Wherever she wants to go, whatever she wants to cover in wet newspaper, I’m along for the ride.
At least until I get on that plane to L.A.
17
Ruby
I dance down the street.
Literally dance, waltzing and twirling and jumping up to click my heels as I swing around one of the not-gum-covered lampposts.
A few people turn to shoot me a bemused look or a raised eyebrow as I pass, but this is New York City, and we’re all so accustomed to weirdness that a girl doing the dance of shame down the street in yesterday’s paint-splattered overalls isn’t a big deal.
I’m part of the chaos.
But a happy part, like when everyone bursts into song on the subway together after a ball game. Sometimes, this jaded old city is so full of magic it makes my heart ache.
Oh, my heart . . .
My poor heart. It won’t know what to do with itself when Jesse’s gone, but I promise it right now that I’ll find other reasons for us to dance. After two stalled years—twenty-four long months where I was stuck in rehab, in therapy, in learning to live in my body again, in going through the motions—I am moving, shimmying, dancing.
Being alive like this feels too good to let anything take it away, even losing easy access to the best cock—and one of the best friends—I’ve ever had.
I’m still smiling when I knock on the door to Gigi’s apartment. A nanosecond later, Gigi wrenches it open. Her pink retro robe with feathers around the cuffs swishes as she squeals, a giddy sound that perfectly echoes my vibe. “Oh my God, tell me everything! You’re glowing. I want a beat-by-beat recount of every kiss, every orgasm, every new sex trick you’ve learned. But wait!” She holds up both hands, her fingers spread wide. “Let me get my notebook. I want to write this down so I won’t forget.”
I laugh as I step inside, closing the door behind me and heading for her bathroom. “I can’t. I only have thirty minutes. I have to grab the world’s fastest shower, wiggle into your cutest bathing suit and cover up, and meet Jesse to head to the beach.”
Gigi frowns. “But I need details. If I don’t live vicariously through you, I’ll have to go hunt down my own sexy boyfriend, and that’d be so exhausting.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind her, before adding with a bob of my brows, “But he is sexy. And exhausting in the best way.”
I close the door to the bathroom, ignoring Gigi’s plea to be allowed in to sit on the toilet seat while I shower so she can keep pestering me for details while I’m naked and vulnerable.
Gigi has zero issues with her body or stripping down to nothing in front of her girlfriends. I’ve always been more of a private person, and that’s one thing the list doesn’t seem to be changing, proving it isn’t altering who I am. It’s bringing out who I’ve always been, pulling the suppressed and depressed part of my soul to the surface.
Then showing that part the light of day.
The vibrancy of fresh choices.
It’s turning me inside out, lifting me up.
And that doesn’t only feel good. It’s the complete opposite of those two stalled years.
Jesse was right. I needed this list. I needed a push.
The world feels new again, bright again.
So much so that I feel ready to tackle one of my biggest demons.
Or at least, I think I’m ready.
But by the time I dress in a polka-dot Ethel Merman bathing suit so darling I vow to buy one of my own if this whole swimming thing works out, and then make the hour-long journey down to Manhattan Beach with Jesse, my stomach twists.
Then contorts as I step out onto the warm sand. Gone is the good. Here to stay is the queasy.
I stop in the middle of the sand, a statue, the sun pelting rays at me.
I wince, shield my eyes.