I can’t deal with this. Any of it.
Not the list or the way reading it made me feel—like I was drowning on dry land—or Jesse leaving in two freaking weeks and acting like it’s no big deal that he’s bailing on everyone in New York who loves him.
It’s too much, too sudden, too soon.
The list is a starting gun, trying to force me into a sprint when I’m not even done stretching. I just finished PT. I’m finally back to normal, and I want to enjoy that for a while.
But are you enjoying anything?
Jesse’s right.
You haven’t been yourself and you know it, Miss Dread Balloon.
And it looks like Claire knew it too.
I slow to a walk, swallowing against the sour taste rising in the back of my throat.
Claire knew I was struggling even back then. Two years ago, it wasn’t a dread-balloon situation, but I’d felt . . . frustrated.
Stuck. Like Jesse said.
That was why Claire and I had taken that girls’ trip to Maine to stay in a haunted bed-and-breakfast, eat lobster rolls on the beach, and journal and make lists until we figured out what came next for us. We’d both been going through our mid-twenties, post-college slump, and were determined to find what we needed to change to get closer to living the lives of our dreams.
And then one of those famous Maine moose we’d been hoping to see on the canoe trip earlier in our vacation had run out in front of us on the highway, totaling Claire’s car and changing those dreams forever.
We’d both been rushed to hospital, but only one of us had come out again.
Claire’s dreams were over, and mine were packed away while I dealt with more pressing matters—like grieving, healing, and figuring out how to make my way in the world as I recovered. There were days when figuring out which subway stations were easiest to navigate with my wheelchair, and later, my cane, would bring me to tears.
My parents always offered to help, to fetch things for me or to pick me up in their van and take me wherever I needed to go, but I wanted to be independent. I wanted my life back, the one I’d had before. Sure it hadn’t been perfect, but at least I’d been able to do my own shopping and put clean sheets on my bed without running into every piece of furniture in my tiny bedroom and wanting to smash things in frustration.
On days when I’d felt particularly smashy, Jesse always seemed to sense it. He’d show up with pizza, turn on old episodes of Saturday Night Live, and sneakily make my bed or run down to the laundry in the basement when I wasn’t paying attention.
He was a lifeline, not just making things easier, but making me laugh too. Making me hope.
I’d needed hope so much.
There were days, right after the accident, when the pain of losing Claire and my sense of normalcy were enough to make me wish . . . bad things.
To wish I’d been the one in the driver’s seat instead of my best friend.
I’d felt so out of control—of my emotions, my life, everything.
I can’t go back to being out of control. I just can’t. Not right now. Not even for Claire.
I must keep moving forward and zero in on normal, no matter what Jesse and his soulful eyes and tender hands have to say about it.
His hands. God . . .
Who knew having someone wipe pie off my face could make me feel things like that? I haven’t sizzled that way in so long.
So, so long.
I stop in the shade of a liquor store awning, my fingers hovering over my lips, suddenly thirsty. I need something cold and clear to wash away the panic and confusion.
And the anger.
How could he do this? Announce he’s moving thousands of miles away in two weeks like it’s not a big deal?
God, he’s such an asshole.
Except that he’s not, but I don’t want to think about tough love or me possibly being a big baby coward or the look in Jesse’s eyes when he promised I didn’t have to tackle the list alone.
I duck into the organic food co-op next to the liquor store, my skin prickling as the air-conditioning blasts over my head when I pass through the door. It’s frigid in here. Clearly the owners haven’t gotten the memo that it’s not blazing hot outside. By the time I reach the drink case beside the juice bar, I’m shivering. Every hair on my forearms is standing on end, and my nipples are poking through the strawberry-stained fabric of my shirt.
So, when I turn around and see none other than Chad, my rehab boyfriend, and a pretty brunette I can only assume is Bethany, the ex he dumped me for, I not only have pie stains on my shirt, but I’m drawing extra attention to breasts that Chad once described, in a disappointed voice, as “not quite a handful.”
What a dick he is.
But what did I expect? Not all guys named Chad are awful, but not-awful Chads are definitely the exception, not the rule.
Bethany, I see, has way more than a handful. Her naturally bouncy and bountiful chest barely fits in a tiny crocheted top that leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s got the curvy thing going for her, no doubt, and she’s probably a nice enough person. But as she and Chad canoodle while they unload their groceries, giggling and touching each other for absolutely no reason except that they’re hot for each other and don’t care who knows it, I can’t help comparing the two of us.
Why am I always the girl left un-chosen?
Sure, my boobs are small, but so what? Boobs aren’t everything. I’m as attractive as Bethany. And I have many other good qualities—I have especially nice lips, if I do say so myself. And I’m fun too. Most importantly, I’m a good person. I care about people—really care. I try to be thoughtful and compassionate to everyone who drifts into my orbit, and I’d do anything for a friend, family member, or significant other. I’m loyal to the bone.
But so far, none of the men I’ve dated seem to see that.
Or to value it.
I’m always second best, the girl who’s easy to leave, the woman they date until the one they really want comes along.
Maybe Jesse’s right. Maybe you do need the list. Maybe it’s just the thing to get you out of your rut and on the path to making your dreams come true.
“Or to figuring out what my dreams are,” I murmur.
They’ve been packed away for so long I can barely remember what I put in those boxes. And there are worse ways to spend my vacation than hanging out with a gorgeous man who wants to help me live my biggest, boldest, best life—even if he is a sneaky leaver who’s departing New York in two measly weeks.
And it would be sort of like spending time with Claire again.
It would be bittersweet, but still . . . sweet. And even sweeter to share the experience with someone who misses her as much as I do.
Ducking behind a cereal box display, hiding my pie-covered self from Chad and Bountiful-Boobed Bethany, I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text to Jesse.
* * *
Ruby: Okay. Maybe we can do this. We can at least try. On one condition—if I want to stop, we stop. That’s it. No peer pressure. No guilting me into doing things I’m not ready for.
* * *
Glancing around the cereal boxes I hit send, fighting the urge to gag when Chad snakes his hand down the back of Bethany’s shorts.
We’re in a place that sells food. This is a no-touching-your-girlfriend’s-bare-butt zone. Or at least, it should be.
Or am I being a prude?
One way to find out.
I’m leaning around the cereal display with my phone, snapping a pic of Chad’s hand so I can ask Gigi if she thinks it’s gross—Gigi has a good gut for how gross is too gross—when my cell rings, sending Chad’s head whipping around for the source of the sound.
I freeze, heart leaping into my throat as I scramble to mute my cell and pretend I wasn’t spying on my ex, but it’s too late.
I’ve been caught.
Caught!
Chad pulls his hand out of Bethany’s shorts and heads my way, a frown tightening his expansive fo
rehead. Ironic, that Chad is the kind of guy who complains about the size of a woman’s boobs while expecting kindness and compassion regarding his receding hairline. And hey, I had zero issues with that whatsoever. But the fact that he feels entitled to some kind of mythical perfection in a girlfriend when he’s no Chris Hemsworth is as irritating as Twitter rants that misuse they’re and their.
And now I’m irritated. About both grammar and exes.
So irritated that when my phone buzzes again, I lift it to my ear and say, “Hello?” taking the call even though Chad is standing right in front of me, clearly intending to say something.
“You look busy. Want to call me back?” a deep voice rumbles in my ear, making my cheeks prickle in the places where he wiped the pie off of them.
Jesse.
Just the sound of his voice makes me bolder.
I lift my chin, staring Chad down as I say, “No, I’m not busy. What can I do for you?”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know,” he rumbles again, laughter creeping into his voice. “Knee that douchebag in the balls? That could be fun. That’s him, right? Chad the chode?”
“Yes, but I’m not a proponent of violence,” I say, frowning as the meaning of his words penetrates my annoyance fog. “Where are you?”
“By the berries. For some reason, I’m having a craving for strawberry.”
I glance to my left, spying in my peripheral vision a long, lean silhouette with delicious forearms—a silhouette that sends warmth rushing through my chest.
He followed me to try to fix things, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Jesse and I don’t argue often, but when we do—usually about something stupid like whether a gallery is pandering to dumb trends or if it’s okay to feed someone veggie meat without telling them about it first—we don’t let the sun go down on our anger. We both have too much respect for the capriciousness of fate to put off making up for long.
You never know when a chance to apologize might be your last.
I run my hand over my back pocket, the list crinkling beneath my fingers. You never know . . .
You really don’t.
So, why not? Why not jump into this list headfirst?
What’s the worst that could happen? The water is shallower than I expect, I knock my head on the bottom, pass out, and drown, which would be especially horrible seeing as drowning is number one on my list of ways I don’t want to die?
But deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. Jesse wouldn’t let me drown. Or even flounder. I have faith in him. So much faith, I whisper, “I’m thinking number five.”
“Number five?” he echoes, making a considering sound as he connects the dots. “Do something unexpected? What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see. Just . . . go with me?”
“Always,” he promises and ends the call.
And I believe him. He will always go with me. Even when I do things that are a little crazy.
Or maybe a lot crazy.
But hey, you know what they say—if a little’s good, a lot ought to be better.
6
Jesse
Intrigued—and relieved that Ruby seems to have had a change of heart—I tuck my phone into my back pocket and fold my arms over my chest, ready for whatever comes next.
Or so I think.
I’m decidedly not ready for Ruby to step forward, take Chad’s face in her hands, and say in a firm voice loud enough for the entire market to hear, “The only things that are ugly when they’re small are hearts, Chad. My boobs are exactly the size they’re supposed to be. And, as someone who cares about other women, I would encourage you, from now on, to be gracious and grateful for whatever boobs come into your life. No matter what their size, they’re more than your itty-bitty heart deserves.”
“Yeah, girl! You tell him,” the woman manning the juice bar calls out, while the checkout boy laughs, two older women in the soap aisle applaud politely, and the girl stocking the salad behind me nods with a soft, “Amen.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, my boobs and I have places to go and great things to accomplish.” Ruby removes her hands from his cheeks and dusts off her palms like she’s just touched something kind of gross—which she has.
Chad is absolutely gross, and now he’s profoundly embarrassed.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen cheeks that red before. He looks like a boil about to pop. Ha. Serves him right for saying anything to Ruby about her chest except, “Thank you, sex goddess, for granting me this sample of boob-enhanced paradise.”
I’m so proud of her. Then Ruby starts toward me, her eyes going wide as she mouths “Oh my God, what just happened?”
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “You happened,” I whisper as she stops in front of me, her face flushed and her eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in ages. “You’re absolutely right. And you just marked number five off the list.”
“You didn’t expect me to stand up for the small boobs of the world in the middle of the grocery store?” I can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face but is too keyed up to make the deadpan bit work this time.
“Not even a little bit,” I say, making sure I’m not looking anywhere near her breasts as I add, “And for the record, your chest is perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Completely fucking perfect,” I say, my voice husky, and things stirring that shouldn’t be stirring.
Her lips—those equally perfect, bow-shaped lips—part. “How would you know? You’ve never seen them.”
“I’ve seen you in a sports bra when we go jogging. Trust me, that’s more than enough for this man’s imagination.”
“Maybe, but it’s not the same thing,” she says, a mischievous gleam flickering in her eyes. “I could flash you, if you’d like. So you can know for sure. I bet you wouldn’t be expecting that, either.”
Blood rushes to my head.
The wrong head. The one I can’t be thinking with if I’m going to be the kind of friend Ruby needs right now.
“Tempting, but maybe we should save things that might get you arrested until later in the process?” I say in a voice that’s far cooler than I’m feeling right now. “Hard to get through a Best Life List in jail.”
“Good point.” Her eyes dart to the right as she whispers, “Are they gone?”
At the checkout, the clerk gathers items on the belt into a basket with no sign of Chad or his new woman—who couldn’t hold a candle to Ruby on her best day. “All clear. Guess they decided against groceries.”
Ruby’s brow wrinkles. “Oh, no. I should buy more than a bottle of iced tea, then. I hate that I scared away a paying customer.”
“They’ve got plenty of customers, but you’re sweet.”
“No, I’m not,” she says, the light dimming in her eyes. “I’m scared. Yeah, that felt amazing in the moment, but I can already tell I’m going to regret it later.”
I snort at the idea. “Why? That was great.”
“Because I made a scene. I was . . . embarrassing.”
“No, you weren’t. You were awesome.”
“You totally were,” a feminine voice agrees from over my shoulder. I turn to see the salad-stocking woman nodding at Ruby. “I would love to say some shit like that to my ex. Though, I wouldn’t be as eloquent about it. And there would be more F-bombs involved.”
“Yeah, for me too, probably,” Ruby says with a laugh, “if it had happened a few weeks ago. I’m over the angry part now.”
The woman’s gaze slides my way, a knowing grin curving her lips. “I can see why.”
Ruby laughs. “Oh, him?” She waves a dismissive hand. “No, we’re not . . . We’re just friends. Old friends. Sort of. Or people who knew each other for a long time and then became friends.” She laughs, a little awkwardly. “But he is quite pretty.”
“It’s the eyes,” Salad Woman says, as she studies me in a way that makes me feel like I’m not part of this conversation. “I knew a guy who had eyes like that.”
“My friend L
isa calls them F-me eyes,” Ruby adds, surprising me. I glance at her, but she continues without looking my way, “Like he’s always thinking about you know what. You know?”
“Oh, girl, I know,” Salad Woman says with a laugh as my cheeks start to heat. What the hell is going on here? “And once they start thinking about it, you start thinking about it.”
“And pretty soon everyone’s thinking about it,” Ruby finishes with a nod before finally turning to meet my gaze, this time mastering her signature deadpan, “Sex, Jesse. We’re talking about sex.”
“Thanks. I wasn’t certain,” I say, then I gesture toward the door. “Let’s head to your place, Number Five, before you take this too far.”
“How far is too far?” Ruby asks, waving goodbye to her partner in making-me-blush.
“You’ll know when you get there.” Like how I know I need to part ways with her before she teases me into doing something I shouldn’t. Like pressing her up against the brick wall of the closest building and showing her all the things that go through my mind when I’m looking at her and thinking about “you know what.”
“But will I?” she insists. “What if I start doing unexpected things and I can’t stop?” We step outside into the fading heat of the day and her fretting speeds up. “What if this list unleashes sides of myself I don’t know how to handle? What if I’m not strong enough to be all the things Claire thought I could be?”
I stop at the corner, waiting for the intersection to clear, and turn to her. “You are strong enough to handle anything the world throws your way, Ruby. You’ve already proven that.”
“Have I, though? Physical therapy is easy compared to this. Especially number one.”
I frown. “Try something new? What’s so hard about that? Just . . . take a bus into the city instead of the subway or something.”
“A bus? You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you looked at those bus routes? It’s like learning to read Mandarin. I’d get so lost I’d never be found.”
I chuckle. “Then try a new food, like the list says, Miss Picky. People do that, you know. It’s not that hard.”
Good With His Hands Page 4
