Even though getting close to her isn’t smart.
Focusing on the task in front of me, I finish the pie cleanup and toss the paper towel in the trash. “Good as new.”
“Thanks.” Her breath rushes out with a soft laugh. “So that’s what it feels like to be one of your cars?”
“Probably. They don’t give a lot of feedback, though, so . . .”
“Right.” She bites her lip and turns toward the door. As she moves, I catch a glimpse of a few pie-oozed strands of hair.
“Wait.” I catch her arm and she shivers, a shiver that echoes across my skin as I add, “Not done yet.”
I tug her gently back in, wetting my fingers and smoothing them over the sugar-covered curl.
“Thanks again,” she whispers.
We’re quiet for a beat, and in that silence, I’m keenly aware that this is more intimate than I’ve been with her in . . . well, since the days right after Claire died. Not that we were intimate in a sexual way. More in a cry-on-each-other’s-shoulder-as-grief-rips-your-heart-apart kind of way. The I-can-comfort-you-with-a-hug-and-you-can-comfort-me-too-because-what-else-can-we-do-after-a-life-changing-loss kind of way.
In my life, there is before and there is after.
The line between is my sister’s death. Considering Ruby and Claire had been best friends since they were six, I know Ruby has the same before and after in her life.
Which is why I have to tell her.
About the list.
After I deal with one final rebel berry.
“And there’s a strawberry sliver on your ear.”
She winces and laughs. “Oh my God. I’m a disaster.”
“No, you’re not. Not even close.” I catch the berry slice on my finger. Our gazes hold. My pulse spikes.
That happens every now and then when I’m close to this woman. The first time, I’d been home from college and she’d stretched out on the hood of my car, colorfully cursing the douchebag who’d dumped her at prom.
I’d stretched out beside her. Her cheeks had flushe
d as she’d detailed all the reasons Hayden was an asshole—in between pointing out star formations she’d memorized—and for the first time, I’d seen Ruby as something more than my little sister’s best friend.
It wasn’t the last.
And lately . . .
Lately, I can’t seem to stop noticing her in ways I shouldn’t, which is going to complicate things. The last thing I need is the kind of prolonged Ruby exposure that dealing with The List is going to require.
But it doesn’t matter what I need. It’s what she needs that matters.
It’s time.
I tip my head toward the bathroom door. “Let’s go out to the garden. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Something serious, I’m guessing?” She arches a brow. “The garden is for serious conversations.”
I shrug and say, “Not always,” but I don’t deny that this conversation is going to be. “Come on. It’s about your surprise.”
“Okay.” She follows me down the hall, past the last massive piece of art I need to take down—the hood of a VW bug too damaged to be restored that now sports a shadowy New York skyline on it, courtesy of yours truly and a can of spray paint. I sell most of my art—or give it to good friends—but this one is special, the first piece that came out exactly the way I imagined it in my head. It’s a keeper.
We push through the glass door leading into my little patch of heaven. I’m going to miss the garage for a lot of reasons, but this peaceful sea of green with the fountain bubbling in the corner of the courtyard is a big one.