I pass a sweet, laughter-filled half hour goofing off with my tribe before bidding them goodbye and heading to see Jesse about his surprise.
I wonder what it is?
Something better than a pie to the face, probably. I really should clean up before I see him, but his garage is on the way to my apartment, and he truly won’t care if I’m a little gross. I’ve learned that about him as we’ve grown closer.
He doesn’t sweat the small stuff.
Makes sense, since he’s conquered the big stuff and come out on the other side a stronger person.
But have I?
As I make my way through the park to his garage, the dread creeps back in on soft, gloomy feet, banishing the smile from my face.
What’s wrong with me?
I legitimately have nothing to be gloomy about.
Yes, my best friend is gone, but in the past two years I’ve been through emotional therapy as well as physical therapy. I’ll always miss Claire like a phantom limb, but I’ve moved through the most vicious stages of grief. Now, I can think of her with fondness and love, turning memories of us over in my mind like treasures I want to savor instead of painful objects with sharp edges that will wound me if I look at them for too long.
And yes, Chad, my rehab boyfriend, turned out to be a jerk, just like all the other guys I’ve dated, but I wasn’t in love with Chad.
So what’s my problem?
I sigh heavily, drawing a strange look from a rollerblader breezing by me on the park path. He stares and keeps staring, nearly tripping on a rock beneath his wheels before he finally turns back around.
I frown, wondering what his problem is, triggering a twinge of discomfort near my eyebrow as the pie-sticky hairs pull against the skin beneath them.
Right.
I’m covered in pie.
Of course, other people only see red goop congealed over me. For all they know, I could be a murderer fresh from the scene of my latest crime.
In my head, I swear I hear Claire’s laughter. She would find this completely hysterical too. Just like her brother will.
Jesse’s the only one who seems to remember Claire with the vividness that I do.
And I love that—sharing memories with him, keeping her with us even though she’s gone.
I take a right at the next exit leading out of the park, my feet finding their way into Flatbush and moving through bustling streets to the garage a block off the main drag, not far from where the streets become fully residential, where Jesse makes the magic happen.
Magic—a great way to describe him. So is “dreamboat,” a term my mother would use, because she’s adorably old-fashioned enough to say things like “dreamboat” without a hint of irony.
I step through the open garage doors into the airy space inside the shop. Jesse looks up from the other side of a vintage Harley he’s rubbing down with a shammy. A voice in my head breathes, “fuck me,” and I desperately wish I were an antique automobile.
We’re just friends—always have been, always will be—but I can’t deny a part of me would like to be rubbed down by Jesse Hendrix.
A part of me would like that very much.
Maybe that’s your surprise.
I bite my bottom lip, shoving the dirty thought from my mind.
Bad, Ruby. Bad.
But this is the best I’ve felt all day. Here. With him.
How’s that for trouble?