by Poppy Parkes
“It is not drivel,” Derek protested.
But Ridger was shaking his head. “Dude, are you hearing yourself? I've got your back, man, but Sandra's right. You are acting like an idiot.”
“I am not,” said Derek with a scowl.
Ridger leaned forward, clutching his beer in white-knuckled frustration. “No, you are. You finally – finally – met a chick that really means something to you, who is amazing, and who for some reason is as into you as you are into her. I see you changing now that she's around, and they're all good changes. She makes you happier than I've ever seen you. You're better with her in your life – in your heart.” He pounded his chest with a single thump. “You realize you love her enough to marry her – only to throw it all away because of some confusion about shit that never actually happened?” He leaned back with a snort. “It sounds to me like you're looking for excuses.”
“Excuses?”
“Because you're scared. Because you got your feelings hurt a little,” said Ridger. “But wake up! When the hell do you think you're going to find someone like Ruth again, or something like what's between you? She sounds like she's one in a million, and you're just going to let her go? That, my friend, makes you an idiot.”
“Preach,” said Sandra, nodding.
Derek shook his head, as much against the growing unease that was unfurling in his gut as much as against Ridger's words. “I don't know . . .”
“Okay, I don't like to say this, because you know how not into gender-based derogatory shit I am,” Sandra said, squinting hard at Derek, “but you need to man up. Love is scary. Get over it.”
Derek took a long, gulping swig of his beer, relishing the acrid flow down his gullet and the heaviness of the alcohol as it hit his stomach. He wasn't scared, that was ridiculous. He was just –
Petrified, spoke that tiny, indefatigable voice from inside of him. In love. Petrified of losing love. Of losing her.
He spluttered at the realization, at the warmth filling his belly that had nothing to do with the beer and everything to do with the blazing of uncomfortable, unwanted truth.
Well – almost unwanted.
Yes, he wanted to run. Run back to his old life, away from lovestruck marriage proposals and the first real burgeoning of hope within him in decades. Because his old life was easier. Uncomplicated.
But, Derek had to admit, Ridger was right. With Ruth, he actually felt happy, happier than he could remember feeling in a long, long while. He hadn't realized it until his friend had named it, and named it truly – in spite of his carefree, philandering attitude, he'd been unhappy. Empty.
But with Ruth . . . with Ruth, it was the opposite. He was full – of life, joy, of inexorable hope. He felt more himself, even. Better, as Ridger had said. And hadn't Ruth told him that she'd been experiencing something similar? He'd never believed in soul mates, but if they existed, then he and Ruth seemed to be made for each other, against all logic and reason.
And – he'd just thrown that all away.
“Shit,” Derek said softly, feeling the blood rush from his face. He raised his eyes to meet his friends' solemn gazes. “You're right, aren't you?”
“Never doubt it,” said Sandra airily, while Ridger nodded next to her.
“You're totally right.” The truth of it settled over Derek like a choking, poison cloud. “Idiot. That is exactly what I am.” He drained the rest of his beer and then heaved himself to his feet. “We have to go out. Beer is not going to cut it tonight.”
Ridger frowned. “You're saying want to go get drunk?”
“Precisely,” said Derek miserably.
“Dude, you know that it's not too late, right?”
Derek shook his head, confused. “Too late?”
“To try to fix things. With Ruth.”
“I thought . . . I thought you said I'd thrown it all away. That I'd ruined it.”
“You did,” said Sandra, wrinkling her nose, “and badly, at that. But she came to your office to fight for you, for your relationship, today. So I'd say that she's willing to hear you out, at least.”
“Make sure you grovel a bit,” offered Ridger, eyes gleaming playfully. “The chicks love that.” His words earned him a shove from his girlfriend.
“You – you really think that she'd take me back?” asked Derek slowly, carefully, as if each word was a potential landmine.
“She might,” Sandra said with a shrug. “And she might not. But if what you guys have together is anything like how you've described it, then you'd be a fool not to try.”
Ridger stood up, moving to throw an arm across Derek's shoulders. “You need to try, man. We're rooting for you.”
“He's rooting for you,” Sandra snarked, pointing at Ridger. “I don't give a shit either way.”
Ridger shook his head and muttered conspiratorially, “Don't listen to her. She's a softie on the inside. And she does care.” Then he stepped away, toward the front door. “We're going to go, okay? To give you some space, to think and stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Derek distractedly, nodding. “Sure. Okay.”
“But if you do decide to go get wasted, call us,” said Sandra, getting to her feet. “I wouldn't want to miss out on any of your misery.” She glared at Derek for a long moment, then to his surprise she wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug. “But,” she said, stepping away and shrugging, “I'd rather see you get the girl.”
Derek's lips flickered up into a half-smile. “Thanks. Both of you guys. Really.” Gratitude and sorrow mingled within him, somehow glacial and searing in the same moment.
“You don't need to thank us, man,” said Ridger, swinging the front door open. “Just fight for her, okay?”
“Okay,” Derek replied, nodding, wishing he felt as sure as his words sounded.
With that, his friends swept out of the apartment and he found himself alone.
And yet, he was not alone. Derek felt as if Ruth was with him, filling up the space with her gentle vanilla scent. And he also felt her absence, too, even more keenly.
It made him want to cry, or to break things, to break everything.
What if it was too late?
But his friends were right. It almost didn't matter if it was too late. Derek knew that he had only one course of action – to try. To apologize. To fight for Ruth, for what they'd had. For what they still could have. His only other alternative would mean a wasting away of his spirit, of who he was at the core.
He had to try.
He would try.
Throwing a glance at the steel-framed clock hanging above one of the gray couches, he saw that it was still fairly early in the evening. He could call her.
But no – her phone. She'd lost it. Derek frowned. So now what?
An idea began to take shape inside him. It was small, but felt true, born from the heart. Not fancy, but he doubted that fancy would persuade her now.
Derek swung into his coat, grabbing a pen and his wallet and stuffing them into his pockets as he strode out the door.
Chapter 16
By the time Ruth staggered into her apartment that night, her legs were wobbly with exhaustion. She'd been walking since she'd left the coffee shop, phone slid into her boot along with the key to her front door, her ID, and a single credit card.
It had been a wandering walk of grief. She felt that with each step she was mourning, releasing the pain of her broken hopes, of what she'd thought was the truest love she could have ever dreamed of experiencing, in spite of all the tumult mixed in.
She'd meandered along the Freedom Trail, blind to the tourist sites that usually captured her heart and imagination and intellect, along the wharves, through decrepit cemeteries and the long shadows of pristine skyscrapers. Not once had she sat, or eaten, or even taken a train.
Now, she limped to her bedroom and peeled off her boots, the black pantyhose, and the turtleneck dress that had made her feel powerful and sexy when she'd donned it that morning. She massaged her sore feet that had so bravely put
up with such harsh treatment, wincing at twin tender spots adorning the backs of her heels. Then she unlatched her bra and stripped off her underwear, both still damp from sweat in spite of the cool autumn weather.
Ruth lay back on her bed, naked, first stretching her limbs out so that her body formed a star shape, then contracting into a fetal position and heaving silent, wracking sobs into the bedspread. Rufus leaped onto the bed and, purring, pushed his face against hers, the feline's affection only making her cry harder.
She had wanted this, wanted to be with Derek. She had wanted him. In spite of logic warning her against a whirlwind romance and engagement, it had felt unbelievably, impossibly right, being with Derek.
And now, he had tossed her away like she was worth nothing to him.
The ring he had given her still glimmered from her finger, her vision of it blurred by scalding tears. She should take it off, she knew. Return it, sell it, anything to get it away from her.
But instead she ran a gentle finger along the subtly golden band, the finely wrought leaves, the diamonds. The ring comforted her, somehow, and she could not bring herself to even consider taking it off, much less removing it from her life.
It was silly, she knew. Just causing herself more pain. But the ring felt too important, too lovely, too much a part of her to let go of just yet.
The sound of a gentle knock on her apartment door met Ruth's ears, making her stiffen, then sit up on the bed, wiping the tears from her eyes. She waited, listening.
The knock came again, a little louder this time, making her heart beat faster. Who could it be? She'd texted Padme earlier, once she'd retrieved her phone, to let her friend know how things had gone. Maybe it was her, coming by with a stash of chocolate and wine and sappy movies to sustain Ruth.
But no, she'd told Padme that she wanted to be alone, that she didn't want to put Operation: Breakup Healing into effect until the next day.
One last knock came, quieter than the two that had come before, just a single, soft rap followed by a rustling sound. Ruth stayed sitting on her bed for several minutes, straining her ears, but at last she relaxed, flopping backwards onto the pillows.
Her stomach rumbled. She was, she suddenly realized, ravenous. After walking all day and missing both lunch and dinner, she was more than overdue for sustenance. Rolling off the bed, she pulled on soft hot pink flannel pajamas and padded toward the kitchen.
As she passed the front door, her foot met something that slid beneath her sole. Frowning, Ruth peered down and saw that she was standing on a powder blue envelope. Her frown deepened as she stooped to pick it up, heading to the kitchen and flicking on a light.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, examining its almost silky surface. The envelope bore no markings. For a brief moment, she wondered if it could be some sort of a subtle new terrorist attack.
After a long moment, Ruth snorted, laughing at herself. Way to jump to the most implausible situation, crazy lady, she scolded herself and tore the envelope open.
Reaching inside, Ruth drew forth a single piece of cardstock in the same powder blue hue, the top and bottom of the paper adorned with a chocolate brown trellis of vines and flowers. The design reminded her of the engagement ring, which she spun absentmindedly around her finger a single time as she lowered her eyes to the scrawling handwriting that had been trawled in black ink between the trellis borders.
Dear Ruth, she read,
I am so sorry. Deeply, profoundly (these words seem so inadequate). It was wrong of me to act so cruelly toward you, to not trust you – especially when you have been so generous toward me with your own trust. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I know I don't deserve it, and I know I can't undo what I said, but I would love the chance to apologize in person, if you'll have me.
Love,
Derek
As Ruth read the jagged, looping script, she felt a pressure begin to build in her chest. Her blood ran faster through her veins, and her jaw locked tight.
She wanted to throttle Derek. How could he put her through all this pain and drama and still sign his note of apology with “Love”?
With a shout of anger and frustration, she ripped the powder blue into two pieces, then into four, then slapped them on the kitchen counter. She stood gazing at the pieces in triumph for a moment, then that pressure in her chest seemed to give, replaced by a fluttering panic, an aching sorrow.
Sweeping the four pieces of Derek's note into her hand, she crumpled to the floor, sobbing. Ruth halfheartedly tried to piece them back together, but it was no use. She'd ruined it. It could never go back to its original lovely form.
She cradled the pieces to her chest and keened over them, salted tears washing down her face and dropping onto the cardstock.
If this is love , she thought, making herself cry all the harder, I don't want it. It hurts. It hurts too much. Ruth felt as if her soul was being rent, tearing just as she had torn Derek's note. How could she ever be the same after this? How could she go on? She had no idea.
At last, the tears refused to flow anymore. Sniffling, breath coming in tiny, mewling pants, Ruth sat, the feeling of her heart's rhythm within her rib cage calming her. Uncurling her hands from around the four pieces of the note, she arranged them on the floor so that the words were readable. Reaching up to the counter, she groped for her phone and, fingers landing on it, pulled it into her palm. She snapped a photo of the semi-reassembled note.
Look what just showed up, she typed into a new text and sent it off, along with the photo, to Padme.
A few moments later, her phone buzzed with a reply. Derek sent you a torn up note of apology? Slacker.
Ruth couldn't help but huff a breath of laughter. I tore it, obv. He slid it under my door.
And? texted Padme.
Ruth stared at the word glowing from her phone in the yellow the kitchen's light. What did she mean, and?
The phone buzzed again with another text from her friend. I really hope you're planning on taking him up on that offer of an in-person apology. Make sure you get some groveling from him.
Ruth rolled her eyes. Do I dare? she wrote.
The phone jumped in her hand, a call from Padme coming in. She answered it, but before she could utter a single word, her friend's voice was streaming through.
“Dude. What happened to my friend Ruth, who put her I-don't-take-no-shit boots on this morning and confronted the guy she loves who was, unfortunately, acting like a total jackass?”
“She got burned. Again.”
“Yeah, but it sounds like maybe he's come to his senses.”
“Or he's setting me up just to knock me down again. Again again.”
“Okay, if he is, you will not be able to stop me from kicking his ass,” said Padme, “but that doesn't make much sense. I mean, he was free of you. Why would he slip a fake apology under your door just to reject you for a third time?”
“Because he's mean,” said Ruth flatly.
“Was the Derek you knew mean?”
“Well, no. But that doesn't –”
“Some guys are actors,” said Padme, “just saying what you want to hear to get you in bed. But why would Derek do that with you? He was already getting all the tail he wanted. I don't think he's flat-out mean. I think he just made a mistake.”
“Just made a mistake?” Ruth thundered back. “Are you serious? He took my heart and dragged it through the dirt, then came back and dumped gasoline on it and lit it on fire.”
“He did those things?” Padme asked in a bland voice.
“Figuratively, yes,” snapped Ruth.
“Do you love him?”
Padme's question caught her off guard. “What?”
“Do. You. Love. Him?” her friend said again.
“I don't know,” Ruth said with a sigh. “I mean –”
“Okay, then answer me this,” Padme interrupted. “Where's the ring he gave you.”
Ruth's stomach twisted as she looked down at the engagement ri
ng still adorning her finger.
“You're wearing it, aren't you?” said Padme.
“Yeah,” she said in a tiny voice, feeling the last of the anger that had made her decimate Derek's note wilt.
“Then you still have major feelings for Derek. If he could do the whole metaphorical heart arson thing and you're still wearing his ring, that at least means that you like him – and that you need to let him apologize. You don't need to marry him, or take him back, or even accept his apology. But you need to hear him ask for your forgiveness. He owes you that, and you deserve it.”