Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  Gigi nods. “Probably before that, honestly. At your high school graduation party, when you announced you were majoring in business and minoring in art, I remember I got a sharp, stabby feeling in my gut. And I hadn’t had any eggs that day, so . . .”

  I snort. “Don’t ever eat eggs again. Seriously. I’m still haunted by the ghost of eighth-grade Christmas, when you decided to see if you were still allergic.”

  Gigi shudders. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick. I can’t believe you let me have eggnog.”

  I laugh. “Right. It was all on me.”

  She sticks out her tongue before she smiles again. “But I think I knew then the pie life wasn’t for you. That you were hitching your wagon to an anchor instead of a star. You were never as pie-shop crazy as the rest of us. And you’ve always hated numbers.”

  “I don’t hate them,” I demur.

  Gigi’s brows lift. “You despise them.”

  “Okay,” I admit with a laugh. “I’m not a huge fan.”

  “I can empathize with that, even though numbers are probably my best non-imaginary friends,” she says, confirming that my secret plan for the pie shop is the right one.

  The only plan for Sweetie Pies.

  For a moment, I almost say something to Gigi about the specifics and what I want to tell my parents, but in the end, I decide to wait. I think my parents are going to wake up and see the light, but if they don’t, I don’t want to offer Gigi something I can’t deliver.

  “Yeah,” she continues, “if I had to spend all day coloring, my soul would shrivel up and die.”

  I snort. “It’s not coloring. It’s not even close to coloring. Drawing and painting are completely different from coloring.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “That’s what artsy people like you and my parents say, but the only art I get excited about is hanging in my closet.”

  I tear off another bite of croissant, pondering as I chew. After I swallow, I ask, “So, why didn’t you ever say anything? About hitching my wagon to an anchor?”

  “It didn’t seem like my business,” Gigi says with a shrug as the train swooshes around a curve in the tracks. “It isn’t my job to tell you what I think is best for you. Believe me, I was bossed around by my big brother enough growing up to know how miserable that can be.”

  “Your brother is super bossy. Like, the dictionary definition of bossy.”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Gigi sets her hot chocolate on her tray with a smile and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “And that’s why, in my personal philosophy, my job is to love and support the people I adore while they blaze their own trails and choose their own adventures.”

  “That’s a wonderful philosophy.” I turn my hand palm-up and return the squeeze. “And you do an amazing job of that. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” she says, sobering as she adds, “but I confess that I really want to stick my nose into the whole you-and-Jesse thing. It’s been hard keeping my thoughts to myself.”

  I sigh. “There is no Jesse and me. I hope we’ll always be friends, but he’s moving away. Far, far away.”

  A well-groomed brow rises. “So? Last time I checked we have Skype. And planes. And cell phones for dirty late-night phone sex.”

  I nibble my bottom lip. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been fantasizing about something more with Jesse as part of my Authentic Ruby Revamp plan. “But I don’t know if he would be open to something like that,” I say. “To a relationship. We were only supposed to be friends with benefits for a little while.”

  “And you’re supposed to take over Sweetie Pies and run it until the day you die too,” she challenges as the train rattles past tall trees, with colonial homes in the distance. “And you’re not going to do that anymore. You get to decide.”

  I tear at my empty croissant wrapper, shredding it into tiny pieces. “Not everything. It takes two to tango.”

  “Then tango over to his place and ask him to dance,” she says before lifting her hands in surrender. “But that’s all I’m going to say about it. My lips are zipped from now on. Whatever you decide, I’m here to love and support, regardless.”

  “Same,” I promise.

  And I mean it, all the way to the marrow of my bones.

  I mean it so much that as soon as we make our way back to Brooklyn and emerge from the subway stop in our neighborhood, I hug Gigi goodbye outside the park instead of walking with her the rest of the way to my place.

  “Gotta see a mama about a pie shop,” I say.

  Gigi pulls back, her eyes wide. “You’re doing it now?”

  I take a bracing breath. “No time like the present.”

  “You want me to come with you? Just in case you need someone to help you catch Barb when she faints?”

  I force a smile. “No, she’s not going to faint. She’s going to see that I’m right. I’ll make her see.”

  Or at least . . . I hope I will.

  26

  Jesse

  The Datsun shimmers.

  I step back, rag in hand, and circle my favorite car one more time.

  Even the hubcaps shine.

  They’d better—I’ve spent the bulk of the last forty-eight hours here in my garage prepping this beauty for a road trip across the country.

  Maybe I should check the oil one more time.

  I do.

  It’s all good.

  And the tire pressure.

  Yup. That’s solid as well.

  “Need anything else, you sexy silver beast?”

  She’s silent.

  And so is my phone.

  So is my apartment.

  So is my fucking garage, emptied out and waiting for the new owners to take possession next week.

  I’ve heard nada from Ruby.

  Not a single word since I left two days ago.

  All I can do is keep myself busy, which hasn’t been easy, since my garage is already spic-and-span.

  I finished packing up some books and plates and clothes in my apartment, though the movers I hired will do the rest next week.

  Time is unwinding.

  My chest seizes.

  Grabbing my phone, I check the messages one more time.

  They mock me, glaringly empty.

  Nothing from the woman whose voice I’m dying to hear.

  I heave a sigh, the weight of my own choices sinking me. My bones are heavy, and it’s my own damn fault.

  Which means the thing I need most now is a kick in the pants.

  There’s one person who’s excellent at giving those.

  It doesn’t take long to catch Max up on what went down. I give him the details as we wander through his wife’s favorite wine shop so he can grab a bottle for a fancy Friday night dinner at home.

  He picks up a Syrah, studies the front, then sets it down with a dismissive wave. “Boring.”

  He reaches for a Merlot next, clucks his tongue, then taps the front. “Yep. This is the one. Perfect new wine. Theresa will love it.”

  I furrow my brow. “How do you know?”

  “Because it has ducks sword-fighting on the label.”

  “That’s how you pick wine for your wife?”

  He shoots me a duh look. “How else would I do it?”

  Fair point. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a wife to buy wine for. Or even a girlfriend, since I fucked that up.

  “Theresa has a theory—the more interesting the illustration, the better the wine.”

  “And how does that theory hold up?”

  “So far it’s been on the mark. She contends that winemakers who spend time on clever labels also spend time on the vino. Ergo, the pick-by-drawing method.”

  I peer at the jousting water fowl, and of course it makes me think of Ruby and all the funky things she draws.

  But everything makes me think of Ruby. How could I think of anything but her? The woman I said goodbye to two days ago. The woman who went to bed alone in a hotel room I intended for the two of us. The woman I c
an’t get out of my head.

  Instead, I’m with Max, helping him shop for a dinner he’s going to be making for his wife.

  It’s so fucking domestic.

  And incredibly cool. My buddy, the guy I’ve known for years, loves to do simple things like this for his woman, the mother of his child.

  We head to the checkout. He buys the wine, then we leave the shop and walk along Ocean Avenue.

  As the early evening sun warms my face, he turns to me. “So, you want to know what to do next with Ruby?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Was it always perfect with Theresa? You must have hit a rough patch at some point, right?”

  He laughs, but it’s not at me—it’s with me. “No, Jesse. I am the only man in the history of the world who has never pissed off his wife.”

  “Lucky bastard,” I mutter.

  “Of course we hit rough patches. In the early days, her grandmother wasn’t thrilled about her dating a guy who wasn’t Korean, and Theresa refused to get engaged without her halmoni’s permission. We bickered about that for a few months before Grandma finally got on board. And we struggled when we were trying to get pregnant too. Theresa was emotional and depressed, and so was I. Neither one of us knew what to say to the other for a while. Hard patches are hard. But they’re also normal.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Talk it out,” he says. “But . . .”

  “But what?” I ask, agitation whipping through me. I have a feeling he’s going to say talking won’t work for me.

  “I’m not sure that’ll work for you.”

  Yup. Sometimes, knowing your friends this well sucks. “And why’s that? Why can’t I talk to her? Or, I don’t know, show up on her doorstep with ten thousand flowers? Or hold a boombox over my head outside her window?”

  But even as I list all those options, they sound wrong.

  So un-Ruby.

  Max arches a brow. “You don’t have to throw a parade or buy out a flower shop for her. There’s a place for the grand gesture, but this isn’t it.”

  My shoulders sag.

  “Hate to break it to you,” he adds with a sigh, “but sometimes you just have to bide your time. Give your woman space. I think that’s what has to happen here, bro.”

  I grit my teeth and clench my jaw as we stop at the light. “I’m in love with her, Max. And I fucked it up. But this can’t be the end. I want to prove to her that I can be what she needs.”

  “But you already said your piece. You explained why you did what you did. You apologized. And she said she needed space. Judging from the times I’ve met her, Ruby seems like a straightforward, honest person. I don’t think she said that so you’d do the opposite, Jesse. I think she said it because she actually needs space.”

  I hate this advice.

  I hate that I can’t solve this problem by doing something. Can’t fix it with a wrench, or a new set of tires.

  All I can do is wait, and that’s not in my nature. “How the hell am I just supposed to . . . sit here? Doing nothing?”

  Max is quiet for a beat. “Isn’t that what you did with the list?”

  The words cut me to the core with their unadulterated truth.

  He’s dead right. I waited with the list.

  I waited two long years. I waited until she was ready.

  Maybe that’s exactly what I should be doing now.

  But first I have to talk to her, one more time. I have to let her know that I’ll wait for her as long as she needs me to.

  I'm totally willing to do that.

  I want to do that. If she wants me to.

  Because she’s absolutely worth waiting for.

  I say goodbye to Max, take off around the block, pop into a corner store, and grab a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a pencil.

  I write a short note and draw a simple picture on the bottom.

  A man and a woman. She’s sitting in the O of the giant YO statue outside the Brooklyn Museum. He cups her face, looking at her like there’s nothing else in the world for him. Like she’s the only thing worth looking at.

  I go to her place and slip it through the slot in her mailbox. When she gets home, she can open it. And it’ll say . . .

  Let me wait for you? As long as it takes?

  I love you.

  When I leave, I don’t return to the garage. I don’t tinker with the Datsun. I don’t spit-shine it to within an inch of its life.

  Instead, I grab a bag of ready-made sandwiches at the deli on the corner and head to the old schoolhouse, where I watch the sun shine on the mural Ruby and I painted together and share my late lunch/early dinner with two homeless men already settling down inside.

  “I bet a lady painted it,” the older, bearded guy says around a mouthful of egg salad.

  “Looks like something a woman would paint,” the shorter, younger man agrees.

  “No, not a woman,” the other man corrects him. “A lady. Someone sweet and classy. And kind.”

  “She’s all of those things,” I chime in. “And talented and strong and funny.” I sigh. “The whole package.”

  The older man smiles. “I thought so.” He claps me on the back. “It’ll work out, son. Don’t worry. Love finds a way. It really does.”

  I want to believe he’s right.

  If he can believe, what excuse do I have for staying a pessimist?

  But I doubt I’ll feel right until I hear from her, until I know how she feels about me waiting.

  And find out if she might decide to wait for me too.

  27

  Ruby

  At my parents’ brownstone, I let myself in through the side gate and make my way down the narrow alley to the back garden. I can’t hear anyone back there, but it’s a sunny vacation day afternoon after Mom and Dad’s customary three o’clock tea-and-pie time.

  I can’t imagine any place my mother would be other than her small garden, surrounded by veggies and flowers.

  When I emerge from the alley, she’s exactly where I imagined: kneeling in the middle of the lettuce patch, pulling weeds while wearing a big straw hat and weathered green garden gloves. On impulse, I pull out my cell, turn off the sound, and take a few pictures before she realizes I’m here.

  I’m going to paint Mom like this, but with lettuce as high as skyscrapers reaching to the clouds all around her, a symbol of how she makes things grow with such grace and dedication.

  She grew the family business into a nation-wide phenomenon, the place to purchase holiday pies. She grows her garden every summer. And she grew me, never taking her hand from mine, even when I faltered or fell flat on my face.

  She won’t abandon me now.

  I know it the way I know the sun will rise no matter how dark and deep the winter’s night. But as I cross the paving stones to the raised planter beds, my heart lodges in my throat.

  Mom glances up, grinning as she lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Hey there, pumpkin. How was your trip?”

  I grab the garden stool from the planter next to hers and swing it into the shade, sitting so I’m closer to her level as I say, “I think it’s going to change my life. I did a lot of thinking. Thinking that I’ve avoided for way too long.”

  She sits back on her heels, pulls off her gloves, and gives me her full attention. “Okay.” She rubs her hands on her jean-clad thighs. “Tell me everything.”

  I take a deep, fueling breath. “First, I want you to know that I love Sweetie Pies.” I bring my hand to my heart, which is already beating faster. I don’t want to screw this up. I have to find the perfect words. “I love what it means to you and Dad. I love what it means to Gigi. And I love what it’s done for our family.” I swallow, a little roughly, and my mother nods, urging me to continue. “But what I love most about my job is illustrating the menu every season. I look forward to it all quarter. When I sit down at my desk and start to sketch, I’m excited to be alive. You know?”

  She smiles warmly, but a little uncertainly too, as if she’s not exactly sure w
hat I’m getting at. “Even when you were little, we had to bribe you with ice cream to get you to leave the museum without tears. Never saw a kid stand and stare at pictures the way you did.”

  I nod, swallowing past the anxious lump in my throat. “Yes. Exactly. Art has always just . . . called to me. It feels right. And my card business too. It’s a small thing, but it’s growing fast. And it lights me up so much, and I . . . well . . .” I trail off, floundering now that I’m at the jumping-off point. How can I say this? How can I crush my mother’s dreams?

  But how can I deny my own dreams another day?

  I can’t, and deep down I know Mom doesn’t want me to, a fact she confirms when she rests a hand on my knee, giving it a squeeze. “You can tell me anything, honey. Truly.”

  I blink, fighting tears.

  She’s so wonderful, and I know she means it, but still, I feel like I’m letting her down, and I have to own that. “I know you’ve always wanted me to take over at the shop eventually . . . but every Monday when I have to go to work and manage the books and all the purchase orders and receipts, I feel so gray, Mom. And I’m so . . .” I pause.

  I’m about to say I’m sorry.

  But I’m not sorry for wanting to be an artist.

  So I’m not going to say it.

  I’m going to own who I am as I cross number two off the list and go a whole day without saying, I’m sorry.

  I roll my shoulders back and meet my mother’s gaze. “Forcing myself to be a competent business manager is the most grueling work I’ve ever done. Even harder than physical therapy because my heart just isn’t in it. And you deserve better, Mom—you really do.” My pulse skitters in my throat as she remains still, watching me intently. “You deserve someone who is as passionate about Sweetie Pies as you are. And I think that perfect, number-savvy, pie-loving person has been right under our noses all along.”

  Mom takes a deep breath, and her eyes begin to shine.

  I’m bracing myself for an emotional storm when she exhales a shaky laugh and presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank goodness. Ruby, you have no idea . . .” She sniffs, swiping the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Sweetie, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.”