by Holly Kerr
It’s like my mother is somehow listening to my inner argument, because that’s when I get a text from Paulina. It takes a minute to remember who she is, but when she mentions my mother gave her my number, it all becomes clear.
My mother is trying to set me up again, and like always, I go along with it.
What have I got to lose?
Chapter Twelve
Ruthie
A few nights after we get home from Niagara, Flora, Dean and I meet Patrick and Adam at the local pub.
I’ve heard nothing from Colton, but after some digging, find that the pictures of me have been deleted from his Instagram account. I guess that’s the end of it.
Kind of an anticlimactic ending, but then again, the whole thing was anticlimactic. I hope he does better in his next attempt to woo a woman.
“Where’s M.K.?” I ask as Flora slides into the booth beside me. Dean takes the chair on the end; more comfortable for his long legs.
“Something about Theo having a cold,” Dean says, flipping his menu over to the beer listings.
“He’s getting over a cold,” Adam corrects. “I’ve been hearing all week about the trials and tribulations of having a sick baby. I think it’s getting to her.”
“She’s always been a stickler about germs,” Flora says fondly. “This must be driving her crazy.”
“She tried to get a second flu shot to make it more effective, but don’t tell her I told you. I heard her on the phone with her doctor yesterday,” Adam confides.
“Aren’t they having the party for New Years?” Patrick asks.
“Which is why they’re keeping him in tonight,” the well-informed Adam tells us. “He’s got a sleepover planned for Grammy’s that night and M.K. wants him healthy.”
Patrick looks at him carefully. “Are you going out with me or M.K.?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” Adam sings, kissing Patrick’s cheek. “I’m her work hubby.”
“What’s Reuben then?” I ask.
“The other man. Seriously,” Adam throws up his hands, almost hitting Dean. “If I didn’t love the hairy beast so much I would hate him because he’s taking my M.K. away from me.”
“She’s my M.K. too,” Flora reminds him.
“Yes, but since I am also devoted to you, it’s okay.”
Flora blows Adam a kiss. “As long as we’re good.”
“Isn’t that your baseball buddy?” Patrick asks Dean after the waitress has brought us drinks.
I glance over to see where Patrick has pointed to see Trev walk in the bar.
A thrill goes through me when I think he’s there to meet us. And then the thrill turns to a whirlpool of disappointment when I notice he’s with a woman.
She’s dark haired, wearing a black skirt and jacket with a camel-coloured coat thrown over her arm. She looks steady and serious—exactly who I picture Trev with.
Dean turns in his chair and waves to Trev, who heads over to our table. Rather than watch Trev approach, I focus on his date. Thin lipped with cool eyes, the only things colourful about her are her shoes, dark pink heels that I’ve looked at myself.
“Hey, man!” Dean greets him.
“Hey.” Trev’s gaze moves around the table, finally landing on me. “You again,” he says with a rueful smile.
“Me again.” I make an effort to tone down my smile because my heart is about to leap out of my chest at the sight of him. “It’s your lucky day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were following me.”
Trev’s eyes light up. “I was going to say the same thing but use the word stalking.”
“You only wish I was stalking you.” I toss my hair, wishing I’d made more of an effort. Leggings and a slouchy sweater is not the ideal outfit for seeing—
What does it matter what I look like? Trev’s here with someone else. The light bulb dims but it doesn’t take away the smile.
Trev glances at the drink before me on the table. “Off your bourbon already?”
“I was thinking of wine,” I shoot back. “Be careful if you stick around.”
“That’s an invitation to leave if I ever heard one.”
“Not at all. I’m very selective who I spill on.”
Trev smiles again and for a moment, it’s only the two of us in the room. Then the bubble recedes and I’m aware of the others staring at us. I turn to Trev’s date and give her the female once-over. “I like your shoes.”
“Thanks,” she says coolly, then pointedly glances at the floor under the table. Flora and I are both wearing Converse sneakers—hers with the Blue Jays emblems liberally splashed across the shoes that I got her for Christmas, and mine, an old pair of high tops covered in Looney Tunes characters. “Yours are…interesting.”
“I’d rather be interesting than conform to the norm,” I say with a cool smile.
“There’s nothing conforming about you,” Dean says with a grin, patting my hand.
“Well.” Trev clears his throat. “We’d better get to our table.”
“I’d say join us but you’re clearly on a date,” Flora says with a grin at Trev. “You want to be alone rather than squishing in with us.”
“You’re right,” Good Shoes but Bad Personality says. “I’m trying to get to know Trevor, which might prove to be difficult in such an environment.” The table, as well as Trev, falls silent under her brisk stare. “You do seem like lovely people, though,” she adds off-handedly.
“Well, we don’t want to keep you from Trevor,” Flora says sarcastically.
Trev gives a fake laugh. “Yeah, well, we’re off. Nice seeing you.” He claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
He gives me a fleeting glance that may or may have been slightly apologetic.
“What was that?” Patrick hisses as soon as Trev is out of earshot.
“Yeah. Wow. Bitch,” Flora whispers.
“I was talking about her.” I tear my gaze away from watching Trev sit down to find Patrick pointing at me. “Ruthie. And Trev.”
“What?” I ask, trying to sound like I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You did seem a bit…friendlier…than the last time. When we bumped into him on the street and you were rude to him,” Flora says slowly.
“I wasn’t rude to him.”
“I think you were rude to him.” Flora looks at Dean for support.
“I wasn’t there,” he admits. “But you did say some rude things about him.”
“Well, he was a jerk when I met him,” I say loudly. “Now…” My voice drops with hesitation. “Maybe he’s not so much of a jerk.”
Both Patrick and Flora had been leaning forward, elbows on the table and when I say that, both pull back in unison and stare at me with amazement. Dean just looks confused.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “Do you like Trev? Like, like him?”
Three sets of eyes stare at me, waiting for any information. I like being the centre of attention, but this is awkward. “I don’t know.”
“I’m getting the sense that you maybe do.” A hint of a smile teases at the corners of Flora’s mouth.
“Is that why you’re not upset about Colton Pruitt?” Patrick demands. “Because you’ve already got someone new lined up?”
His words are a dash of cold water. “Is that what you think?”
Patrick’s expression is as confused as Dean’s. “What did I say?”
“About me having someone new lined up.” I can’t keep the hurt from my voice, and I don’t know why it’s bothering me. I know the impression I give; I know my dating history and what people think of it. But suddenly it bothers me what Trev might think about it.
Flora glances at Patrick and then at me. “You do change boyfriends fairly often.”
“Yes, but it’s not like that,” I insist. “Not with Trev. Not that there’s anything—I met him at the movie theatre before Christmas. We talked. It’s nothing.”
I keep the details of the rest of the evening locked inside.
“Did he as
k you out?” Dean asks, eyes wide with surprise.
For some reason, Dean’s surprise bothers me too. “Why would Trev ask me out?” I demand in an icy voice. I gesture across the bar where he’s smiling at the woman. “That’s the kind of woman he likes. I’m nothing like that. He’d never be interested in me.” I turn to Dean. “Is that the type of woman Trev usually goes out with?”
Dean looks sheepish. “I haven’t met all of his girlfriends. But yeah, they all seem a bit uptight.”
“Uptight,” I echo. At least I now I know it wasn’t interest in Trev’s eyes. I am the least uptight person I know. He’d never be interested in me.
I swallow down the pang of regret with a mouthful of my gin and tonic, trying to push past how no one told me I might be Trev’s type too.
Trev
The next day I spend holed up inside my house, pretending to write and nursing the embarrassment of a very bad date.
Needless to say the meeting with Paulina did not go well. It started with her frustration with the wine list and continued with complaints about her eighteen-dollar glass of Pinot Noir.
By the third time she caught me glancing over at Ruthie’s table, her irritation began to infect her replies, turning a casual conversation into a series of monosyllabic retorts.
I can’t believe my mother thought she’d be a good fit for me.
No more, I decide. When Paulina finally walked out, I was too embarrassed to return to Dean’s table. Ruthie would no doubt say something about another woman walking out on me, just like she did.
I’m still kicking myself about the date when I push the cart through the automatic doors of the grocery store the next night, blinking against the sudden brightness.
Lights. People. Michael Bublé still singing about Christmas.
After a day of writing, the time for dinner snuck up on me. But I can’t handle another meal of takeout. The Christmas dinner leftovers my mother sent home with me are long gone and a day of wrestling with plot, or a lack of one, as well as character motivation, saps any energy to cook. I venture out to the nearest store with pre-packaged food.
My nose leads me to the deli where rotisserie chickens are sitting in the packages under the heat lamps. I grab two. Drogo has to eat too.
But there are too many other choices and soon potato wedges, mac n’ cheese, and a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce and Brie make it into the cart. I throw in a pound of bananas and a few apples to make it more well-rounded.
I’m not the best cook but I manage to keep from starving. Unfortunately, I’m not always inspired to make an effort when it’s only me eating. It’s hard cooking for one, even though the cookbook my sister-in-law gave me last year gives me great suggestions. Unfortunately, Tessa paid for that thoughtful gift as my mother glared at her for the rest of the day, making comments about how I’ll be sure to find the perfect woman soon.
Paulina informed me ten minutes into our date that she was vegan.
I toss a hunk of salami into the cart. Nope. Mom missed the ball big time on that one. This man needs meat.
As I head to the bakery area, I wonder once again how my mother finds these women for me to “try out” as she calls it. There’s something vaguely offensive about how she says it, so I don’t repeat it to the women. But it’s like every place Mom goes—the hairdresser, her water aerobics class, the hospital for monthly appointments—she comes away with a new number. It’s like a non-stop dating app. Where is she finding these women? And what is she saying that convinces the women to give me a try?
Do they have pressures, motherly or other, to find someone special too?
I pick up a couple of loaves of bread, one an interesting-looking sourdough whole wheat with chia and sprouts because I can eat healthy when I need to.
And then I hit the snack aisle.
I don’t have a big sweet tooth so it’s easy to bypass the boxes of Christmas chocolates with their discounted prices. But my thing is the salty crunch, so I hover by the potato chips, mesmerized by flavours like jalapeño cheese or balsamic vinegar and sweet onion. I grab bags of both and a family-sized bag of pretzels because Drogo likes to munch too.
Then I head to the popcorn section.
It’s not just that Ruthie has popped into my mind more and more since our movie date-non-date, but I’ve had the worst craving for popcorn. So after scanning the different varieties—so many choices—I pull the red box of Orville Redenbacher extra-butter microwave popcorn off the shelf and into my cart.
Essentials like toilet paper and dish soap are next. Even though my stomach is demanding sustenance with the odd growl, I wander up and down every aisle, throwing things I really don’t need into the cart. It’s true that you buy more when hungry.
I finish my visit in the frozen food section, and then think about Alpha-getti for some reason and wander back to the canned goods. As I turn into the aisle, my eyes fixed up on the shelves to what else I might need, the cart crashes into another with a clang of metal and a curse.
“Can’t you watch where you’re—hey! It’s you.”
Ruthie.
She clutches the handle of her own cart, blocking the aisle in her shaggy white coat. Her hair is twisted high on her head and seems more gold than rose in the light.
Is that green in her hair?
“Hey!” Does that sound too happy to see her? And why would I sound that happy to bump into someone at the grocery store? I barely know her and I’m enjoying my own thoughts—
Which had been about her.
“Hi, Trev.” Flora appears behind Ruthie, a shopping list written in multi-coloured pens clutched in her hand.
“Small world.” I glance at Ruthie but she’s not looking at me.
“Smaller neighbourhood,” Flora says.
There’s an awkward pause where Ruthie should speak, but doesn’t. I should walk away but I need her to at least look at me once.
“You look like you’re having a keg party,” I say, gesturing at the heap of bags of potato chips in their cart.
“It’s for M.K.’s party,” Flora explains, looking up from her list. “She’ll have all this amazing food, but she always forgets the basic fun stuff.”
“And Doritos are so fun.” I point to the blue bags.
“Not as much as popcorn,” Ruthie says.
Hazel eyes appraise me coolly. It’s a start. I show her the box in my cart. “I seem to have developed a taste for it,” I confess.
“It still doesn’t mean I agree with your taste of some things,” she says with a bite to her words.
I don’t understand the sinking feeling in my stomach at Ruthie’s lack of facial expression. With every other interaction we’ve had, her thoughts had been clearly written on her face. Her face had lit up when she laughed at the movie. Now everything’s blank.
Except for the dark red, almost purple lipstick she’s wearing. There’s nothing blank or bland about that. It makes her lips look like a berry.
I have a sudden craving for blackberries.
Flora glances between us like we’re a puzzle she has yet to figure out. “Beans,” she says suddenly, looking at the list in her hand. “How can I forget the beans?”
“You should never forget beans,” I tell her as Flora turns and trots back down the aisle. Ruthie makes a wide U-turn in the aisle to follow and I trail along beside her.
“Beans, beans, the magical fruit…” Ruthie sings under her breath.
I smile hopefully as she glances over, but she only turns away. “How was your Christmas?” I ask.
“Festive,” she says.
“Been to any more movies?”
Ruthie only shakes her head as we pull up to where Flora stands on her tiptoes to pull down several cans of kidney beans from the top shelf. “I need beans, or rather Dean does because he’s making the stuff,” she says. “He’s decided he wants to make chili, which means the house will be full of it, because Dean never makes a little of anything.”
“He’s a big boy. He ne
eds a lot of food,” I say.
“Canned tomatoes,” she muses aloud and heads further down the aisle.
Ruthie pushes the cart after and once again, I follow. She gives me a sideways glance, this time with the barest hint of a smile on those berry-coloured lips. “See what I mean? Stalker.”
My smile widens like I’ve been thrown a lifeline. “Afraid it’s only a mere coincidence. Beans are in the same place as Alpha-getti.” I reach around Ruthie for the telltale blue can. As soon as I’m within smelling distance, I breathe deep, and am rewarded by the same cookie scent that I remember from the movies.
I take two cans, biting my lip to stop myself from telling Ruthie how good she smells.
“I love Alpha-getti,” she says wistfully, apparently unconcerned by my quick inhale. She adds a can to her cart. “Flora’ll never know it’s there.”
“Are you still staying with them?”
Ruthie nods. “Her and Patrick share me when I’m in town.”
“You don’t live in Toronto?”
“Not really. I really don’t live anywhere. Sometimes I’m at my parents’ place in Niagara-on-the-Lake, but that seems to annoy people, so I come here. I go wherever the wind blows. Or where it takes me, whatever that saying is.”
“Don’t you have a job? Or school?”
“A little bit of this, a bit of that. So many questions,” she says off-handedly.
“It’s the only way to learn anything.”
“And why on earth would you want to learn anything about me?” Her icy voice turns heated and the sudden rise in temperature makes me stop the cart. “I saw your girlfriend last night and—”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I interrupt.
“Date. If she’s your type, there’s no need to learn more about me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you like them well-dressed and well-mannered, and that is not me.” She takes the can of canned pasta from my hand and leans over to pick up the bananas. “It seems to me that we’d go together as well as this.” She shakes the can. “And this.”
“You make your mind up quick about people.”
