“Considerate. A real pioneer for those seeking attention, allowing them to have it selflessly. You should really receive an award.”
“I know. I know. But I stay humble, as there’s more power in that than any award on a dusty shelf.”
“Wise beyond your years, Ruthie.”
“So I’ve been told.”
We turn down Cedar Lane, where I know it will make the perfect mile back to Snow Roast. “So what color is your vibrator?”
“Really invested in this topic, aren’t you?”
“Just taking your mind off running. Go with it.”
“Fair enough. Would it be too cliché if I said pink?”
“Not if it’s true . . . is it?”
“It’s hot pink.”
“If I had a vibrator, I think I’d want it to be green.”
“Why?” She chuckles, and surprisingly, her voice still sounds smooth, not choppy at all. I’m tempted to pick up the pace, but I want her to enjoy this.
“Green is my favorite color.”
“But wouldn’t you want to keep emotions out of your vibrator relationship too?” she asks. “Picking your favorite color might add an emotional level I don’t think you’re ready for.”
“With me, emotions are always involved. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and damn it, if I want to attach myself to a vibrator, she better be green.”
“Your vibrator is a she?”
“Uhh . . . isn’t your vibrator a guy?”
“My vibrator is a tool for pleasure. No emotions, remember?”
“Huh, so that would mean hot pink is not your favorite color?”
“Nope.” She sucks in a deep breath and I glance over just to make sure she’s okay. When she doesn’t stop, I keep moving forward. “Red. I love red.”
“I never would have pegged you for a red girl before a few days ago, but now that I know you better, I’d say red is very accurate.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks. I love how her messy bun is bouncing on the top of her head.
“Because you’re what people like to describe as a spitfire, or dare I say, a firecracker.”
“What?” She laughs and then coughs for a few seconds.
“Are you okay?”
She nods. “Fine.” Once composed, she asks, “How am I a spitfire?”
“Uh . . . you announced to the world yesterday that you were going home to masturbate. Excuse me for being shocked, but I’ve only known you as the quiet girl serving coffee. I nearly swallowed my tongue and then wanted to ask you at least twenty questions about position and pulse.”
“First of all, I didn’t announce it to the world.” We turn around, halfway done and she’s doing great. “I announced it to a few people, three of whom weren’t the least bit fazed. Secondly, what do you mean by pulse?”
I laugh out loud, and it’s my time to cough for a few seconds. When I’ve gathered myself, I say, “You know, the pulse of going in and out.”
“Oh, yeah. I just, you know, buzz the old golden zone. Not much in-and-out action. That’s only on occasion.”
I don’t want to stop.
But . . .
I pause and she stops too, looking me up and down. “What?”
“I think next time we run, we don’t talk about vibrators.”
She chuckles and starts up again; I fall in line with her pace. “You’re the one who brought it up.”
Yeah, and now all I’m going to think about all day is “buzzing the old golden zone.”
Fuck.
* * *
“Do you really call it the old golden zone?”
“Oh my God, Brig, get over it,” Ruth says, tearing down a strip of wallpaper.
After we got back to Snow Roast, I was happy to see that not only did Ruth endure our one mile, but she seemed to endure it well. I’m pretty sure she could have gone longer, but the first day I wanted to keep it simple, not blow up her legs so she’s wrecked for tomorrow.
We talked about the run. She said she was doing okay and that it wasn’t as bad as she thought it was going to be but not to get any ideas about forming her into a runner. Little does she know, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I’m still not completely sure why though. It’s good for her. That’s one reason . . . I have friends who could go running with me, but more often than not, I run alone. Especially since my brothers found their other halves. Am I that lonely that I’d force a new friend to run with me? What gives, Knightly?
I held the door open for her when we went into Snow Roast, she grabbed us cinnamon buns—not the best post-workout fuel—and we had coffee and talked about the task for the day: ripping down wallpaper.
“But . . . do you?”
“No,” she says, exasperated. Turning toward me, she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t really talk to myself when masturbating. Do you?”
I think about it. “Uh . . . not out loud. But I’m pretty sure I say things in my head like ‘oh yeah’ and ‘fuck, that feels good’.”
“And who are you talking to?” she asks, hand on her hip. She’s wearing cut-off shorts again, her work boots, and a red tank top. How many of those tank tops does she have, and how come it’s taken until now to see her in them? Wonder if she wore them around Snow Roast and I never noticed because she’s always wearing an apron when there. Either way, they look good on her.
“I don’t know, my hand?”
“So then you treat your hand like your lover?”
I chuckle. “My hand has been my only lover for a while, so I think some encouragement is a kind gesture. I’m sure you appreciate the heavy work your vibrator does.”
“It’s quick work. And remember, no emotions.”
“Sheesh.” I rip of a piece of wallpaper and toss it to the floor. “Do you allow yourself to feel any emotions?”
She’s mid-rip when she pauses. Just staring at the wall, she doesn’t move, and I feel like I struck a nerve that I didn’t mean to.
“Ruthie, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” She clears her throat and tacks on a smile. She finishes the strip she was ripping down and then says, “I’m uh, going to go get a drink. Want anything?”
“Hey,” I say, walking up to her and forcing her to look at me by lifting her chin. Her eyes quickly search mine, almost looking panicked, and I feel her retreat. The bold confidence is whittling away the more I stare at her, the more I hold her chin in my fingers. Resurrecting is the nervous, fidgety girl I know all too well. I’m learning that it’s her shield. Her protection against . . . showing too much. I don’t want her to retreat. I want the bold, sassy girl to stay. I don’t want Ruthie to hide how amazing she is. Funny. Kind. “I’m sorry if I said something that upset you.”
She lightly shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m just being dumb.” She lets out a deep breath and then puts on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Need anything to drink?” she asks again but in a chipper tone that doesn’t settle well with me.
“No, I need you to not brush me off and talk to me.”
“We don’t need to make a big deal about this, Brig, okay? Let’s just move on.”
“Yeah, I see where you would want to do that, given how it might make things awkward.” I scratch my cheek. “But that’s not how friendships work. The purpose of a friend is so you can confide in them, work through things. So”—I fold my arms over my chest and say—“go ahead, confide.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“Couldn’t be easier. All you have to do is talk. It’s not like I’m asking you to do it while balancing on a rope forty feet in the air, holding a can of air freshener in one hand and a lady’s razor in the other.”
Her brows pull together. “Why those two things?”
“Can’t be sure.” I chuckle. “First things that came to mind.” I tap the side of my head. “You never can tell what’s going to come out of here.”
“Apparently.” When I don’t budge, she sighs and takes a seat on the
ground, moving her hands behind her to prop her torso up. “Well, are you going to join me?”
“Let me grab drinks quickly.” I grab our water bottles from the cooler on the counter then join her on the floor. I rest my back against one of the still wallpapered walls and hand her the drink. “Okay, now tell me why you’re so emotionless.” I say it in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood.
Thankfully it works, because she smiles back at me. “Just talk, huh?”
“Yeah, like how you spoke about your vibrator this morning.”
“That was easy. This is much harder.”
“Good thing I’m patient and a good listener, huh?” I wink, and I catch her eyes darting from my mouth to my eyes before she turns away to stare intently at her water bottle.
“And persistent.”
“Get used to it . . . neighbor.”
She’s silent for a few more seconds and then says, “Losing my parents was devastating. Unexpected and instant. I lost the two most important people in my life when I wasn’t even close to being ready to understand it. Rather than spending my nights crying myself to sleep, I . . . became numb. It’s helped me survive. Emotions hurt . . . especially when they involve loss and people I love.”
“I can understand that.” I can’t. I have no clue what that devastation feels like. God, I hope I never do. “I couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like losing my parents, let alone at such a young age. But you know you can’t walk around the world numb, right, Ruthie?”
She nods. “I know. It’s hard to change though when something works so well, even if it’s an unhealthy habit. I’m trying to open up, to slowly change my way of thinking. It will take time, but I feel like I’ve spent too many years hiding.”
“I’m here if you ever need to talk.”
“I appreciate that,” she says barely sparing me a glance. She brings the water bottle to her lips and takes a large drink, and it makes me wonder. It took Griffin a long time to realize that he’d closed himself off from the world, from his family, from the idea of falling in love again after he lost Claire. As much as Ruth is saying the right words, does she know what it would take to see the world differently? To not be numb? She’s so . . . self-contained. Self-reliant. Strong. “Okay, we should get back to work.” Determined.
“Yes, we should because I have plans for us later.” I didn’t. But I do now.
“Uh, what?”
“Well, we’re running tomorrow, right?”
“Depends if I wake up with legs tomorrow.”
“They don’t disintegrate that fast. It’s usually day two that’s the worst, and if we run tomorrow, you’ll feel better. But I can’t have you running in those abominations you called running shoes this morning, because your legs really will fall off if you do.”
“Are you saying you’re taking me shoe shopping?”
“Yup.” I smile. “Pottsmouth has an awesome running store that I go to all the time. I get a great discount now.”
“Aren’t you fancy,” she says, standing up. I do as well. “And you don’t have to take me, Brig. I’m sure you’re busy. I can go tonight so I don’t offend you with my shoes tomorrow.”
Her voice is light, but I feel her brushing me off, and I don’t like it. “Sorry, can’t send you on your own. I want to help you pick out some shoes and we can use my discount. Sorry, Ruthie, you’re stuck with me for another night.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get sick of me?” she asks, going to the wall where she starts running the steamer over the wallpaper.
“Not in the slightest. You keep me on my toes. I don’t think it’s possible to get sick of you.”
I give her a smile and catch a brief touch of crimson to her cheeks before she turns away. Looks like that’s a yes.
* * *
Ten minutes before I’m meeting Ruth at Snow Roast, there’s a knock at my door.
I quickly open it to see a messenger on the other side, holding an envelope. “Secret Pen Pal delivery.”
“Christ, I could kiss you.” I snatch the letter from the high schooler, who probably wants to dig his own grave for volunteering to tote love letters around this summer. “Thanks, pal.”
“Sure,” he says in a monotone voice and walks off down the hall.
Shutting the door, I run to the living room, jumping onto the couch and landing completely on my back. I tear the envelope open and see a recipe card and a letter with her signature red lips at the bottom.
I’m giddy.
Composing myself, I take a deep breath and read.
Dear Secret Pen Pal,
Because I’m always here to help, I included the recipe for the whoopie pies. I suggest you make your brother work for it. This isn’t some regular recipe you find on the Internet. This is from my grandma’s kitchen. Heads-up, I left out a secret ingredient, but he doesn’t have to know that. It’s another thing you’ll have over him. He’ll never be able to perfect the whoopie pies and you can thank me for that.
Favorite season, huh? Fall is beautiful. I agree with you about the certain crispness in the air, and I do enjoy when it turns into scarf weather, although I’m sure everyone on the Northeast would disagree with me. But fall isn’t my favorite season. And if you guessed that winter might be my favorite because of the way the snow clings to the trees, you’d be wrong. Yes, it’s pretty, especially after a fresh snowfall, but it’s pretty for about a month, then it gets tiresome. Spring, well . . . spring is a hot mess. Melted snow, dirty slush in the parking lots. It’s not quite pretty yet but trying to be pretty. Not my favorite, which leaves summer.
Summer reminds me of good memories.
Summer keeps me busy.
Summer helps me forget how lonely I am at times.
The best things happen in summer.
Summer rolls into fall, so at least our two seasons connect. We have that going for us.
Without exposing who you are, tell me your favorite childhood memory.
Can’t wait to hear from you.
Hugs Right Back,
YSPP
I feel the smile pulling at my lips.
I feel the lightness in my shoulders.
I feel . . . happy.
Chapter Ten
RUTH
There’s something about watching a guy drive a car that’s satisfying to me.
Well, not just any guy.
Brig.
I’ve been trying to keep my eyes trained forward the entire trip to Pottsmouth, but it’s been difficult, to say the least. Especially since he thought it would be fun to take out one of the Mustangs that he rents to tourists.
He pulled up to Snow Roast in a bright red 1965 convertible Mustang with matching red interior. Wearing a white T-shirt and black Ray-Bans, he took my breath away. And when he called out to me to get in the car, like some scene in a movie, I swooned hard.
How I went from yearning to talk to Brig about more than coffee orders to actually spending time with him, I have no idea. But here I am, driving up the coast of Maine in a convertible, wearing a simple white sundress and begging the question, am I dreaming?
Even though the car is automatic, he has kept one hand on the thin steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. Occasionally when he’s looked over at me, I’ve felt my heart skip a beat.
The sun’s shining, casting a warm glow on his bronze skin, his smile’s stretched across his face, and his voice hums around me over the whip of the wind.
I’ve never enjoyed a trip to Pottsmouth as much as I’ve enjoyed this one.
We drive down Pottsmouth’s sprawling Main Street and then turn down a side road, and I sit and watch Brig expertly parallel park. Smooth without any hitches.
When he cuts the engine, he angles toward me and asks, “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I answer, opening the car door. “Are we close?”
“Just around the corner.” He gets out as well and doesn’t even bother locking up his car. What’s the point when the top is down?
He must have a lot of faith in the people of Maine.
We’ve only really walked down one sidewalk together before today, so I still feel awkward. I desperately want to hold his hand, but that’s clearly not where our friendship’s at. What would he do if I reached out and took his hand in mine? Would he hold it just so I didn’t feel awkward? Pull away and ask me what the hell I was doing? Or would he grasp my hand, swing me around and push me up against the brick wall of the building we’re walking next to, only to cup my chin and tell me he’s been wanting to hold my hand for years?
Daydream much?
“I was just going to ask if you’ve ever been to Roadrunners but then I remembered your running shoes.”
“To be honest, I didn’t know there were stores specific to running accessories.”
“Oh get ready, once I transform you into a runner, you’re going to be coming here all the time.”
We turn the corner and it’s the first door on the left. Cased in a mostly brick building, a window display greets visitors, showcasing two mannequins in a wooded scene wearing similar running clothes to Brig’s. I guess he does frequent this place.
The moment we step in, a bell sounds and a man with deep brown hair and matching beard greets us. “Brig, we haven’t seen you in a while. How are you, man?”
“Hey Brock. Good,” Brig says, walking up to the guy and giving him one of those one-handed guy hugs with a handshake. “Been busy.” He glances around the store. “Looks like you have some new things in.”
“A lot actually.”
“Well, I’m ready to shop, but first things first.” Brig steps to the side and gestures toward me to join them. “This is my friend, Ruth. She just started running with me. Today was her first run and not to throw her completely under the bus, but the girl showed up in basketball shorts and Sketchers.”
I feel a blush creep up my cheeks, but instead of letting the embarrassment get to me, I say, “Thought I’d make a statement. You know, too cool for real running gear.”
Brock laughs and says, “That’s one way to do it, and one way to guarantee an injury.”
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