by Poppy Parkes
“I'm not,” she blurted. “I mean –”
“All evidence points to the contrary,” Sam interrupted. “Look, if you don't want to be with me, that's fine. It just would have been nice to hear it from you, not left having to guess that you'd chosen some other guy over me.”
“I'm really sorry,” she whispered, realizing with a cold chill that she really had left Sam hanging. She felt the beginnings of tears prick at the back of her eyes. Do not cry, Ruth willed herself.
“I don't get why you'd choose the guy who'd acted like a jerk to you, though. It doesn't make any sense.”
“He's not a jerk. It was a mistake,” she blurted, then shook her head. “Look, I'm not going to try to explain the whole mess to you. Because when it comes down to it, I screwed up with you. I'm really sorry.” She felt her face contorted with the regret coursing through her.
Sam nodded, sighing. “Well. Thanks?” He gestured at her bag again. “It looks like you were just heading out. I don't want to hold you up.”
“Um, yeah, I was.” Ruth tried to meet his eyes, but he dragged a hand through his tousled blonde hair and looked toward the coffee bar. “I'm so sorry,” she said again.
He shrugged. “Maybe I'll see you around. Good luck with the writing and everything.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Ruth seized that opening in the conversation and, turning, practically fled, catching her bag on a chair in her haste and making it teeter. Pushing out of the coffee shop with its suddenly oppressive atmosphere, the crisp autumn air felt refreshing as she gulped it into her lungs, dashing for the entrance to the nearest T station. She rushed down the stairs, and just barely slid through the closing doors of the train she wanted, having to yank her burgeoning bag in after her when it snagged on one of the door's edge.
Falling into one of the train's hard plastic seats as the string of cars moved off into the dark of the subway tunnel, Ruth closed her eyes, still clutching her bag and computer close. She felt sick, sick from her betrayal of Sam, an innocent bystander who'd been caught up in the wake of her and Derek's comedy of errors. And, to her shame, she'd forgotten all about him until meeting him face to face just now. Ruth swallowed, hard. She wondered if she'd have the courage to go to that coffee shop again, or what the odds were that she'd see Sam there again if she did go back.
Sighing, she dug into her bag, groping for her phone, thinking that shooting Padme a text might steady her. Ruth frowned when her fingers didn't close on the phone's familiar shape as expected. Setting her computer on the empty seat next to her, she held her bag open and peered inside, rummaging through its depths, and then finally extracting her notebooks to see if the phone hid beneath them. It didn't.
Shit. She groaned, letting her head thump back against the wall of the train behind her. The phone wasn't there. Shit shit shit. That phone was expensive, and even worse it held all of her personal information.
Ruth clenched her eyes closed, trying to remember if she'd felt anything like a phone slipping from her bag. Was it in the coffee shop, or on the street? Or maybe it got jostled free as she squeezed onto the train? If it was at the coffee shop, at least she could call and ask . . . or she could have, if she had her phone.
“Damn it,” she grumbled, throwing her things back into the bag.
The remainder of the T ride felt interminable. At last, the train slowed, the view of her destination station rolling by the windows. She sprang to her feet and was at the doors long before they slid wide. Stepping from the car, she sped for the exit, keeping her eyes open for a pay phone. At least she knew the number of the coffee shop, thanks to calling regularly to see if there were any musical groups playing there; they seriously cramped her writing productivity. The same with overly loud coffee shop patrons, but she couldn't very well call to ask if there were many of those around. Unfortunately.
As she emerged from the station onto the downtown Boston street, she spied a public phone and beelined for it. A quick rummage in the bottom of her purse rewarded her with a few coins, which she dropped into the pay phone and quickly dialed. As the phone rang, she bounced on her toes.
“Please please please,” she whispered.
At last, someone answered. “Hello, this is –”
“I think I might have left my phone there,” Ruth interrupted. “Just a little while ago. It hasn't happened to turn up, has it?”
“Um,” said the voice of the barista, “no, I haven't had anyone turn one in.”
Damn. “Could you look? I was sitting near the front of the coffee shop. It's a smartphone with a pink case . . . Please?” she begged.
“Yeah, sure. Hang on a sec.” Ruth heard the sound of the receiver being placed down, bouncing on her toes again as she waited, anxious.
The sound of the other end being picked back up reached her ears. “Sorry,” came the barista's reply. “I didn't see anything.”
Fucking fuck fuck. It could be anywhere, then, in anyone's possession. Great. “Well, thanks for looking,” Ruth said, feeling deflated. “I really appreciate it.”
Hanging up the phone, she moved down the busy sidewalk, heart feeling leaden. She should probably call her cell phone provider as soon as possible, she knew, but Derek was waiting, and she could really do with a hug. Not to mention his proposition.
Remembering why she was here in the first place lightened Ruth's spirit as she made for the arch of the Boston Harbor Hotel, unmistakable and impossible to miss. It was a massive, multistory stone thing, built directly into the hotel and opening onto Rowes Wharf and the harbor beyond. She inhaled the ocean-salted air, the invigorating scent soothing her. The crisp wind coming in off the harbor caught her curls, tangling them about her head in a way that made her feel deliciously wild.
Nearing the arch with its vaulted ceiling, she saw Derek step from the shadow of its depths. Something hitched within her at the sight of him, and she found herself running to meet him, throwing herself into his opening arms.
“Hi,” Derek murmured into her curls, curling his arms tightly around her shoulders as her hands clasped at his lower back.
“Hi,” she repeated, speaking into the gray sweater that spread beneath a denim jacket with its collar popped over the navy blazer that in turn covered that. Underneath it all, a crisp white shirt and rust colored tie peeked out at his throat. “You look nice,” she said, eying him up and down while keeping her cheek pressed against his chest. “And you smell nice, too.” She breathed in his cologne, the scent sending an electric charge through her. “I just look like a mess.” Ruth plucked at the red linen pants and loose black sweater that she'd chosen for comfort.
“You never look like just anything, except for beautiful,” he replied, smiling. Then his smile gave way to a concerned little frown. “What's wrong?”
Ruth sighed and stepped away, but he grabbed her hand in his and squeezed. “Just kind of a rough morning,” she said at last, shrugging.
“Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head, scooping her curls back from her face, suddenly unwilling to mention her run-in with Sam, or the lost phone debacle. “Just being here with you helps.”
He squeezed her hand again, harder this time, and she leaned into his side. Derek wound an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. Ruth closed her eyes and breathed deep. The stress of Sam and the phone melted away in Derek's presence, and she felt the heavy feeling in her chest begin to truly dissipate.
“So,” she said, looking up at him, mischievousness glinting in her eyes, “I heard you had an intriguing proposition for me.”
“Ah,” he said. Something like anxiety entered his voice, adding a strain to it that made Ruth frown. What in the world could possibly be making him nervous? “Yes. The proposition.”
“Are you . . . nervous?” she asked, frown deepening. “What's going on? It's not . . . oh God, it's not another woman again is it?” Ruth stepped out from his thrilling warmth, feeling her heart grow cold as the possibility occurred to h
er.
Derek's eyes widened. “No! Nothing like that, I promise you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“The opposite?” She felt her brow furrow. “Okay, now I'm completely confused.”
A thin, nervous smile wound across his lips. “Come on.” He offered a hand, which she accepted in spite of her perplexity.
“What are you up to, Mr. Stone?” she asked, relaxing enough to allow a teasing lilt to enter her voice.
“You'll see,” he said, winking at her.
Derek led them into the chilly shadow of the Boston Harbor Hotel's arch, the gentle buzz of the visiting tourists echoing in the cavernous space. She looked up as they passed through the rotunda, the circular curve of the ceiling soaring above, supported by double porticoes.
“This always reminds me of a church,” she said to Derek, nodding upward.
He followed her gaze. “Sacred space?”
“Exactly.” Ruth smiled. “You get me.”
They emerged on the opposite side of the arch, blinking into the sunshine. The wharf supported a variety of restaurants, bars, and cafes, and the harbor water was a gentle jumble of seafaring vessels that ranged from the very new and posh to those that were reminiscent of the city's colonial days.
“I always forget how close we are to the sea,” Derek said as they walked along the wharf. “Even though I work downtown, and I can see the harbor from my office . . . I forget. How is that possible?”
Ruth shrugged. “I feel the same way, living and working in Cambridge. We're so close to the Charles River, and of course not far from this,” she gestured at the harbor scene. “And still, I forget. I get into my own head, my own junk, I guess.”
“For me, it's more habit, I think. I have my routines, and I stick with them,” he replied, voice thoughtful.
“And how does this figure into your routine, sir?” she asked, leaning into him. “Playing truant with me again?”
He grinned. “It certainly does not figure into any sort of routine – and I'm glad. I love being with you. There's nothing else like it, really.”
“I love being with you, too.” She tucked a strong of curls behind her ear. “And I'm glad you rescued me from my Derek-induced distraction this morning.”
“That Derek, he's quite the character,” he joked, blue eyes dancing.
“He's quite something, that's for sure. And I am quite taken by him.”
He squeezed her hand and said, suddenly serious, “That makes him quite the lucky guy, then.”
They meandered along the wharf until they reached a spot that looked out toward the ocean. The city unfurled along either side, and ahead Ruth's view of the harbor waters was only broken by a smattering of sailboats, cruisers, and ships. The wind whipped at her hair and clothes even more furiously. She closed her eyes, drinking in the delicious sensation.
“I love this,” she said at last, turning to Derek with a wide, starry smile spread across her face.
He swallowed hard. “And I – I love you,” he replied, voice so low that she barely heard him over the sound of the waves slapping the wharf.
Ruth stared, then turned to face him straight on, heart galloping. “Derek,” she began, finding it hard to speak, her chest feeling suddenly too small to contain all that lay within, but he interrupted.
“I've been thinking hard about you, and us, and everything. I can't get you out of my head. And that – well, you know how rare that is for me. How new this all is. And I – I hate being apart from you.”
She flashed a smile, breathing into her nervousness. “I hate being apart from you, too.”
Derek shoved a hand in a pocket, the other still clutching hers, and she held on just as tightly, feeling dizzy, although not in an entirely bad way.
“And given the situation . . . well, I got to thinking that maybe I have a solution.”
Ruth frowned, confused. “The situation?”
He drew his hand from his pocket, holding something small and dark. “With your writing. With us . . . with how much we care for each other, against all the odds, and all reason.”
“Wait, what does my writing have to do with anything?” She felt like they were having two completely separate conversations at the same time, and her brain could not synch the two.
He smiled, a thin, wavering thing, fear and hope warring in the depths of his eyes. “It got me thinking. About us. About the future.”
Ruth drew a deep, trembling breath. Where was he going with all this? She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the truth out of him. Instead, she wound her fingers into his even more snugly.
“And – well, you know I've lived my life in a certain way, and I don't want to live that way anymore. I want to be the kind of man that you expect. That you deserve. I want to be that man, and be with you.”
“I want to be with you, too,” she said.
“Good,” he said, nodding as if she'd just confirmed something. “Because . . . well, I'll just show you.” He unlaced his fingers from hers and extended the hand that held the dark mysterious something. She saw that it was a tiny box. The kind that might hold a tiny piece of jewelry.
Ruth didn't know that her heart could hammer any faster than it already was, but the sight of the box sent it careening alarmingly against her ribs. “Derek . . .” she said, unable to take her eyes off the box.
He opened it, holding it out to her. Inside was a ring. The band was a muted gold, and there were five small diamonds embedded into it at regular intervals around its circumference. And at the center rested a much larger diamond, cradled by a setting reminiscent of tiny leaves.
Ruth felt like the bottom dropped out of her stomach, like she was either going to scream or vomit at the sight of the ring. The ring that looked very much like an engagement ring. She couldn't decide if the nausea swirling through her was born of excitement or horror.
“Ruth,” Derek said, fingers clutched tightly around the box, the harbor air tousling his dark, decadent waves of hair, “will you marry me?”
“Holy shit,” she breathed, wide eyes still glued to the ring. Silence hung between them for long, excruciating moments. She willed herself to say something else, anything else, but all she could feel waiting to emerge from her lips were more expletives.
“Well,” Derek said at last, forehead creased with concern, “I've been hoping for a yes and bracing myself for a no . . . but I certainly did not expect that to be your response.”
His words seemed to break her own muteness. “Derek,” she said, shaking her head in wonder, “that ring is – well, wow, it's amazing.”
“But . . . ?”
“We haven't known each other for even a week!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Getting married would be insane, right? Especially after the start we had.”
“We had a terrible start,” Derek agreed, nodding, “and yet you're still here. And if that doesn't scare you off . . . I figure that's a damn good sign.”
“Maybe it is, but that doesn't mean we need to run off and get married! I thought we agreed to take thing slow. This definitely does not feel slow.”
“We agreed to take things slow in terms of sex. But this isn't about sex.”
“Then what is it about?” she demanded.
“Well, you said it yourself – the teaching, the first graders, it's not you. It saps you, and leaves little time or energy for your true passion.”
“Writing,” she said, squinting at him.
“Writing,” he repeated, flashing her a half smile that made her heart flip flop in spite of the engagement ring he still held out to her. “And I got to thinking that if we were married, you wouldn't have to work at anything except what you want, what you love.”
“That certainly sounds like a marriage of convenience. Which mostly only end well in romance novels.” Ironically, she added silently.
He sighed in exasperation. “No, but it wouldn't just be a marriage of convenience. I love you, Ruth. I didn't even know I could love anybody, and certainly not li
ke this, but you . . . somehow you've unlocked this part of me that I thought – and hoped – that I'd killed. And instead I find that it's very much alive, and even more than that, that I'm glad that it is. And it's because I love you.”
“Are you sure you aren't just in lust with me?” Ruth asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No.” His reply was immediate and firm. “I'm an expert in living lustfully, remember? This thing we have – it's like nothing I've ever experienced before.”
Ruth felt like her head was swimming. “Derek, this is all very – well, it's crazy, but I'm really flattered and –”
“Flattered?” he reeled back, as if the word offended him. “Flattered? I just put all I had out on the line for you, and all you can say is that you're flattered?”