Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  She smirks. “Um, hello? Always ready for one of those. But definitely book me in for a triple order tonight. All over the bunk bed.”

  “Consider it done.”

  When we pull up a few minutes later at the main office cabin, Rachel’s waiting outside for us, her hair in salt-and-pepper braids and a Viola Davis warmth to her face. Her smile is as welcoming as it’s always been. She greets us at the car as I cut the engine. “Waiting to receive your three barrels of peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels?” I ask dryly.

  “You know it,” she says with a throaty laugh. “So good to see you, Jess. And you too, peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels,” she murmurs to the plastic tubs in the backseat. “And you, Ruby! We finally meet. Claire used to talk about you all summer long.”

  Ruby and I get out of the car, and Rachel stretches out her arms to fold Ruby in a hug.

  “Thank you so much for having me,” Ruby says, her eyes sliding closed as she smiles. “I always wanted to come here growing up. Thanks so much for making this happen.”

  “Anything for a friend.” Rachel pulls back, beaming at Ruby before turning to look me up and down, her knowing brown eyes not missing a beat.

  A Mona Lisa smile curves the older woman’s lips. “Though, I confess, I’m a little surprised. This is the first time Jesse’s brought a girlfriend up for a visit. You usually come with a few stinky guys, don’t you, Jess?”

  I don’t cough. I don’t splutter. I don’t try to cover it up or deny it.

  Maybe because it’s exactly the type of question I would expect from Rachel, who has always lived to tease me. Maybe it’s because a part of me really fucking likes the thought of Ruby as something more than my friend.

  Something official, even though I know that’s not in the cards.

  Still, it stings a little when Ruby jumps in immediately with a sweet laugh and a shake of her head. “Oh, no, we’re not together like that.” She nudges my side with her elbow. “We’re friends. We’ve been friends forever. Like Claire and me.”

  The way Ruby asserts ownership over Claire, even years later, tugs at my heart, and lessens the we’re friends blow.

  Rachel hums. “Our Claire. Loved that kid. She was like a sunburst. So fearless, always swinging off tree branches and jumping into the lake. Never afraid to play any game, even if she’d never played it before. And a natural leader. Anytime one of the other kids was nervous to try something new she’d be right there, leading the way and cheering them on.”

  “Sounds like my sister,” I say, my chest full, warm with shared memories. Claire had one setting—full-speed ahead. That was how she was with everything. Determined. Headstrong.

  “She was a great camp counselor too,” Rachel adds, her eyes a little lost in time. “Her campers were her full-fledged fan club by the end of the summer.”

  Ruby flashes one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen. “That’s Claire. She made fans everywhere she went. And she loved that summer she came back as a counselor. She talked about it all the time.”

  “Ah, that’s so good to hear.” Rachel peers across the lake at a group of young campers playing croquet not far from the dock. “Speaking of counselors, I’d love to chat more, but I have to get going. I’ve been roped into leading the afternoon art class. One of my counselors isn’t”—Rachel stops to sketch air quotes—“feeling so great.”

  I laugh. “Code for hungover?”

  Rachel taps her nose. “Bingo.”

  Ruby rubs her palms together. “Ooo . . . scandalous. This really feels like summer camp now. Please tell me you caught them taking shots and making out in a treehouse or something juicy.”

  Rachel covers her ears with her palms. “La la la la la. My counselors are always well-behaved, or so I choose to believe.” She drops her hands with a smile. “And now, I’m off to teach ten-year-olds how to draw cartoon versions of themselves. Since I’m not hungover.”

  “That actually kind of sounds like fun. Both the not being hungover and the drawing part,” Ruby says, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

  Rachel hooks her thumb across the lake. “Yeah? You wanna come join me?”

  “Really? Can we?” Ruby’s voice pitches up like that’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever asked her.

  Rachel laughs. “Well, you’re an artist, aren’t you? Claire always said you and Jesse were the artsy-fartsy ones.”

  Ruby straightens her shoulders. A smile tugs the corners of her lips—a quiet, confident smile, then a bold one when she says, “Yes. I am an artist.”

  It’s almost like it’s the first time she’s said it.

  Maybe it’s the first time she’s said it and owned it.

  Call me cocky, but I’m going to take a little bit of the credit for that.

  21

  Ruby

  Birds chirp in the trees. The lake shimmers under the bright afternoon sun. More than a dozen nine- and ten-year-olds hoist poster boards into the air, showing me their cartoon self-portraits, which are absolutely hysterical, and wacky, and out of proportion, and perfect.

  My chest is warm, but it’s not from the summer day.

  I’m glowing from the inside, surprising myself.

  I mean, sure, I like kids. But I’m not one of those kid people who babysits, or teaches classes, or volunteers to work with them after school.

  Yes, plenty of kids come into the pie shop, but Gigi’s always been better with them than I have. Gigi has a natural ability to connect, to listen, to meet a person—kid or adult—at his or her level.

  Me? I’m better with older folk. I love volunteering at the senior center over the holidays, helping them wrap presents to send to their kids and listening to their stories over slices of pie and cups of decaf. And yes, sometimes we craft or draw together, but today is a first for me. I’ve never taught art to kids before.

  Try something new.

  I glance at the sky, sending a quick, private message to Claire. Look at me, trying something new up at Camp Knick Knack Paddywhack.

  And liking it.

  The enthusiasm, the bright eyes, the excitement, the questions, the check this out, look what I made, the hands in the air—all of this speaks to my soul.

  A part that nothing has spoken to before.

  A boy with glasses and a thatch of dark hair calls me over with a shout, stretching my name so it sounds like he’s mooing. “Roo-by how does this look? I put my glasses in really big!”

  I bend over, regarding his cartoon. He looks like . . . a raccoon. A brilliant half-boy, half-animal hybrid. I trace my finger across the top of the sketch. “Love it. Why don’t you thicken up your hair a bit more, and then I’d say you’ve got your very own Picasso.”

  He beams, and I stroll around to the other kids, sharing thoughts, giving tips.

  When class ends, some of them hug me, some of them thank me, and some of them run off to their next activity without saying a word.

  All of which are fine by me.

  I like that they feel free to be themselves. Manners are good and all, but sometimes you’re just too excited for what’s next to bother with “please and thank you.”

  As I clean up, I catch a glimpse of Jesse leaning against a tree, a satisfied smile on his face.

  He joins me. “So, can we add ‘substitute camp art teacher’ to your résumé now?”

  I blow on my fingernails, pausing as I gather the last of the pens and pencils. “Think so. You know that’s going to nab me all the job offers. Mom’s going to have to raise my salary to keep me around.”

  He laughs and drapes an arm around me. “Absolutely.”

  After I put the supplies away in the main building, I return to the picnic tables, scanning the panorama of the lake, the trees, the grass, the sun. I draw a deep breath. “So pretty. I can see why Claire loved it here.”

  “And you? Do you love it? Enjoy the art class?”

  “I do and I did.” My brow furrows. “You know, drawing has always been a thing that I did by myself.” I nudge him with my shoul
der. “Or with you. But sharing it with kids for the first time . . . teaching them how to get the picture in their head out onto the paper . . . was pretty cool.”

  “You know what else is cool?”

  I arch a brow. “Do tell.”

  He casts a meaningful glance toward the water. I follow his gaze to where a canoe bobs at the edge of the lake.

  Oh yeah, I like this idea.

  I like it very much.

  22

  Jesse

  We loll about in a canoe at the far end of the lake, away from the camp so it’s quiet and peaceful.

  Ruby leans back on the bench, pressing her palms to the wood, lifting her face to the sun. “It’s official. Kid Ruby would have loved being a camper here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Paddywhack lets you be. Like, you can go full throttle with the classes and games if you want. Or you can sit back, be quiet, and watch the clouds roll by.”

  Spot on. “Claire was the full-throttle type, of course.” It feels good to talk about my sister like this. To talk about her when it’s simply . . . remembering, rather than mourning.

  “And I was the watch-the-clouds-go-by type,” Ruby says, a newfound confidence in her tone, maybe one that’s coming from this day, from the class, from the list.

  From owning who she is.

  “You guys were kind of each other’s yin and yang. Like puzzle pieces,” I say, slowing the pace of the paddle in the water.

  “Peanut butter and jelly. Salt and pepper.” She sighs. “I was steady ground for her sometimes, I think. And she was a wild rainstorm I got to dance in. But deep down, we were a lot alike. We both wanted to challenge ourselves. To live full, fabulous lives,” she says, giving a soft, contented smile.

  Then she sits up straighter, like something suddenly dawns on her.

  “It makes me wonder,” she says in a reverent whisper. “I mean, I know it’s probably crazy to even think about something like this, but maybe Claire is . . . watching over us somehow? Maybe she put that list in your hands at the perfect moment? Like she knew how much I needed it right now?”

  My jaw clenches tight, but I force myself to nod as casually as possible. “Could be, I guess.” I try not to sound evasive.

  And fail.

  Because she’s touching on a sore spot, one she has no clue even exists.

  Lies—even little lies, white lies, convenient lies … They always come back to bite you in the ass.

  Her face goes pensive again. “Do you think Claire would be grossed out that we enjoy banging so much?”

  I laugh, glad we’re veering away from the subject of the list. “No, she was a sex fiend. She wanted everyone to get laid. Often.”

  “True, but . . . does it ever bother you?” she presses. “That I was so close to her? And now here we are?”

  But where are we? I want to ask.

  Do you feel this too? Like we’re on the verge of something even closer than what you had with my sister?

  Only, I can’t say that. That’s not our deal. And yeah, I have no doubt Claire would want Ruby to get laid, but I can’t ever ask Claire about this. I can’t knock on my sister’s door and tell her I fell in love with her best friend.

  Besides, I’m leaving, and Ruby’s staying, and telling her I’m crazy for her wouldn’t be fair.

  What’s important is how the list is working its magic.

  It’s helping her step away from the past, throwing the doors wide-open to her limitless future, prompting her to take it. Own it.

  I can’t mess that up.

  Swallowing roughly, I tell her part of the truth. I can do that much for her at least. “No. It doesn’t bother me at all.”

  Then, I press my mouth to hers and kiss her, because if I don’t, I’ll use my lips to say all the things I need to keep locked up tight.

  After dinner on the dock—grilled fish and baby potatoes that Rachel brings over as a thank-you for her pretzel delivery—we grab sheets from the car and head into the only habitable cabin on this side of the lake. The other three are still standing, but their netted windows are full of holes, and it looks like a family of raccoons has made one of the old bunk beds into their full-time crib.

  Ruby hums warily as we mount the steps to our home away from home for two nights.

  I glance over my shoulder. She lingers at the edge of the porch, her pillow clutched to her chest, making thinking noises low in her throat.

  And I swear, those little grunts make me fall a little more in love with her.

  I’m so screwed.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, even as a sour voice inside me assures me everything is not okay. Not even a little bit.

  “Um . . .” She swallows. “Yeah. But, uh . . . do think being freaked out by the thought of sleeping in the woods is hereditary, possibly? I’m suddenly starting to think my parents might have a point about not closing your eyes for too long in a creepy cabin in the woods.”

  I smile what I hope is a comforting smile. “Once we make the bed and get our lanterns set up in there, you’ll be fine. We can even start a fire later. It’ll be cool enough once the sun sets.”

  She nods, but she still doesn’t look convinced, though she murmurs, “You’re probably right.”

  Inside the cabin, I sort of see her point. The thin layer of dust covering the table in the corner and the two bunk beds on either side of the cabin feel . . . dingier than usual. And the thought of Ruby being forced to tromp over to the outhouse fifty feet away in the middle of the night gives me serious pause. What was perfectly serviceable for roughing it with the guys seems shabby for sharing with my woman.

  Not your woman. Get it together, asshole.

  I’m so busy reminding myself about the friends-with-bennies boundaries that I forget to warn Ruby that we’ll need to do a dust-and-bug sweep before we make the beds.

  By the time I remember, she’s already leaning into a bottom bunk, disturbing a bunch of cicadas which were hanging out in the slats above her head.

  Wings rasp and rattle and Ruby screams like she’s being attacked by an ax-murderer from the Black Lagoon.

  Then she’s running in frantic circles around the cabin, batting bugs the size of the baby potatoes we had for dinner from her hair while I scoop the equally frantic critters off the floor and toss them outside.

  And I know it’s time for Plan B.

  As soon as Ruby’s calmed down enough to let me pull her in for a hug, I stroke her bug-free hair and ask, “Luxury hotel? Twenty-minute drive? I checked this morning and they have plenty of rooms available tonight.”

  She tips her head back, looking up at me with something so close to love that it makes my heart stutter and my throat squeeze tight. “You are the best man. The very, very best.” She bites her lip. “Rachel’s feelings won’t be hurt?”

  I shake my head. “No. She isn’t like that. And . . . I might have warned her that it was your first time camping. That we might have to ease into the overnight thing.”

  Ruby smiles, a grin that hits me in my stuttering heart all over again. “Yep. You’re the best. It’s settled now. I will buy you a fancy dessert at our fancy hotel to celebrate.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  But it doesn’t. And I’m not the best.

  As we pack up, bid Rachel goodbye, and head out onto the road in the sunset light, I realize I can’t do this anymore.

  I can’t lie to her, even a lie of omission.

  I have to come clean with Ruby.

  Tonight.

  23

  Ruby

  As we reach the ferry parking lot, the sun slips behind the blue-shadowed mountains, painting the sky in shades of peach and lavender.

  I draw a deep, wonder-struck breath. I want to memorize that color. Paint with it, slide it across the top of a fresh sheet of hot-press watercolor paper.

  It will always remind me of this perfect, magical day.

  With the world bathed in light so gorgeous it makes my soul ache, we board the b
oat that’ll whisk us to our swanky hotel on an island in the middle of the lake.

  “Wow,” I sigh. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Jesse rumbles, his arm around my waist.

  I lean against the boat railing beside him, relishing the breeze on my face and the sweet, mineral scent of the water.

  I’m so happy it’s stupid. Truly, honestly stupid.

  Because this moment isn’t what it feels like.

  I’m most decidedly not on a romantic adventure with my incredible boyfriend who knows me so well he had a backup plan ready to deploy in the event of bug-related camping catastrophes.

  I am on a friends-with-sexy-times trip with my good friend who will be leaving in a little over a week. Soon, he’ll be banging sexy starlets thousands of miles away.

  On the other side of the country . . .

  The thought sends a stab of pain through me, but I push it away. I refuse to let my rational brain ruin this trip—this detour. I’m going to keep enjoying it for what it is. I refuse to think about Jesse leaving or who he’ll be giving orgasms to in the future.

  But turns out it’s not my brain that’s the problem.

  It’s my heart, thumping harder in my chest as Jesse takes my hand when we disembark, keeping me steady on the gently wobbling plank. My heart patters faster as we cross the magnificent hotel grounds, walking past beautifully maintained gardens and a stunning pool with a view of the lake and mountains, and then inside a lobby where a soaring glass ceiling lets in the dreamy pink light.

  My heart skips a beat as Jesse books a suite on the top floor for two nights.

  Minutes later, we step through the door into the most gorgeous hotel room I’ve ever seen. “Oh my God.” I press a hand to my chest, padding across the thick carpet into the tastefully furnished sitting room with its floor-to-ceiling windows.