She should never have agreed to this abomination tonight with Jeremy. She turned on her MacBook and went immediately to her drawing table. She set her mug on her file cabinet and turned on the lamp.
This was one of her writing days. She aimed for a rigid schedule where she wrote a week’s worth of strips one day; drew them up the next; inked them on the third day; scanned them, fixed mistakes, and spotted the blacks on the fourth day; and colored her Sunday strip in Photoshop on the fifth. Theoretically, this would give her two days off a week, but that rarely happened. The writing could take much longer than a day, and that threw everything off.
This week she was already behind. This was her second writing day because she’d taken last night off. That cut into her drawing time. She could either draw them all today or do half today and half tomorrow, but if she chose the latter, that would cut into her scanning time. Things snowballed quickly on a never-ending deadline.
People assumed that being a cartoonist was easy. They imagined she worked about an hour a day on her “funny pictures,” and loafed the rest of the time. She wished.
In fact, hers was a stressful existence. She was obsessed with coming up with ideas and terrified of writer’s block. She carried a notebook with her everywhere, both to write down overheard conversations and ideas that came to her, and to sketch interesting faces to use in upcoming panels. She had to produce seven funny cartoons a week, every week, and she’d been doing it now in syndication for just over three years.
Her syndicate required her to finish her daily strips six weeks in advance of their print date, and her Sundays had to be sent a full eight weeks ahead. This wasn’t the cushion it seemed to be as she was usually a week or two behind on both deadlines. She had caught up since her move though, and she was determined never to fall behind again. Though all it would take was one dry spell or accident, and there would be an empty spot in the newspapers underneath her name. She didn’t get vacation or sick days, so she could only take a total vacation if she worked ahead of deadline. So far, she had not managed that.
Some weeks were better than others, where the ideas came fast and furious and the drawings flew from her pencil fully formed on the page, but this wasn’t one of those weeks. She easily spent the same forty hours a week on her strip that other people spent at their jobs. In fact, it was probably more. But she loved it.
She was in just over a hundred papers nationwide. This was nothing when compared to the big strips that were in over a thousand papers, but most of the papers she did have were in major markets, which paid more, and most of her papers took both her daily and Sunday strips, which doubled her money, and she was also paid for digital clicks. She easily made enough to live on. That was another myth about cartoonists. People assumed she was a millionaire—and she was—but not from cartooning. Not yet anyway. But if people wanted to attribute her riches to a blockbuster strip, instead of an inheritance, well, who was she to debunk them of this fantasy?
She answered fan email, retweeted some political takes, added a picture of her new haircut to her Facebook and Instagram pages, and got in a text argument with Hilary about short hair on women. When she felt she had wasted just the right amount of time, she curled up in her writing chair in front of the empty fireplace with her idea notebooks and a yellow legal pad and got to work. She always wrote her cartoons longhand.
She scribbled and crossed out, wrote and rewrote, counted words, drank coffee, and listened to her writing playlist, which was all instrumental music, no lyrics, so she could think. When she got hungry, she opened the fridge to slim pickins’. Ice cream and bruised apples did not make food for a week. She couldn’t take time to shop now, and she wouldn’t have time later because of her…yearbook stealing outing. At least she could count on a big dinner tonight. To tide her over, she crunched peanut butter toast.
She picked up her phone to scan Twitter while she ate and remembered Janice Chaplin’s number. Why hadn’t she called yet? She’d planned to do it first thing this morning and it was already late afternoon!
She picked up her house phone, thought better of it and picked up her cell phone, thought better of that, and finally rummaged in a drawer for the cheap disposable phone she’d picked up at Target weeks ago. She dialed before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone rang once and was immediately answered by a male. “Hello?”
Was this Sean? She didn’t remember his voice being so soft. And how could she explain having this unlisted number? How did she get it? Sweat broke out on her upper lip.
“Hello?” The man said again “Are you there?”
It wasn’t Sean after all. This voice had a touch of a British accent, while Sean’s definitely didn’t. Must be his dad. “Um, may I please speak to Sean?”
“I’m sorry, he’s stepped out. Would you care to leave a message?”
“Yes. Could you tell him that…Ashley called?”
“Certainly. Does he have your number, Dear?”
Ruby almost gave him her own number automatically. She pinched herself and said, “Yes, he’s got it.”
“Good. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t want to sever this connection to Sean, however tenuous. “You have a great day!”
“I will. You too. Good-bye.”
She turned the phone off, feeling her cheeks flame with color. She was back in sixth grade.
For the next half hour, she was unable to concentrate. Finally, she fished her disposable phone out again and called. If Sean’s dad answered again, she’d use a southern accent to disguise her voice.
This time his mother answered with a very brusque, “Hello!”
Ruby decided to try her southern accent anyway. “Hi! I’m lookin’ for a Sean Chaplin? We went to school tagetha, and I—”
His mom yelled, “Sean! Sean! You got a phone call!” Ruby swayed on her feet. She hadn’t thought this through at all. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. Not yet! The phone became slippery in her hand, and she hung up in a panic.
She’d hung up on his mother. And he adored his mother.
She stood wringing her hands, and suddenly flung the phone across the room in case Sean had caller ID and called her back. She blinked back furious tears. She was so stupid!
She stared at the phone lying forlornly by the door. If Sean had caller ID, he would have already called her back. Right? And in this electronic age…Sean’s mother was probably hopelessly out of touch. How likely was it that a woman like her would have caller ID on her home phone? Ruby smirked, thinking about all that toilet paper.…Not very damn likely.
“Courage, Ruby.” She picked the phone up and pressed redial before her nerve failed her.
Sean answered with a cheerful, “Hello?”
Ruby closed her eyes and leaned against the wall with the phone pressed to her ear, hardly breathing. Oh, how she’d missed hearing his voice. It was deep and intelligent, and he always sounded happy. He carried a laugh in his voice.
“Hello? Hel–llooooooowww? Are you there?” he said. When she didn’t answer, he hung up without cursing.
He was a class act.
Ruby set the phone down and opened her eyes. Why hadn’t she taped their conversation? She punched her thigh so hard she winced. That would have been so easy if she’d thought of it in time.
The phone rang, causing her to leap like a cartoon character. It had to be Sean. His mom had caller ID after all! The phone rang again, and she realized it was her home phone ringing, not the disposable one and sighed in relief. …But what if Sean had somehow known it was her calling because of their psychic connection and he’d tracked down this number online? She snatched it up and said, “Ello?”
“Ruby?” A male voice said. Sean! For a second, she couldn’t breathe. “Ruby?” he repeated, and she realized it wasn’t Sean and felt herself deflate.
“Who is this?” she said in her normal voice.
“What do you mean, ‘Who is this?’ Who do you think it is? What
other man would be calling your house but me?”
Who was this? She didn’t have a boyfriend or…her heart sank. “Is this the Creepy—, um, I mean, is this Jeremy?”
“The one and only.”
“You’re not my boyfriend.”
“But I plan to be.” He giggled, an extremely unsettling sound and she felt her stomach lurch.
Why, oh why had she agreed to see him tonight? Where was her common sense?
▬▬▬
“Just a little longer,” Ruby murmured, as she followed Jeremy’s black SUV back to his house. They’d just finished dinner at the restaurant, and he was an even bigger bore than she’d figured. “Go in, get the yearbook, get out,” she chanted as they drove into an older, ritzy subdivision near Gibson State University.
His house was a ranch on Jasmine Drive, set far back from the road, on a steep slope. She warily followed his car up his narrow, winding driveway. There had better be a place to turn around at the top, or he was going to back her car back down for her. She wouldn’t even attempt it in the dark.
She was in luck. At the top, the driveway opened into a wide circle, and she parked in front of his garage, alongside Jeremy.
She glanced at the roses on the seat beside her. Jeremy was handsome, wealthy, thoughtful, and straight, and they had made an exceptionally gorgeous couple at the restaurant. People had stared at them like they were celebrities. On paper, he was perfect. And yet…he made her skin crawl.
Jeremy rapped on her window. “Did you zone out in there?”
She got out and smoothed her black skirt down over her thighs. Might as well get on his good side. “Thank you for the roses. No one’s ever brought me flowers before.”
He took her arm. “You’re worth it. And now, let me show you my house.”
“You always leave your door unlocked?” she asked, as he flipped on the light.
His living room was fussy. It was all overstuffed furniture with spindly legs and doilies. Candy dishes, music boxes, and other tchotchkes covered every flat surface, and a still life of fruit and flowers hung over the fireplace. Except for the huge TV and the expensive stereo equipment, the room looked like it’d been decorated by an eighty-year-old spinster.
…Not exactly your typical bachelor pad.
“—lived in Kamata my whole life, and we’ve never locked our doors. Even now, with the rampant drug use, I still feel perfectly safe here,” he was saying when she tuned back in.
“That’s what the thieves are counting on you thinking,” she said. She arched a brow at him as she fingered some lace and he chuckled. “I inherited a lot of property when my mom died, and with my job, and managing all my rentals, I’ve been too busy to redecorate.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I’m over it. Would you like some coffee?”
All she wanted was his yearbook, but she couldn’t afford to be rude to him before she got it. “I’d love one. I take it—”
“Cream, no sugar,” he finished for her.
She stared at him.
“I, uh, remembered from when we worked together.”
“That was six years ago.”
“I have this photographic memory thing where I remember birthdays and phone numbers, stupid stuff. Like, I know you love Halloween because you mentioned it once years ago. See? It’s useless information, and usually more curse than blessing.”
She shivered. What else did he know about her? Time to go. She forced a smile. “How ‘bout you make us that coffee and I’ll start in on your yearbooks.”
He blushed deeply and stared at his shoes. “They’re in my room. On my bed.” He smothered a giggle with his hand. “I dug them out for you earlier.”
“Tell me where your room is and I’ll go get them and bring them out here for us,” she said deliberately.
The excited, naughty look on his face faded. “Oh. Okay.” He pointed down the hallway. “My room’s the last one on the left.”
Ruby marched down the hall, threw open the door he’d indicated, and immediately leaned back out to make sure she had the right room. She did.
The unmade twin bed made clever use of baseball bats and balls to form the head and footboards. The bed had crimson satin sheets, yet the shelves beside the closet held dusty board games, little league trophies, and child-sized sports equipment.
A model airplane hung from the ceiling, and there was a faded blue kite with a dragon on it tacked catty-corner to the walls by the window. Tattered basketball posters were taped up beside a two-year-old calendar featuring “Miss July,” a big-breasted, naked blonde woman straddling a motorcycle. The last touch was a glass-fronted cabinet with a mound of handguns tossed carelessly inside.
This room belonged to a violent, sex-obsessed, adolescent. She started to tremble and tasted bile in her throat. All her instincts screamed at her to run.
Instead, she shuffled forward, grabbed the four yearbooks sitting on the bed, clutched them close to her chest and muttered, “You’re fine. Just do this quickly and get out.”
“Did you say something?” Jeremy said from the doorway.
Ruby jumped, and one of the yearbooks slid from her grasp. She sidestepped just in time to keep it from landing on her toe and whirled to face him. He held two steaming coffee mugs. He looked perfectly harmless.
“No. I didn’t say anything,” she yipped in a tight voice she didn’t recognize. She snatched up the fallen yearbook, heart thumping in her chest, and brushed against him as she hurried from the room.
She made it safely to the living room and set the books on the coffee table. She sat down at the far corner of the couch, hoping that Jeremy would take the other corner. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said.
“Oh, no problem.” He sat beside her and placed the mugs on the coffee table and inched closer until they were sitting thigh to thigh. Ruby was already scrunched up against the arm of the sofa and had nowhere else to go. She crossed her arms and legs and uncrossed them, wishing she were anywhere else but here.
She leaned forward and picked up a yearbook at random. It happened to be Jeremy’s senior year, which meant Sean was long gone, having graduated three years before. She needed Jeremy’s freshman yearbook when Sean was a senior.
She set the book on her lap and was grabbing for another, when Jeremy took it from her and opened it. “Oh! Senior year. This one has my best class picture in it,” he said, flipping rapidly through the pages.
She sighed and spent the next fifteen minutes poring through his senior, junior, and sophomore books, oohing and aahing over his school pictures, his marching band pictures with his tuba, of course, and his soccer team photos. She considered gnawing her own leg off to escape.
He’d been a pudgy kid with lank hair, acne, and coke bottle lenses on his glasses. There wasn’t even a vague hint of how gorgeous and blonde he would become.
She was practically salivating as she picked up his freshman yearbook, but before she could open it, he took it from her and set it aside.
“Hey! We haven’t seen that one yet.”
“I know. But I’m sure you’re bored with this.”
“Not at all,” she said, reaching for it again.
He batted her hand away, glared at her and said, “I look horrible.”
How could his freshman pictures possibly be any worse than the others? She had to see that book! That was the only reason she’d agreed to this fiasco.
She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced with distaste. It was cold now, and unpleasantly bitter. She sat back, batted her eyelashes at him and said, “Please, Jeremy? Let me see it. Everyone takes bad pictures, and I find it fascinating to hear about you when you were younger.”
Jeremy tucked his chin, and his cheeks flushed pink. He looked up at her through his eyelashes, face shining, and she smiled, recognizing that he was about to give her what she wanted.
“Okay.” He handed her the book.
She flipped past the senior section wistfully and found Jeremy’s phot
o with the freshmen. He hadn’t been kidding about looking horrible. He wasn’t just pudgy; in this picture he was fat. It must have been before he shot up in height and caught up, somewhat, to his weight. He wore a red checkered shirt, and he had glasses and braces and acne and greasy hair.
“Look at how cute you are!” She was surprised at how easily the lies came sometimes, but she had learned early in life to do whatever she had to do to get by.
“You’re the first girl I’ve ever shown this to.”
“I’m flattered.” She started to flip through the book casually, pretending interest in the school and his anonymous classmates. She was almost to the senior section when he grabbed the book from her again, flipped a few pages and said, “Here. Look at my soccer picture.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, but afterwards I want to look through it slowly on my own.”
He handed her the opened book, and she caught her breath in surprise and pleasure. There was Sean! Jeremy knelt in the front row in the team picture, and Sean stood right behind him, smiling as usual and making rabbit ears behind Jeremy’s head. His hair was spiky from being razor cut way to short, but he looked wonderful to her.
There were casual pictures underneath the team photo. A shot of Jeremy sitting in the bleachers beside Sean caught her eye. Sean had his eyes closed, his arm around Jeremy’s shoulder, and his head thrown back, laughing. Jeremy gazed up at him with obvious adoration.
She pointed to Sean. “Is that a friend of yours?”
Jeremy leaned over and smiled. “That’s Sean Chaplin. He was the star player on the team and the nicest guy I’ve ever known.”
“Really?” She fought to keep the eagerness out of her voice. They might still be friends. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, he was really nice to me, for one thing, and I wasn’t popular. He stood up for me when other guys made fun of me. I never heard him say a mean word about anybody. In fact, I think he might have won that year for friendliest guy.”
Really! Her fingers itched to turn to that section to find out. “Did you keep in touch with him? Are you two still friends?”
Drawn To You: A Psychological thriller Page 4
