I’ve heard nada from Ruby.
Not a single word since I left two days ago.
All I can do is keep myself busy, which hasn’t been easy, since my garage is already spic-and-span.
I finished packing up some books and plates and clothes in my apartment, though the movers I hired will do the rest next week.
Time is unwinding.
My chest seizes.
Grabbing my phone, I check the messages one more time.
They mock me, glaringly empty.
Nothing from the woman whose voice I’m dying to hear.
I heave a sigh, the weight of my own choices sinking me. My bones are heavy, and it’s my own damn fault.
Which means the thing I need most now is a kick in the pants.
There’s one person who’s excellent at giving those.
It doesn’t take long to catch Max up on what went down. I give him the details as we wander through his wife’s favorite wine shop so he can grab a bottle for a fancy Friday night dinner at home.
He picks up a Syrah, studies the front, then sets it down with a dismissive wave. “Boring.”
He reaches for a Merlot next, clucks his tongue, then taps the front. “Yep. This is the one. Perfect new wine. Theresa will love it.”
I furrow my brow. “How do you know?”
“Because it has ducks sword-fighting on the label.”
“That’s how you pick wine for your wife?”
He shoots me a duh look. “How else would I do it?”
Fair point. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a wife to buy wine for. Or even a girlfriend, since I fucked that up.
“Theresa has a theory—the more interesting the illustration, the better the wine.”
“And how does that theory hold up?”
“So far it’s been on the mark. She contends that winemakers who spend time on clever labels also spend time on the vino. Ergo, the pick-by-drawing method.”
I peer at the jousting water fowl, and of course it makes me think of Ruby and all the funky things she draws.
But everything makes me think of Ruby. How could I think of anything but her? The woman I said goodbye to two days ago. The woman who went to bed alone in a hotel room I intended for the two of us. The woman I c
an’t get out of my head.
Instead, I’m with Max, helping him shop for a dinner he’s going to be making for his wife.
It’s so fucking domestic.
And incredibly cool. My buddy, the guy I’ve known for years, loves to do simple things like this for his woman, the mother of his child.
We head to the checkout. He buys the wine, then we leave the shop and walk along Ocean Avenue.