Ruth nodded.
“But when she died I signed up to the army. So I suppose I’m more like my dad. I mean, he was an officer, but I like making things, so I became a metalsmith. That’s what it’s called.” Most people had no idea what he meant, when he told them what he’d done. Ruth just nodded. She was doing a lot of nodding right now. He didn’t mind. “I served for eleven years, and I felt like it made me… better. I felt like I got over it.”
Ruth gave a sad smile. “There are some things you don’t get over. You just accept them, and keep breathing. That’s enough.”
He huffed out a humourless laugh. She didn’t know how right she was. Eleven years in the army, while everyone else forged friendships that would last a lifetime, and all he had was friendly acquaintances and fuck buddies.
He hadn’t been capable of much else, not for years, no matter how hard he tried. He hadn’t been over the loss of his family. He’d just been trying to accept it.
“I wish I’d had someone to tell me that,” he admitted. “My mum would’ve told me that. But…” He shrugged. Because he was better now, and had been for a while. “I met a guy here in Ravenswood. At work. I like him. Turns out, his mother’s sick too.”
“Zachary Davis,” Ruth said.
Evan stared. “How’d you know?”
“Hannah told me. Hannah knows everything about everyone.”
Hannah, her mysterious older sister. The way Ruth talked, Hannah just might be God Herself. Evan shook his head, a smile creeping past his sadness. “Right. Well, I’ve been visiting Zach’s mother. She’s a great woman. But they…”
Now that Ruth knew who he was talking about, giving her details felt like a betrayal of trust. He wanted to. Desperately. But sharing the Davis’s business was not something a friend would do, so he tempered his words.
“They got some bad news about Mrs. Davis’s condition,” he finished. “Nothing is certain; it could be a mistake. They’re running tests. And I don’t know why it upset me so much—I mean, it’s bad, but I feel like…” Like his heart had been torn out of his chest. Like an invisible hand had plunged into his body, grabbed his guts, and twisted.
Ruth said, “Like your mother’s dying again?”
His mouth fell open. His throat was dry, his eyes stinging, his pulse thick and sluggish. “I… Yes. Shit. Yes.”
She ran her tongue over her teeth. She was thinking. And since when did he know her every subtle expression? Since when had he learned to read an unreadable woman?
He’d been expecting her to spring into action suddenly, but he still jumped a little as she rose. With one of those almost-smiles he’d grown to love, she plucked the tray from his lap. Then she said, “Want to go for a walk?”
Evan stared. “With you?”
Her smile flickered, disappeared. “I… Um… Not necessarily—”
“I just meant—you want to go outside?”
She raised her brows. “You have seen me outside before. It happens. You know that, right?”
Evan squinted, pretended to think about it.
“Oh, behave yourself,” she huffed. “Do you want to, or not?”
“I do,” he said. “I really fucking do.”
Evan didn’t know what he’d expected when Ruth disappeared to change clothes, but it wasn’t this.
They wandered into town, their arms swinging close enough for him to fantasise about holding her hand. He wouldn’t, though. She might push him into the road. Instead, he took furtive glances down at her. At this strange, pyjama-less Ruth.
It had genuinely never occurred to him that Ruth might have real clothes. He’d seen her in the car park, after all, the first day they’d met, and she’d been wearing pyjamas even then.
But, as she’d crisply informed him ten minutes ago, that had been a ‘period emergency’. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded grim.
Apparently, when she deigned to leave the house, Ruth actually wore leggings and oversized T-shirts. The T-shirt was barely distinguishable from her pyjamas, but the leggings…
Dear God, the leggings.
“I know you’re always running and shit,” she said. The word running sounded like an epithet, coming from her lips.
Evan tore his gaze off of her legging-clad calves just in time. She was looking up at him, waiting for an answer while his mind scrambled.
“You should come with me,” he finally managed.
She barked out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s good for your heart.”
“Fanfic is good for my heart. Running is a disaster waiting to happen, and you know it.”
Evan snorted. “We should take more walks, then. It’s bad for you, staying inside all the time.”
“You’re such a dad.”
He grinned. “That’s me.”
Ruth smiled back. Not her usual purse of the lips, a smile that was more in the eyes than anything else—no. Her cheeks plumped and her mouth widened and her adorable teeth came into view, and Evan thought he might do something ill-advised. Like kiss her in the middle of town.
Instead, he forced himself to look away. “Speaking of substitute parenting,” he said, “have you eaten?”
She snorted. “You know I haven’t.”
“Do you want to?” Evan’s gaze slid back to her legs of its own accord. He focused on her ankles this time, on the snatch of brown skin between her socks and the hem of her leggings. “We could go to the Unicorn,” he said, naming the local pub—he hoped. It was hard to think clearly when he could see the shift of her muscles beneath tight, grey fabric. Her thighs shook as she walked. If that T-shirt weren’t so fucking huge he’d be able to see her arse.
“I don’t know,” Ruth said. Her voice was tight. He dragged his eyes up to her face and found her looking tense, distant. She was gazing across the town square at the pub in question, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Probably because he’d been distracted by her legs.
Evan didn’t think he’d ever stared at a woman so much in his life. What the hell was he doing? Knowing Ruth, she wouldn’t notice for a while—but then she would. And even though they were okay now—supposedly—he had no idea where they stood on the whole… I’d like to keep you in my bed for a week and feed you grapes but I don’t even know if you’re single issue.
He probably should’ve asked her earlier, when she’d been ready to apologise. Ah, well.
Forcing himself to stare straight ahead, at the shops lining the street, at the cars circling the square—at anything other than Ruth—Evan spoke. “You don’t go to the pub much, I take it?”
It was a ridiculous question, because he knew very well that she didn’t. He had the vague idea that it was down to her reputation, as archaic as that sounded. Ruth acted like she was some kind of social pariah.
Then again, so did everybody else.
Evan turned his gaze back to Ruth—her face, this time. She hadn’t answered. That didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong; she often fell silent for no reason that he could discern. Thinking, she’d say.
But she didn’t always stare into the middle distance with despondent eyes as she did so.
“Are you okay?” He asked. The urge to touch her swelled within him like a river breaking its banks. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Yep,” she said shortly.
“Because that sounded believable.”
“Oh, piss off,” she muttered, but her lips tilted into a little smile. Then, after a few more silent steps, she said, “I don’t think the pub is a good idea. I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”
He frowned. “You are cheering me up. You made me soup.”
She didn’t laugh.
Evan stopped. And then, finally, he touched her. Wrapped a hand around her arm, above her elbow, because then a layer of cotton would be between them, and she might not react so strongly.
She choked back a gasp, then bit her lip.
He let go. “Does it scare you? When I
touch you?”
She met his gaze. “You know it doesn’t.”
That sparked a flame in his chest, one that felt part hopeful, part hungry. “I don’t mean to do it,” he said. “I suppose I’m just touchy.” He was not touchy. He helped old people carry their shopping; he picked up stray children and gave them back to their parents. That was the extent of his casual touching.
Unless he was around Ruth.
Ploughing on, he said, “If something’s bothering you—"
“Shut up,” she said. Not in her usual, subtly teasing way, the way that dared him to ignore her. No; her voice was flat, her body rigid, her eyes pinned to something in front of them.
Evan followed her gaze to a group of women about Ruth’s age, walking down the street towards them, dressed to the nines. He had no idea where they could be going on a Monday night, dressed like that, but they seemed happy enough. The women chatted and laughed together, looking carefree and perhaps slightly tipsy.
Then one broke off from the others, her smile fading, her stride becoming purposeful. And her eyes were on Ruth.
Evan’s internal alarm rang shrilly. Which was ridiculous. The sight of a skinny woman in a pair of high-heels shouldn’t rattle him, even if her biceps were impressively defined.
But then, Ruth didn’t have defined biceps, and she was staring at the woman as if ready for battle. The woman’s face betrayed a similar expression, determination edged with the promise of violence.
And, since he couldn’t let Ruth lose a fight, he might have to do something she’d hate, like pick her up and carry her home.
For now, he grabbed her arm and tugged gently. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll make you something at mine.”
“No,” she gritted out, her voice mutinous. “You wanted to go to the pub. We’re going to the pub.” With that, she began walking again, heading inexorably towards the group of women.
What else could he do but follow?
Evan wasn’t at all surprised when the women fell silent, one by one, as they noticed Ruth. As if by mutual agreement, when they came within a metre of each other, everybody stopped. About ten women on one side, he and Ruth on the other. The standoff held all the tension of a Wild West shootout.
But, he hoped, with fewer guns.
The woman leading the pack flicked grey eyes up and down Ruth’s body as if a gnat had crossed her path. She tossed her long, chestnut hair and drawled, “Ruth, honey. They let you out the whorehouse?”
Evan ground his teeth.
Ruth smiled a wicked little smile and said, “I’m doing a town tour, since you left your men unattended.”
This elicited a chorus of scoffs and disgusted sighs from the women. All except one, whose blonde hair fell well past her waist in an improbable riot of curls. “Ruth,” she said softly, her voice chastising.
Ruth turned to the girl and folded her arms. “Yes, Maria?”
After a pause, Maria looked away.
“Alright,” Evan said loudly. His patience for this—for the sharp, judgemental looks spearing a woman he respected—had worn thin surprisingly quickly. He hadn’t meant to force himself into… whatever was going on here. But his temper was rising, and he could see that Ruth’s was too.
Now was not the time to find out if she did reckless shit when she was angry.
Slinging an arm around Ruth’s shoulders he said, “We’ll just be on our way. If you ladies wouldn’t mind.”
For the first time, the women’s attention turned to him.
The leader, the brunette, arched a brow. And then she smiled. It was a pretty smile; she was a pretty woman. “You’re Evan Miller, aren’t you?” She said.
Evan set his jaw. “Yep.” He wouldn’t ask how she knew. It seemed like everyone did.
But she told him anyway. “I’m Hayley Albright. Daniel Burne is married to my sister. You know, he’s told us all so much about you.” She stepped forward and held out a hand for him to shake.
Since that would require him to remove his arm from Ruth’s shoulders, Evan simply gave the hand a blank look. After a moment, the woman’s cheeks coloured, and she stepped back.
“Well,” she went on. “I know you’re new in town, but you should know that—”
The blonde, Maria, cut in sharply. “Hayley,” she said, her voice low and warning. “Leave it. Let’s go.”
Hayley rolled her eyes. It was an eloquent gesture that reminded him, strangely, of Ruth. “Fine,” she eventually clipped out. “We can’t let a little trash ruin our night, after all.”
The group of women, now silent as a funeral procession, made their way past Ruth and Evan. They moved threateningly close, employing expert intimidation tactics.
When they were finally gone, Evan looked down at Ruth. “If we circle past the Unicorn, we can head home and they won’t see us.”
To his surprise, Ruth nodded without protest. “Please,” she said.
Now he was really worried.
Chapter Eighteen
Evan had insisted that Ruth come back to his flat. She still hadn’t eaten, and he wasn’t happy about it.
Usually, Ruth wouldn’t be either—but that evening’s standoff had stolen her appetite. So they sat at his narrow kitchen table, and she ate a sandwich, and he watched as if he’d never seen mastication before.
Finally, forcing down a leaden bite of bread and ham, she asked, “What?”
He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table-top. “You going to tell me what that was about?”
Ruth shrugged. “Figure it out.”
“You know, I’d love to. I’d love to figure you out. But I need all the pieces before I can assemble the puzzle.”
She took another bite of her sandwich.
After a moment, he sighed. “Okay. Keep your secrets.”
And, just like that, she felt guilty. It took a few bites of sandwich for the guilt to really get to her, but it was there.
You need to decide if you want him to know you. Don’t do things halfway.
Throwing the crust down on her plate, she said, “Me and Hayley and Maria were friends.”
He looked up, barely hiding his surprise. “Friends?”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t really funny, but she still found herself smirking. “I did have friends, you know. Before.”
“Before what?” He asked immediately.
She shrugged. Deciding to trust him was one thing. Parading her biggest mistakes before a man she really fucking liked was something else entirely.
And shit, she hadn’t meant to admit—even to herself—how much she liked Evan. But it was far too late now. Because, all of a sudden, she was thinking about how she would tell him.
Eventually.
“Why would your friends treat you like that?” He scowled. “I mean, that Hayley girl—even if you aren’t friends anymore—”
“I’d do the same,” Ruth said, “if I was her. She’s loyal.”
“To who?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Alright, Miss Mystery.” He smiled at her, really smiled. “I won’t squeeze everything out of you tonight.”
Maybe I wish you would.
Ruth buried her face in her hands and sighed. She was starting to piss herself off.
When she felt the gentle pressure of Evan’s hand against the back of her neck, she bit her lip. It was either that or make a highly embarrassing noise.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. His fingers kneaded tense muscles, strong and skilful.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sick of everything being so dramatic. I was trying to make you feel better, and it just…” She didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.
Gently, he tugged her hands away from her face. She blinked at the sudden light, then stared at him. His eyes were serious, his fingers still wrapped around each of her wrists. She felt as if she was burning. And enjoying it.
“You did make me feel better,” he said firmly. “I very much enjoyed your microwaved soup.”
He continued, his voice softening. “Just talking to you made me feel better. Also, seeing you in leggings.”
Now she didn’t know if she should laugh or gasp. She compromised by choking on her own spit.
Evan waited patiently for her eyes to stop watering before he handed her a glass of water.
After a few calming sips, she forced herself to say, “I should go.”
He watched her impassively, leaning back in his seat. “Should you?”
For a moment, she wavered. But then she remembered the way Hayley had looked at her. The pity in Maria’s eyes.
In Year Eight, Ruth had provided Maria with illicit tampons, because Maria’s Irish Catholic mother insisted they were sinful. Tonight, Maria had looked at Ruth and fingered the pearl-studded cross around her neck.
It hurt.
“You should know,” Evan said slowly, “that I care about you. I didn’t say that before, but it’s important, and I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I asked you to trust me, but I should trust you too. I should trust you to figure out your own boundaries and… you know, all that shit.”
Ruth huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. All that shit. But I probably should’ve told you before now that I’m public enemy number one. And I shouldn’t have suggested that walk.”
Across the table, Evan cracked a smile. “Because I’m so terrified of the town’s avenging angels?”
She snorted. “Keep laughing. They’ll eat you alive.”
He reached out and caught her hand, placing it palm-up on the table. Casually, his fingers traced the veins in her wrist. “I assume everyone hates you because you’re a man-eating succubus.”
She tried to suppress a shiver at the languid touch of his fingers, and failed miserably. “Pretty much.”
“You take advantage of their poor, innocent menfolk.”
“Something like that.”
He looked up, his gaze heavy. “Would you take advantage of me? If I asked you nicely?”
She smiled. “I think I respect you too much.”
“That’s funny, because I respect you a lot. But I still want to rip your clothes off.”
A Girl Like Her (Ravenswood Book 1) Page 11
