinks. Furrows her brow. “Of course. That was the whole point of our last trip. The Quarter-Life Crisis Containment List.” Her lips quirk. “We were going to figure out all the secrets to life early and skip the angst in our forties.”

  “Right,” I say and keep going. This isn’t the time for hesitation. “I was cleaning up the desk in her room for Mom the other day and . . .” My throat tightens. “I found another one.”

  She sits back fast, her shoulders knocking against the wall. “A list?” She swallows. “Really?” Her pitch rises with a note of hope.

  Understandable. It’s not every day you have a chance to hear from someone who’s gone.

  “Yes,” I say softly. “And your name was at the top of it.”

  She pulls in a shaky breath and her hand drifts up to hover in front of her mouth. She says nothing—just exhales loudly, her eyes wide.

  “It’s for me?” she finally whispers.

  “Yeah.” I hold her gaze. “And since you finished PT today, I thought this was the perfect time to give it to you.”

  She nods, several times, as if needing to reassure herself that she can handle this. But I know she can. “Show me?”

  I open my wallet, reach for the paper, but hesitate.

  I don’t just want to show her. I want to share it with her. Be there for her as she steps up to the challenge of living her best life.

  I dig deep. “Before you read it, I want you to know that Claire wanted you to share it with a friend . . . and I’d like to be that friend. If it’s okay with you.”

  “Really?” she asks, incredulous. “But you hate lists. You were always teasing Claire about them.”

  “Not always.”

  She arches a brow. “I clearly remember hearing her shout that she was going to kill you if you touched her World Domination List one more time.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay, yeah, I messed with her. That’s what brothers do. They tease their sisters. But I knew her lists mattered to her, and I think this one matters more than most.” I take a bracing breath. “And more importantly, I think you need it, and . . . maybe I do too. So just think about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Ruby says, her voice wobbling now. “I mean, you’re the only friend I have who loved her like I do, so . . .”

  I hand her the list, finally ready to share it.

  She opens the folded paper, takes her time reading it, and then her eyes move to the top and she reads it again, swiping a tear from her cheek as her eyes track across the page. I rub her shoulder, gently circling the knots in her muscles with my fingertips. I can’t not touch her right now—not when I can feel the anxiety building inside her, making the air around us vibrate with tension.

  When she finishes her second read-through, she closes her eyes and lifts her face, drying her tears with sunshine. Finally, she turns to me. “I’m not sure I can do this, Jesse. Not right now . . .”

  “Okay,” I say, my stomach sinking. I should have planned this better, thought of a foolproof way to convince her. “But if not now, then . . . when?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head as she carefully refolds the paper with trembling hands. “Once I have the rest of my life sorted out, maybe? I have a ton of illustration work to catch up on for the new menus we’re launching after vacation, plus my greeting cards. Also, my apartment is a wreck, and I promised Gigi we’d go bowling at least once, and—”

  “Bowling?” My brows pinch together. “You can go bowling anytime, Ruby. This is your chance to experience things Claire wanted you to experience, to live a better life. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I-I don’t know.” She stands and paces a few steps away.

  I follow her. “You said yourself that your last trip with Claire was about beating the quarter-life crisis. Have you beaten it yet? Because from where I stand, it sure doesn't look like it.”

  She spins to face me. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I mean—” I shake my head. “You just haven’t seemed like yourself. Not for a long time.”

  “My best friend died and I wasn’t sure I’d walk again,” she says, her eyes beginning to shine. “Sorry if I wasn’t Suzy Sunshine.”

  “I don’t mean that, and you know it,” I insist, hating that I’m hurting her, but she needs this and I’m willing to fight for her to have it. Even if she’s the one I’m fighting. “Grieving is good. Sticking your head in the sand isn’t. You’re not happy, and no amount of bowling or obsessive cleaning of your apartment or doing the same things you always do over and over is going to change that.” I point to the paper in her hand. “But this might.”

  Ruby’s eyes narrow and her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say a word. Not a word, for so long that I start to worry she’s decided to give me the silent treatment indefinitely.

  Then she says, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think. Do it. Now,” I challenge. “And let me do it with you. You don’t have to tackle this alone. I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks. I can be completely at your disposal.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s great, but like I said, I’m not ready. I need some time to think, to . . . mentally prepare.” She lifts the list. “And some of this stuff is pretty elaborate, Jesse. It’s going to take at least a few months to get a plan in place.”

  I sigh. It’s time to drop my other bomb. I should have dropped it a month ago, but I’m superstitious. I didn’t want to tell anyone about the move until the garage sale was final and all my ducks were in a row. “I don’t have a few months, Ruby.”

  She blinks and her lips begin to tremble at the edges. “What? Why? Don’t tell me you’re dying from cancer or something, Jesse, or I swear to God, I might start crying and never stop.”

  Damn. She’s sweet.

  So sweet, it’s even harder to say, “No, I’m fine. I’m just . . . leaving. Moving. To L.A. to open a bigger, better Jesse’s Garage location. I leave in two weeks, so this could be our last hurrah.”

  The look in her eyes shifts fr
om scared to what the fuck have you done, Jesse, confirming that I’ve botched this job completely.

  I start toward her, hoping the right words will miraculously pop into my mouth, but before I take two steps, she’s spun and made a run for the garden gate.

  I call for her to stop, to talk to me, but she’s already jogging into the alley and out toward the street, moving fast, proving all that PT was time well spent.

  4

  The List

  By Claire Hendrix

  * * *

  RUBY’S RECIPE FOR HER BEST LIFE—

  TO BE SHARED WITH A FRIEND

  * * *

  1. Try something new! (Like a new food, weirdo. You realize there are toddlers with more expansive palates than yours, right? It’s time to open up that pretty mouth and taste the bounty the world has to offer! There are thousands of taste adventures just waiting to be chewed. And swallowed. It doesn’t count if you don’t swallow.)

  * * *

  2. Sorry, not sorry! Go an entire day without saying you’re sorry. (You don’t have to apologize for existing.)

  * * *

  3. Make an old dream come true.

  * * *

  4. Make something ugly beautiful again. (Because you’re so good at this. Seriously, the world needs all the Ruby beauty it can get.)

  * * *

  5. Do something unexpected! You know you want to . . .

  * * *

  6. Get your feet wet. Literally. It’s time to learn to swim so you don’t drown, because not-drowning is a good thing.

  * * *

  7. Test your limits. Maybe even say the hard thing . . . because you’re so good at the hard thing, my dearest, bestest friend. I believe that and so should you.

  5

  Ruby

  I jog down the alley toward the main drag, ignoring Jesse’s shout for me to wait.