A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1)

by Talia Hibbert

  Ruth shrugged. “Why?”

  “Self-respect, that’s why!”

  “I respect myself just fine.” Ruth started walking again, slower than before, since standing still was difficult when her mind was busy. It felt like clinging to a hot air balloon’s tether, trying to hold it down with nothing but her bodyweight. It was far more sensible to let the balloon fly.

  Hannah followed, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. “You think I don’t know that you’re punishing yourself?”

  Guilt plunged into Ruth’s chest, a sharp, barbed arrow. “Someone has to.”

  “Someone has. So you can stop.”

  “I don’t want to worry you, Han. That’s not what I want.”

  “I almost wish I hadn’t noticed,” Hannah said, her voice suddenly soft. “I almost wish I’d stayed distant.”

  That was what they called it. Distant. Words like depressed were for girls with English mothers.

  “Don’t say that.” Ruth realised that she was rubbing her own hands—wringing them, people said—and made herself stop, even though the action was calming. “I don’t understand why we can’t just leave,” she burst out.

  “Because this is our town,” Hannah snapped back. “Your town. Just as much as it is theirs. It’s our home, and we’re not leaving it behind!”

  “I don’t see why not,” Ruth muttered grimly. “It wouldn’t be the first worthless thing I’ve thrown away.”

  Mum was always telling her to be more observant, but Ruth’s senses and mind didn’t connect like that. When she wandered out of the stairwell towards her flat, she was too deep in thought to look around, or listen, or anything like that.

  So she didn’t notice the courier on her doorstep until she’d almost walked right into him.

  Ruth realised, with a sinking heart, that it was far too late to turn and run. After jerking out of her way, the poor man offered her a customer service smile.

  “Ruth Ka… I’m sorry.” He winced apologetically. “I’m not sure how to pronounce this.”

  “Kabbah,” she said, pulling out her keys. “I was hoping I’d miss you.”

  The man blinked uncertainly.

  “I even subjected myself to human company. What a waste. Best laid plans, and all that.” She opened the front door and turned to look at him. “What is it? Do you know?”

  “Um…” He looked down at the slim package in his hand. “I don’t, I’m afraid. But if you’d just sign for it—”

  “Must I?” Ruth asked. She’d never asked that before. It had never occurred to her that she might refuse. But the morning’s events, and Hannah’s reaction, had her trapped in the eye of a rage-guilt-fear hurricane, and she was suddenly and completely sick of this shit.

  “You don’t want the package?” The man asked uneasily. “I suppose you could, um, return to sender.”

  Ruth stared. “Are you serious?”

  The man shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was uncomfortable. She could see the signs. “Yes.”

  “I thought that was just a song. I thought it was some old-fashioned, American thing…”

  “You can’t do it with the Royal Mail,” he said, “but we at Diamond Services—”

  “You don’t need to give me the spiel,” she interrupted. “I don’t send things to people.”

  The man’s face fell.

  “Can I tip you?” She asked, because she was suddenly incredibly fond of this middle-aged, lanky stranger. “I have, um…” She fumbled through her pockets and found nothing but Parma Violets. “Hang on.” Without waiting for his response, Ruth stepped inside and shut the door.

  Then she thought that shutting the door might send the wrong message, and opened it again. Then she thought that might send the wrong message, and wondered if she ought to invite him in.

  That would probably be weird.

  Forgetting about the door, she hurried off to the shoe box in a drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out one of her prized fifty pound notes—she collected fifty pound notes—and rushed back to the door, fighting the odd worry that the man might have left. Of course he wouldn’t have left. Why would he leave?

  He hadn’t left.

  She gave him the note and said, “Return to sender. Thank you.”

  “I’m not really supposed to accept tips…”

  “Oh,” she said, and held out her hand to take it back.

  He stared at her for a moment. She realised he was doing the thing people did, where they protested, but didn’t truly mean it. She put her hand in her pocket and smiled. “Goodbye!”

  “Ah… Bye?”

  Ruth shut the door.

  Good Lord, what an exhausting morning this had been. She tore off her hoodie and the T-shirt beneath, right there in the hall. The fabric had been slowly suffocating her for hours. She weaved through her stacks of comic books as she wandered back to her bedroom, peeling off more clothes as she went.

  While she changed, she heard her neighbour, Aly, moving around through the thin connecting wall. At least, she assumed it was Aly—but those heavy footsteps weren’t the ones her neighbour usually made.

  Perhaps Aly had a man. That didn’t bode well for Ruth. She’d almost certainly hear them going at it through the wall.

  Chapter Four

  Evan hadn’t planned to waste Saturday morning in bed, but somehow, that’s what had happened. After moving in last weekend and working like a dog all week, his typically efficient body had evidently had enough.

  The series of mysterious bangs and indecipherable voices coming from the flat’s corridor served a double purpose. First, they woke Evan up before midday—thank God. He had shit to do. And second, they reminded him that he still hadn’t met the—suddenly quite noisy—guy next door.

  After a week of hearing loud, stamping footsteps at all hours of the night, and never meeting their owner in the corridor or stairwell, Evan had developed a mental image of his next-door neighbour. He imagined a curmudgeonly, older fellow who rarely left the house, referred to mobile phones and laptops as ‘new-fangled contraptions’, and owned a nose hair trimmer.

  So, to break the ice, Evan would make his neighbour a shepherd’s pie rather than brownies or casserole. That was one of the things his mother had drilled into him: Give people what you think they’ll want—not what you want to give them.

  He bore that in mind as he cooked, following his mother’s recipe. And within a few minutes, an idea occurred to him.

  He pulled out his phone and called Zach.

  “H’llo?” The other man’s voice was thick with sleep, subdued. If Evan was blissfully ignorant of the circumstances, he might assume that a Friday night out was responsible for Zach’s heavy rasp.

  But Evan was not blissfully ignorant. He knew what Zach was going through, far too well. He remembered his own sleepless nights, spent with the person he loved most in the world—not to enjoy her company but to watch her struggle, to try and ease her pain. To see her fade away. Because if she had to go through it, the least he could do was bear witness.

  Yeah. Evan knew exactly what was wrong with Zach. Still, he kept his voice light as he said, “Alright, mate?”

  “Yep.” Zach didn’t try to make the lie convincing. “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “What you up to?”

  Evan turned to the spice rack, searching for dried rosemary. “I’m making something for my neighbour. Was wondering if you guys wanted any meals while I’m at it. That way you can keep them in the fridge or freeze them, heat stuff up when you need to. Saves time.”

  “Alright, Nigella.” Zach snorted. But then the amusement drained out of him in a sigh, and he said, “I think you’re doing enough for me already.”

  Evan wondered how he’d have felt, all those years ago, if an almost-stranger had swooped in and tried to help he and his mother. He wasn’t sure. But he’d been 17, rather than a grown man. Who had more pride: teenagers, or adults?

  “You’ll need a better reason than t
hat,” Evan said, “if you want to stop me dropping off a meal.” Or three.

  There was a single moment of tension-filled silence before Zach spoke again, the ghost of a smile haunting his voice. “You’re… you’re just a nice fucking guy. Aren’t you?”

  “Nah,” Evan said. “You guys like lasagne?”

  “Everybody likes lasagne.”

  Evan laughed. “I must’ve missed that global survey.”

  “Yeah, you must’ve.”

  “Alright; I’ll be round in a couple of hours.” Evan stirred the mince browning on his stove, his mind whirring through batch calculations.

  Zach’s voice quietened, its harsh edges softening. “Thanks, man. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’ll see you later.”

  So that was settled. Evan slipped his phone into his pocket with satisfaction, slightly adjusting his plans for the day, He’d make three shepherd’s pies and two lasagnes. He’d save a pie, take the rest to Zach’s, and sit with Mrs. Davis for a while. Then he’d come home and finally meet his neighbour.

  There.

  Evan was a simple man: as long as he had objectives to meet, he was happy.

  Zach’s mother was named Shirley. Evan liked her a lot.

  She wore a floral, silk scarf over her head and painted her lips bright pink. She said Darling often and had the kind of rakish attitude that explained Zach’s own boyish charm.

  Although his was a little faded, a little grey, compared to his mother’s. Evan wondered how he’d been before she’d fallen ill.

  Shirley had spent Evan’s three hour visit lounging in bed with the air of a woman who saw no reason to get up—though Evan suspected that she simply couldn’t. She had accepted the food with the grace of a queen, and confided that Zach was a terrible cook. She had made Evan laugh, and she had even made Zach laugh, though he’d been quiet and subdued throughout the visit.

  She was nothing like Evan’s mother, and yet, he still felt like he’d been punched in the face.

  So when he returned home to see one last shepherd’s pie sitting on his counter, he wanted to bang his head against the wall.

  Evan didn’t want to meet his neighbour right now. He didn’t want to go over with a smile and a shepherd’s pie, and he didn’t want to introduce himself. He wanted to drink excessive amounts of tea and make a high-calorie dinner and fight back depressing, teenage memories.

  But he didn’t, because that would be childish.

  Instead, he wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was exhausted; physically fine, but mentally…

  He couldn’t meet his neighbour right now. He simply couldn’t. When his mind became heavy and grim like this, he wasn’t fit company for anyone. He’d go for a run instead, batter his muscles until they matched the state of his worn-out brain, and then he’d go to bed.

  His joints creaked as he stood.

  The neighbour could wait ‘til tomorrow.

  Chapter Five

  Was there anything better than a Sunday evening?

  Ruth was wearing her favourite set of PJs—the ones where tiny, cartoon Captain Americas chased tiny, cartoon Buckys all over the fabric. She was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, leaning against the side of the loveseat, belly full of her mother’s home cooking. Her tablet was in her lap, stylus flying.

  The sweet spot had returned.

  Lita and her superior officer were indeed hate-fucking on the Derbyshire peat desk, and even though Ruth preferred a fade-to-black style—it made securing ad revenue for her website much easier—she allowed herself to sketch out all the gory sexual details, just for the hell of it.

  It wasn’t that she liked alien sex. She just liked drawing weird shit.

  Everything was flowing beautifully until, for what felt like the thousandth fucking time—but was probably only the second—she heard her next-door neighbour’s front door open.

  Yes; the walls were so thin, she could hear Aly Harper’s door open and shut. Amongst other things.

  But Ruth could’ve shaken off that distraction—if it weren’t followed by a knock at her own door.

  “For God’s sake,” she muttered, setting her tablet aside. “I should ignore her. It would serve her right.”

  The empty flat maintained a judgemental silence.

  Ruth had a policy, when it came to knocked doors: she didn’t answer them. She didn’t enjoy speaking to people willy-nilly; anyone who wanted to see her could arrange it well in advance, preferably via text or email.

  Plus, the girl who lived next door was, frankly, a bitch.

  But since Aly disliked Ruth as much as Ruth disliked Aly, she supposed this must be some sort of emergency. And if someone was dying—even if that someone was a bitch—Ruth rather thought it her Christian duty to pretend to care.

  With a resigned sigh, Ruth slid off her glasses and got up.

  She answered the door in her oversized pyjamas and fluffy sleep socks, a blank expression on her face because it was better than a scowl. Hannah would tell her to smile, but Ruth only ever smiled by accident.

  When she saw who was standing on her doorstep, she wished she’d worn the scowl after all.

  Aly Harper’s annoying, familiar face was nowhere to be found. Instead, a beautiful man stood on Ruth’s doorstep.

  Her mind said, Holy shit.

  And that jogged her memory, helped her recognise the face. If she hadn’t been so shocked, she’d be proud of herself; recognising new faces was hard.

  But then, this one was difficult to forget.

  The stranger from the car park seemed even more handsome than before. Maybe it was due to the dying sunlight that spilled into the corridor, burnishing the golden strands in his dark-blonde hair. Perhaps it was the way his shirt stretched over his broad chest, or the fact that his sleeves were rolled up to display thick, tattooed forearms.

  Or maybe it was the huge, foil-covered dish in his hands that tipped him over the edge of perfection. The smell emanating from that dish made Ruth’s mouth water almost as much as the stranger’s firm biceps.

  “It’s you,” he said. His voice was quiet, as if he’d spoken more to himself than to be heard. A frown furrowed his brow, but he smoothed it away almost instantly, straightening his spine. Since his posture was already excellent, this had the disturbing effect of making him look like a toy soldier.

  A very attractive toy soldier whom Ruth, if given half the chance, would climb like a tree.

  Oh, dear.

  He offered her a genuine smile, the sort usually found on the faces of ordinary and unassuming men of strong moral fibre. She had never seen such a smile on a man gorgeous enough to take over the world. The combination was unnerving.

  Sex appeal or sweetness. You can’t have both.

  Apparently, this guy could.

  “Where’s Aly?” She demanded. Because she had heard 1B’s door open. Perhaps this was Aly’s boyfriend.

  I hope he’s not Aly’s boyfriend.

  The man’s brows rose. “Who?”

  “The girl next door.”

  “Oh, well, actually… I live next door. I just moved in. It’s nice to meet you again, by the way.” He hefted the Pyrex dish in his arms, as if she could’ve missed it. “I made you a shepherd’s pie.”

  Ruth stared. Mostly at the pie, but also at the way his long, blunt fingers gripped the edges of the dish. She wondered when Aly had left, then decided she didn’t really care.

  Her mouth slightly dry, she said, “Shepherd’s pie?”

  “Yeah. Just to say hi.” He flashed another of those achingly earnest smiles.

  “We already met,” she said flatly, clutching the edge of the door. It was sturdy and solid, its edges hard enough against her palm to keep her wits sharp.

  She hoped.

  At the mention of their previous meeting, a shadow passed over his face. “I am sorry about that,” he said, and for a second, she wondered if he meant it. If
he really felt bad.

  The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. This man had been with Daniel. He was probably just like Daniel. So he might say things, live things, breathe things, but that didn’t mean he meant it.

  He said, “I know we bumped into each other—”

  “Precisely.”

  “—but I didn’t even tell you my name.”

  Ruth tried not to worry about the fact that, despite her stony expression and clipped words, he didn’t seem to be going away. He wasn’t even displaying the tell-tale signs of a man who wanted to go away. No awkward shifting, no flitting gaze, no humming: Well... as a precursor to the inevitable I’ll be going now.

  He just stood there, filling the doorway with his bloody shoulders, smiling that damned smile and waiting for her response.

  She remained silent. Eventually, he realised that she wasn’t going to speak. He did not seem perturbed by that fact.

  “Maybe we could start again,” the stranger said. “I’m Evan Miller. Ravenswood newbie and occupant of 1B, at your service.”

  Ruth’s teeth were clenched, but somehow, words leapt from her mouth anyway. “I’m Ruth Kabbah. Town Jezebel. So you should probably avoid me.” Please, please avoid me.

  “Right… what’s a Jezebel?”

  Sigh. “You know; a harlot. A terrible, ungodly slut and misleader of men, etcetera, etcetera.”

  With a sort of cheerful calm, he said, “Oh. Well, I appreciate the warning.” There was a twinkle in his eyes that should’ve set Ruth on her guard. It was one of those conspiratorial, we’re connected, let’s-keep-this-conversation-going twinkles. The kind typically used by confident men.

  Was there anything worse than a confident man?

  “Anyway,” he said, holding out the dish. “I hope you like shepherd’s pie.”

  Ruth, like most sensible people, adored shepherd’s pie. She said, “I already ate.”

  And still, his smile did not falter. His confidence did not fade away. He did not shrink.

  Ruth’s mild alarm escalated to full-scale panic. Because not only was he unaffected by her usual tactics, but something deep inside her appeared to be finding that fact… attractive.