“His car?” Ruth looked furious now, but he wasn’t sure who she was furious with. “He’s still banging on about that fucking car?”
“Not exactly. But—”
“He had no right to do that.” She jerked back, began to pace. Evan stared. He had never seen Ruth pace. He had seen her wander around a room as she spoke, and he had seen her sit in odd places or in strange positions, and he had seen her wring her hands and tap rhythms out against table-tops. He had never seen her stride from one end of a space to the other with a look on her face that screamed murder, and he didn’t like it.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about what?” she demanded.
He couldn’t decipher the look on her face. He should be cautious, he knew—but she was upset. Ruth was upset, and he couldn’t stand it, and he thought he could fix it. So he said, “I don’t care if you have a criminal record because you smashed up that dick’s car.”
Ruth stared at him for a moment, her face impassive. Then she said, “I think you should go.” Her tone was mild, unreadable. Which meant that she was hiding a hurricane of emotions he’d never have access to.
“Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me why you’re upset.”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you go and find whoever’s been feeding you this shit and ask them, since they know everything?”
“Ruth. No-one’s—”
“You’ve been sitting around talking about my family,” she said quietly, “and you want me to act like you’ve done something good.”
“No.” He shook his head. If the movement was a little frantic, well—it matched his mind’s desperate cries of Fix it! “That’s not what happened, and that’s not what I want.”
“So what do you want? Because I’m really starting to wonder. Do you want to do this? Do you want to be with me? Or do you just want to solve a mystery and save a girl?”
“What the fuck?” He had no idea how things had gone so exquisitely wrong. “Ruth. You know it’s not like that.”
“It’s not?” Her jaw was hard, as if she were clenching her teeth. Her dark eyes shimmered like ink. “If it’s not like that, why would you fight over me with Daniel?” She thrust a hand into her hair, began pacing again. “Jesus, that’s probably why Mr. Burne came over.”
“We didn’t fight,” Evan insisted.
She paused to give him a disbelieving look. “I know Daniel. I know you.”
“And I want to know you!” Evan burst out. Because it had become almost painful, the way everyone knew something except him. The way Daniel or random women in shops or even Zach could drop shit on him about someone he—
Well. About the woman his life revolved around.
But he didn’t know how to explain that to Ruth without sounding sickeningly selfish. He realised suddenly that his intentions tonight—his idea that he’d reveal all the knowledge he’d collected and excuse her of all sins like some kind of fucking God—had been selfish.
She looked up at him, a heartbreaking little frown on her face, and said, “You do know me.”
Evan swallowed. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was too late. He could see that in her weary, hopeless eyes, in the way she rubbed at her temple.
Then she said, “Just go. Okay? Please?”
Jesus. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave things like this, and he didn’t want to leave her at all.
But he couldn’t refuse. So he went.
24
Patience Kabbah was neither observant nor assertive. Those who knew the Kabbahs often wondered how, exactly, she had produced one daughter who was particularly sharp, and another who was especially demanding.
If anyone had thought to ask Patience, she would have told them that it happened quite by accident. But people rarely asked Patience about things.
Her name suited her well, but ‘Contentment’ would have suited better. She was, by nature, an eternally satisfied woman—and despite the difficulties life had thrown at her, this commitment to satisfaction always carried her through. Of course, she didn’t think of it as a commitment to satisfaction. She saw it as God’s plan and followed faithfully.
When the love of her life, an older, powerful lawyer, turned out to be married, Patience had not worried. She had simply loved him anyway, and been rewarded with two children, a large house, and a life-long income.
That the house was in England as opposed to Sierra Leone, and that the love of her life eventually moved on to greener pastures, did not trouble Patience overmuch. She supposed that England would do, since she spoke the language well and it was not too foreign. She supposed also that she would eventually find the next love of her life, and at least she could take her time looking.
And so, decades after arriving in Ravenswood, Patience was, always had been, and doubtless always would be, blissfully content. Her greatest sorrow was that, somehow, her daughters had ended up quite the opposite. Neither of them were happy to simply float through life, and as far as she could tell, it caused them nothing but trouble.
Take this Sunday, for example. The family had cooked together, as they did every week, but their usual laughter was absent. It was not at all hard to discern why. Within minutes of her daughters’ arrival, Patience deduced that Hannah was worried about Ruth, and furiously resentful of the fact. She also deduced that Ruth was oblivious to Hannah’s resentment, but was certainly upset over… Something. With Ruth, one never really knew.
Patience spent the rest of the painfully silent afternoon wondering if she should assist her awfully prideful children in resolving their issues—all of which stemmed from caring and doing far too much in a world made for the careless and passive. She decided, after many internal sighs, that she’d better. Her daughters had a knack for running into trouble if left unattended.
“Girls,” she said, as they moved to clear the table.
Hannah answered quickly and politely. “Yes, Mummy?”
Ruth, who had always been a strange and disrespectful child, said, “Yeah?”
“Do not come out of the kitchen,” Patience said, “until you have solved your problems.”
Ruth frowned. The child would certainly wrinkle before her time. “What problems?”
With a weary sigh, Patience said, “Ask your sister.” Then she turned and began her search for the TV commander. She was quite exhausted by that tense interaction, and she wanted to watch Deal or No Deal.
“What was that about?” Ruth crouched by the cupboard under the sink, hunting out a fresh bottle of washing up liquid.
Then she heard the kitchen door shut with a decisive click.
Ruth pulled her head from the cupboard and stared. Her sister was standing in front of the door with her arms folded, a familiar, stern set to her mouth.
“You know,” Ruth began cautiously, “Just because Mum said—”
“She’s right. She’s always right. I want to talk to you.”
The word talk had become Ruth’s personal nightmare over the last few days. She’d examined it from every angle, explored its every connotation, remembered every time Evan had asked her to do it, and decided that talking was for the devil.
But she always tried not to upset her sister. So Ruth stood, dusted off her hands on the back of her leggings, and said, “Okay.”
Hannah sighed. Ruth knew from experience that this indicated an extensive lecture on the horizon. Accordingly, she leant back against the counter.
And then she remembered Evan lifting her up to sit on the edge of a sink, asking her—asking her—for a kiss.
“I heard that Daniel and Evan had a disagreement,” Hannah said.
Ruth sighed. “Seriously? That’s what you want to talk about?”
“I thought that was why you’re so upset. Apparently, Evan’s in a bad way.”
Ruth stared. “Evan’s fine.”
“Really? No black eye?”
“Um… no.”
“No dislocated
shoulder?”
“Definitely not.”
“Hm,” Hannah sniffed. “I suppose that rumour came from Daniel, then. But you admit they fought?”
“I really could not care less,” Ruth lied.
And Hannah said, “I’m tired of you pushing me away.”
For a minute, Ruth’s mind stuttered; was this Hannah, or was it Evan? Or was it Maria, two years ago, or Hayley, before her?
Ruth swallowed. “I don’t mean to.”
“I know,” Hannah said. “That makes it worse.”
Ruth wanted to turn away. She wanted to avoid her sister’s gaze and pour her focus into something else, some mundane task. She wanted to split up her attention so that processing these words wouldn’t seem quite so intense. She wanted this conversation to feel like less of a slap in the face. But she was done with being a coward, so she stayed exactly where she was.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “I’m really fucking sorry.”
Well… that was a surprise. Ruth frowned, trying to figure out if she’d missed something.
Finally, she just had to ask. “Sorry for what?”
Hannah gave her a look. “You know what. And I know that this is—God, years too late—but if it weren’t for me acting like a damn fool you wouldn’t be in the position you are now.”
The pieces slid together. Ruth stared at her sister with growing horror as she realised what Hannah was trying to say.
“No,” Ruth insisted. “No. That’s not true. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault, and his fault, and—”
“Your fault?” Hannah echoed, her face incredulous. “Jesus. Sometimes it occurred to me that you might genuinely think that, but I didn’t believe it.” She rubbed at her own temple for a moment, her expression melting into weariness. “I should have, though, shouldn’t I? That’s why you’re like this. That’s why you’re punishing yourself.”
Ruth looked down at the kitchen tiles; familiar, cream squares. Following the lines of pale grout between them helped her clear the thoughts crowding her head, helped her pinpoint the most important part. “I’m not punishing myself. I’m not pushing you away.”
“Bullshit,” Hannah said, her tone incongruously gentle. “I know you adore that man.”
Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. “Evan?”
“Yes, Evan. And now you can’t deny it, because if it wasn’t true, his name wouldn’t have even occurred to you.” Hannah gave a little tilt of the head that brought to mind their childhood, the pointless, circular arguments they’d have that she would always win.
Ruth bit down on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t see what Evan has to do with us.”
“I suppose he’s just a symptom of the issue.” Hannah spoke quietly, her voice clipped. “You’re so committed to keeping people at arm’s length, you can’t tell your own sister that you’re falling in love. We don’t do secrets anymore, Ruth. Remember?”
“Don’t,” Ruth snapped, her temper flaring. “This is nothing like the last time.”
“No, it’s not. It’s worse. Because he’s a decent person, and he’s honest, and he’s nothing to be ashamed of, and he makes you smile. And I had to find that out on my own, because you didn’t tell me. You knew I would be worried, you knew I would hear things—”
“Right,” Ruth snapped. “Because what you hear is so important. Why should I bother saying anything if gossip is all you need?”
“Why do you force people to look for it?” Hannah asked, exasperation in her every word. “I’m your sister. I would love to stop relying on strangers to tell me what you’re up to, but I have to. And if you don’t blame me—”
“I don’t,” Ruth insisted, because she never had and never would.
“If you don’t blame me, then why are we so far apart?” Hannah’s words were whisper-soft. She gave a rueful twist of the lips that was almost a smile, holding up her hands as if to say, Answer that.
“Because I don’t deserve you.” It felt like a shout, but it came to Ruth’s own ears as a whisper. Across the room, Hannah froze. And Ruth forced herself to say the words again, properly this time. “I love you, and I don’t deserve you. Sometimes I can’t bear to look at you because I feel so guilty it chokes me.”
Hannah’s face crumpled. “That’s the last thing I ever wanted. You should never feel guilty, Ruth. Not ever.”
“I started this whole mess.”
“Daniel started this whole mess.” Hannah came forward, held out a hand. She was hesitant, Ruth could tell, but she was fearless too.
No; not fearless. Rather, she chose to spit in fear’s face.
Ruth caught her sister’s hand and released a locked-up truth. “I admire you more than anyone in the world.”
Hannah choked out a laugh that was perilously close to a sob. “I wish nursery managers around here were so open-minded.”
“Fuck that and fuck them.” Ruth pulled her sister into a hug. It felt immediately alien, and then, after a breath, wonderful. Like purest childhood reclaimed. She breathed in deep and felt her sister do the same. When they were young, very young, they’d talked about being twins. Imagined, and sometimes pretended, that they were. It had never been hard to convince people.
But, while they looked the same, they’d always been very different. Opposites, even.
Which was fine, Ruth realised. Good, in fact. Because identical puzzle pieces wouldn’t fit together like this.
25
The text came from Zach.
Everything okay with you?
Evan stared at the text blankly for a solid few minutes before they sunk into his tired brain.
It wasn’t especially late, but it was late enough for him to be lying in bed, wishing for sleep. He should be happy. He was happy, in a way. Shirley’s tests had returned, and her prognosis wasn’t quite as bad as doctors had initially feared.
To celebrate, Evan had attempted to make a fancy dessert from scratch; mille-feuille. Shirley had doubled over laughing at how awfully wrong it had gone, and then they’d all eaten the store-bought apple pie he’d brought along.
And he’d been happy. But, underneath the happiness, he’d still been regretful and hurt and confused and frustrated, and unsurprisingly, Zach had picked up on that. Evan was beginning to realise that Zach watched people more closely than he let on.
After a moment’s thought, Evan managed a reply that wasn’t quite false, but also wouldn’t worry a man with more than enough problems of his own.
Evan: Can’t complain
The phone beeped in reply, its display flashing bright in the dark.
Zach: Any trouble with Daniel?
None. Maybe the prospect of an actual fight had scared some sense into Daniel; he did seem fond of his pretty face. Or maybe Mr. Burne had said something to his son. Mr. Burne, who’d come out of Ruth’s flat as if it were nothing.
And truthfully, Evan still didn’t know why exactly. Every time he tried to figure it out, he felt both guilty and childishly furious. So he’d given up.
A familiar noise sounded through the thin, stud wall behind his headboard, and he froze in the middle of typing out a negative.
Ruth. Ruth was in her room.
He’d never really minded hearing Ruth bumble about all night; not until Friday. God, Friday. He’d had heaven within his reach, and then it had all gone sour. And now he minded.
He minded recognising the clumsy tread of her footsteps, and he minded that damned creak every time she got into bed. He minded the memory of her mouth on his cock because he couldn’t enjoy it when she wasn’t even talking to him, and he minded the fact that he was thinking about it now. That he’d thought about it every hour on the hour since the last time he’d seen her, and thought about her pain twice as often.
Swallowing down his feelings before they could choke him, Evan turned his attention back to the phone.
Evan: No more trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow.
He propped himself up on one elbow, opened his bedside drawer, and
threw the phone in there. Then he settled down to get some sleep.
You should’ve kept your mouth shut.
That would be lying.
And you told her for honesty’s sake? What a joke. You told her to speed up a process that should’ve been at her pace.
Evan thrust a pillow over his head as if that would silence the warring opinions in his skull. None of it mattered. He would apologise to her—he had to—but it seemed better to give her space first. So that’s what he’d do.
Eventually, he almost managed to drift off to sleep. So of course, a booming thud sounded through the wall and woke him right up.
His tired brain leapt into wakefulness immediately, because old habits died hard. Evan was out of bed with his ear pressed to the wall in seconds. After that enormous crash, louder than any he’d heard from Ruth’s flat, there came nothing but silence.
He held his breath for a moment before giving in to the twist of worry in his gut. “Ruth?” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing in the world would ever sound as good as Ruth shouting back. “Of course I can hear you.”
Despite his concern, and his confusion, and the fact that words from Ruth were as painful as they were perfect right now, he chuckled. “So you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” she called back. And then, after a beat, she added, “Thank you.”
Evan raised his brows at the wall.
“How are you?” she continued.
And now he was worried again. “Did you hit your head?”
“You know,” she called, “that’s not the first time you’ve asked me that.”
“But did you?”
“No. I’m simply making conversation.”
“Through a wall in the middle of the night?”
“You started it,” she pointed out. And then she said, not exactly quietly, since they were shouting, but hesitantly… “If you come over, we could make conversation without the wall.”
It was probably pathetic, how his heart leapt at that. It was definitely pathetic how quickly he threw a pair of tracksuit bottoms over his nudity and called, “On my way.”
Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set Page 15
