I pulled my shoulders back and held my head high. “Yep. First day, as a matter of fact.”
She looked me up and down again. “The uniform looks good on you.”
That took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting a kind word from her, given how we’d ended things before she left for New York: in a yelling match of escalating insults.
“Thank you,” I said suspiciously. I had my guard up, ready for a sarcastic comment. I was already trying to think up my own. But truth be told, as I looked her up and down, Ruby was looking good. She had her hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail. A loose strand fell down the side of her face, red like a flame glimmering in the afternoon sun. She wore a light pink wrap top tied at the waist like a bow; its ends hung down past the waist of her faded jeans which she filled out nicely.
I caught myself staring at her hips and feeling an erection coming on, so I turned from her and started walking, forgetting that I was supposed to be getting into my car.
“Well, take care, Lincoln.”
I immediately recognized my mistake and turned around. I pointed to my car. “Can I give you a lift?”
She shook her head then brushed the loose lock back and tucked it behind her ear. “Nah, it’s a nice day. I think I’ll walk.”
As I passed her, I could see her staring at me; I could see her holding back a smirk. “What?”
She frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
I dug in my pockets for my keys. They weren’t there. Dammit, Lincoln. “Looked like you were about to say something.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Just getting used to the uniform.”
There it was again, that smirk.
“You want to take a picture? Or did you give up on photography, too?”
The smirk was gone. “What’s that supposed to mean!?”
Found my keys—in the first pocket I’d checked. I shrugged. “Just that you gave up on horse racing, then you gave up on Magnolia, gave up on me. Looks like you’ve given up on New York. I just assumed you’d given up on photography, too.” I pointed at the wicker basket she was carrying filled to the brim with glass jars. “What’s the new passion now, pickling?”
“What would you know about that?” she fired back accusingly.
“About pickling?”
“No. About passion?”
As I stuck the key in the car door, I remembered that I hadn’t got the hinges fixed and the door would creak and snap open. Nearly two years ago, when we were dating, Ruby asked me when I was going to get that fixed. I had planned to. It would have been easy. But something always came up that took priority. I pulled the key out, turned, and leaned against the car. “I know plenty about passion,”—I twirled the keychain around my finger—“like how to follow through on it.”
She shifted the basket from one arm to the other and glared at me, squinting with her eyebrows pulled together. “What passion have you ever followed through on?”
I pointed to my uniform.
“Hah! You call doing what your dad told you to do, becoming who he told you to become, you call that a passion!?” She frowned and shook her head. “Not surprising.”
Eighteen months and I hadn’t heard a word from her. And now here she was, appearing out of nowhere and coming at me with the same insults she’d come at me with before. I glanced down again at the basket she was carrying and, this time, I could see the rim of what looked like a camera. I pointed. “Is that a camera!?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just asking.”
“Yes, it’s a camera. So? Would you like me to take a picture of you so you can see what you’ll be doing with yourself in ten years?”
“I’m proud to be a cop.” I wasn’t leaning against my car, anymore. I was standing in front of Ruby, leaning over her. My mouth was inches from her nose. I could have grabbed her by the chin, lifted her head, and taken her lips in mine. I could have turned her and pinned her against the car; shown her what I know about passion.
“I’m proud of Magnolia,” I said, keeping my voice down but the anger in it up. “And I know what I’ll be doing in ten years. I’ll be serving my community. And you? Where will you be? Going off somewhere new, getting tired of it then going off somewhere newer still, giving up on that.”
She huffed.
“Where’s your dad?” I asked.
She gritted her teeth. “He’s out of town on business. Why? What’s it to you!?” Her face was so red with anger I thought she might hit me. I was conscious of what I was doing, what I was saying. I knew what buttons to push. I was also conscious of the fact that I was antagonizing her, in part, because of the mean things she’d said, how she’d managed, in a minute, to spoil my day, but also because I thought it would be fun if she hit me. Maybe not fun, but interesting.