33
Jem
We bunker downin my house for a few days. I tell myself because I can’t be bothered facing the media, but that isn’t the reason. Even though Ruby pretends she’s okay, the attack has shaken her badly. She doesn’t want to leave the house, tells me her face bothers her but the larger part is she’s traumatised. Ruby hates seeming weak or needing protection, and I don’t want to be the one who craves to keep her safe. But I do, and I’m going to, whether or not she agrees.
Opening up and sharing shit I’ve never told anyone scares me, but the pressure from keeping everything in built too much. I never knew saying the words to somebody else could help relieve some of that. Ruby is the person who pushed me to do this without realising, and all because she shared her own shit. She took the risk I never could.
She’s under my skin, burrowing into my heart and soul, and I want her. The frustration is fucking killing me. I catch Ruby watching me when she thinks I’m unaware; the confusion and desire reflected in her eyes. I hate people in my personal space; can’t stand anyone touching anything that belongs to me. Hell, some days I don’t want to share oxygen with people.
But Ruby belongs here.
I have no explanation or experience of this, but I crave her. Not just the naked Ruby who’s spent the last couple of months living in my fantasies but the one with her comforting presence and understanding.
No longer hiding in bedrooms as we did last time she stayed, we spend hours together talking about music, life, everything but the past. We’re in the world we were trapped in alone, but now we’re there together. Secretly, I’ll touch Ruby’s hand, run my fingers along her arm, and we’ve even cuddled up on the sofa watching TV like an old married couple.
Natural. Safe.
And fucking frustrating.
After the other night when I held her fragile figure to me, I’ve tried to touch her in the same way again but she stiffens. Ruby explains she won’t do anything unless I kiss her, but she doesn’t say why. I examine her lips twenty times a day, watching the split heal. When Ruby tells me she has a way to speed up the healing, pulling creams from her bag to apply, the anger seethes again. The way she behaves proves this happened before, more than once, and Ruby deals with everything as if she has a reoccurring medical condition.
Following a third restless night fighting against asking Ruby into my bed, I wander downstairs and find her sitting on a stool in the kitchen, her long, naked legs crossed. She’s dressed in a short black summer dress covered in a pink skull pattern. With no make-up to hide behind, the bruises visible on her face look yellow. I watch as she slowly eats cereal, focused on her phone.
My heart is gripped by the inexplicable joy of seeing Ruby in my space, relaxed as if this is her space too, although her brows are tugged together in consternation.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up. “Jax wants to know when we’re back into studio time.”
“Jeez, that guy. I’ve told him next week—about ten fucking times.”
“I think he’s worried you’ll change your mind because of the… complications.”
Unable to resist, I cross and kiss her soft hair. “You’re not a complication.”
“What am I then?” Her question is loaded and I step back, watching her warily. “What are we?”
“Whoa. Ruby. This is a bit left-field.”
“Sorry.”
She takes another mouthful of cereal.
“Friends?” I suggest.
She huffs. “Liar. You don’t want to fuck your female friends.”
Actually, I have done. Often. “I don’t want to fuck you.”
“Liar,” she repeats with a small laugh.
“Your mouth.”
“Because I used the word fuck?”
“No.” I move mine close to hers. “Your mouth isn’t sore anymore, is it?”
Ruby’s breath rushes out, then she attempts to disguise the reaction. “Yeah, feeling better, thanks.”