Good With His Hands

by Lauren Blakely

  I blink, too shocked to be relieved yet. “But you always talked about me taking over the shop, Mom. Like it was what you wanted most in the world.”

  “Yes, I did want that,” she confesses, “but in the past year or so, it’s become obvious that probably wasn’t going to work out long-term. You’ve always done such a good job, honey, but I could tell you weren’t on fire for Sweetie Pies. And yes, admittedly, I tried to plant the seed I wanted to grow. I’m a glass-half-full person—that’s who I am. And I love talking pie with you. Like when we went to Cocoa Is Love; it’s so fun brainstorming with a taste tester I trust.”

  “I love that too,” I rush to assure her. “We can still do that, Mom. I’ll always be honored to be one of your taste testers.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she says. “And truth be told, I’m not surprised that you came to this conclusion. But I thought it was important to let you get there on your own. Was that right? I didn’t want you to feel like I didn’t want you here with us. You’ve lost so much already.”

  I nod. “You handled it perfectly. And I’m so grateful for your understanding, but . . .” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “You promise you’re being honest with me? You’re not sad or disappointed? You love Sweetie Pies so much. It’s almost like it’s your other daughter, and—”

  “Hush,” she says, shaking her head. “I do love Sweetie Pies. But you are my daughter, and there is nothing in the world I love more. You are a bright, kind, delightful person I’m so proud of.”

  And I’m pretty much sobbing right now.

  But I’m okay with that as I sniff and confess, “I know what Sweetie Pies means to you, and our family, and I want it to be taken care of by someone who is completely devoted to carrying on your legacy. Gigi loves the shop that way, Mom, I know she does. And she’s better at accounting than I’ll ever be. She always should have been your business manager.”

  Mom’s smile is so bright I swear it warms my face. “I think so too. And I think we should put her on the special edition pie boxes for Galentine’s Day next year. A cartoon version of her,” she says, excitement in her voice. “You can draw her in one of her cute little skirts and those cat-eye glasses. It will be so darling. The perfect way to launch the face of the next generation of Sweetie Pies.”

  I’m still tearing up, but this time from joy and gratitude. “That sounds amazing, Mom. I can’t wait. Thank you so much for understanding. And for being you.”

  I dive into the lettuce patch for a hug, making Mom laugh even as she cradles me close and gives me a tight squeeze.

  “And thank you for being you,” she whispers. “I couldn’t ask for a better daughter, Ruby Roo. You are my greatest treasure and highest accomplishment. And you always will be. I can’t wait to see where your fire takes you.”

  I stay for dinner, and a slice of pie.

  Cherry.

  My favorite.

  It’s delicious, especially since it’s just pie.

  It’s not my future.

  It isn’t my career.

  It is simply a dessert I love to share with my mother.

  By the time I leave, I’m a happily blubbering mess, but lighter than I’ve felt in years. Since I put aside my paint brushes to earn a business degree instead of an art degree, in fact.

  There is no small black raincloud over my head, no lurking dread.

  There are only hope and optimism and the sense that everything I want and need is waiting in the wings, ready to rush onstage and assist me. All I have to do is ask, to reach out my arms and invite happiness in.

  I can do that now.

  The list showed me. I can handle fear and dread and rising to new challenges.

  But most importantly of all, I can handle being happy.

  I’ve wasted so much time secretly feeling like I didn’t deserve joy—not joy in life or joy in creation. That false belief was buried deep in my subconscious, but it’s been excavated now. Before, a part of me thought happiness was only for daughters who gladly followed in their parents’ footsteps and best friends who didn’t keep living when their dearest girl was gone.

  But Claire would want me to live a bright, big life.

  My parents want me to hitch my wagon to the shiniest star. They all believe I’m worthy of joy and goodness and now, finally, I do too.

  A few days ago, I thought testing my limits might be about sex.

  But it’s about so much more than sex.

  It’s about intimacy. Being alive. Celebrating every second. And saying it—

  I want it all.

  I want my best life.

  I want the life my friend imagined for me.

  And the life I now believe I deserve.

  And there’s only one person I want to share this good news with.

  I drag my little rolling suitcase into my old room, take the world’s fastest shower in my childhood bathroom, put on a red sundress that makes me feel beautifully, passionately alive, and go on the hunt for Jesse.

  Thankfully, I have a pretty good idea where to find him . . .

  It’s time for number seven.

  28

  Jesse

  I’m locking up the garage for the last time—ever—when my name floats toward me like a balloon whisking its way to the sky.

  “Jesse.”

  Ruby. I turn, heart stuttering as I shove my keys in my pocket and try not to run down the empty sidewalk to her.

  Because that bright, happy red dress says it all.

  Or at least, I hope it does.

  “You’re wearing your favorite color. Cherry red,” I say, drinking in the sight of the woman I love.

  A grin spreads, slow and beautiful, across her face.

  With confidence in her stance and strength in her eyes, she holds up a sheet of paper. It’s one I know well. One I kept with me for two long years.

  One that belongs to her now.

  She walks like she’s still owning the hell out of that list, and that’s all I ever wanted for her.

  She fingers the hem of her dress. “Red is my favorite color. And you’re my favorite person.”

  My throat goes tight with emotion. “Ditto.”

  Her dark eyes soften. “Good . . . because I came here to finish the list. There’s one last item, and I want to check it off all by myself.”

  I nod, shoulders tensing, hoping against hope that she intends to finish it the way I want her to. “So, you got my note?”

  Her brow creases. “You left a note?”

  “I did, in your mailbox.” I want to speed up time but want to savor this moment too. This moment when she’s maybe almost mine.

  She blinks. “I haven’t been home yet.”

  Huh. Interesting. Maybe even better. “Do you want me to tell you what I wrote?”

  She shakes her head. “Actually, no, I don’t. I want to say what I came here to say. The hard thing.”

  Uh oh. The hard thing. I have no idea what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.

  But maybe I’m wrong.

  I want to be wrong, especially since this moment feels so right.

  I step closer to her, the air between us crackling, the energy buzzing. It can’t just be my heart racing away from me. She has to feel it too.

  I hope.

  I have so much hope it could power me through the rest of the year.

  Still, I wait for her. “All right. I’m ready—for whatever you need to say.”

  “The hard thing is . . .” She takes another step, another breath, then reaches for me, running her fingers along my arm to take my hand. My skin tingles everywhere from that touch.

  “Well, Claire and I used to joke about ‘the hard thing.’ Saying the hard thing. Because, I’d never said it. I’d never felt it. Or I didn’t think I had . . .” Her tongue slips out to dampen her lips, and I want to kiss her so much it’s probably criminal. “But I think I’ve been closer to the hard thing than even I realized. I mean, of course, I had a crush on you for the longest time,”
she says, with a slightly shy, completely adorable smile. “I’d be over at your parents’ place, hanging out with Claire, and you’d prowl through the living room on your way to some cool, older brother place, and I’d imagine what it would be like to go with you. To be one of the girls you dated. You were this . . . epic figure. This sexy, confident guy who always knew what to say.”

  “That’s a lot to live up to,” I say, my voice a little gravelly.

  “But it’s not,” she insists. “Because that’s who you really are. I realized that as I grew up. I wasn’t seeing you through rose-colored crush glasses. You really are that cool.”

  I shake my head. “Ruby, I—”

  “No,” she says. “You have to own your awesome, Hendrix—the way you made me own mine. You’re bold and honest, and you live fully and without regret. And I love that about you. I love who you are.” She threads her fingers through mine. “At the hotel, when I said that you don’t lie—that’s one of the things I’m most crazy about. You’re not just the cool guy. You’re the good guy. You’re a good person with a huge heart.” Her other palm comes to rest on my chest, her fingers spread over my pecs. “You love deeply and fiercely. And I’ve always felt honored to be one of the people under your heart umbrella.”

  She must feel my heart thumping wildly, beating madly. “You always will be. That’s what I said in my letter,” I start, because I can’t hold it in any longer.

  “You’re making it hard for me to finish,” she says, but there’s a playful note in her voice.

  And I love it. Love her. Love the way she sees me, the things she makes me feel, and the thought of keeping her under my umbrella for a long, long time.

  “Go on.” I mime zipping my lips.

  “I did a lot of thinking the last two days, and a lot of talking. I realized that sharing the list with you has shown me so much. Mostly, how beautiful life is, even when it’s hard. And how much better every day is when you’re in it.” Her hand curls around my shirt now, like she’s putting all her strength into this, into the hard thing. “So, I’m here to say it. The thing I’ve never said to anyone else, never felt, because no one else could come close to this. To you. To us.” She draws in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I love you, Jesse Hendrix, and that’s both the hardest thing and the easiest thing I’ve ever said.”

  The way she stands tall, holding my gaze, the way she owns her words, is so damn beautiful. And it’s everything I’ve wanted for her for the last few years.

  “This is the part where you talk,” she whispers after a beat. “And hopefully say really hard, easy things to me too?”

  I cup her face, my breath rushing out as I assure her, “Yes. All the hard and all the easy.”

  A smile bursts onto her lips. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve been falling in love with you for the longest time, Ruby Valentine. That’s what I said in the note. That I love you. And that I’ll wait for you . . . if you’ll let me. I want to make this work. To make us work.”

  Her eyes shine. “Like . . . us us? Like, you’re my sexy boyfriend? Even though you’re moving to L.A. and long-distance stuff is probably hard?”

  I nod, relief rushing through my chest. “Yeah. But not too hard. Not for me. Nothing’s too hard if I know you’re mine.”

  She sniffs and beams up at me before adding, with her signature dry humor, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  We kiss.

  Slow and deep and passionate.

  A kiss that says this chance is worth it.

  We’re worth it.

  And that being together won’t be a hard thing at all.

  29

  Ruby

  Four months later . . .

  * * *

  Long-distance love is hard, but not impossibly hard.

  Jesse was right—nothing’s too hard as long as I know he’s mine.

  As long I get to hear his voice telling me he loves and misses me before I go to bed and wake up to emails he sent in the middle of the night my time, detailing things he wanted to share with me while I was sleeping.

  Like that he landed another big movie contract for a film set in the Great Depression or tried a sushi restaurant so incredible he’s already made reservations for the next time I visit. Or that he still loves and misses me and is shameless about saying so multiple times a day.

  This love of ours is downright cheesy at times, but I cherish knowing my person is out there thinking of me as much as I’m thinking of him.

  But I don’t spend all my time daydreaming about my sweet and delicious man.

  I’m busier than a pie shop prepping for the holidays.

  After quitting my day job as business manager for Sweetie Pies, I had a mild freak-out about how I was going to support myself as an artist. My cards sell well, but not that well—at least not yet—and I do enjoy eating and paying my rent.

  So I got busy and sent my portfolio to a hundred of the top restaurants and dessert shops in Brooklyn, offering my services for original menu design as well as window display painting. That’s something I’d only done a handful of times for the pie shop, but I figured it might help me score some extra cash as summer gave way to the holiday season.

  I’d hoped to land at least five or six jobs, something to hold me over until I could learn how to advertise my cards more effectively and add designs for T-shirts and aprons to my Etsy shop.

  Instead, I booked twenty-seven menu jobs and eight windows—for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the winter holidays.

  Twenty-seven.

  Pretty sure that’s the professional equivalent of unicorn sex. Talk about rainbow glitter.

  Plus, Abe hired me to draw chalkboard sketches of mushrooms for his in-store menu.

  Yes, I am officially a mushroom artist.

  That’s courtesy of Gigi—she dragged me back to Forage and Fox one evening, where Abe remembered me. We chatted, and the rest is chalk-drawing history.

  Then, a random guy who found my flier on a restaurant owner’s desk approached me about making an album cover for his band. That album cover led to three more album covers, and now, my little paper artist planner will have to be replaced by a more sophisticated booking system.

  By the time Jesse comes home for Thanksgiving, I’m making more money than I was while working for my parents, and I’ve learned a lot about myself too.

  Like how I thrive in a working environment where I set my own hours and my projects change every day. I’ve learned I’m a night owl who’s perfectly happy to work until two a.m. and sleep until noon before waking to meet Gigi for lunch or a walk around the park before she returns to her starring role as Sweetie Pies’ office manager.

  And I’ve learned that I’m still excellent at drawing my boyfriend from memory—no model or photo reference required.

  Though a model is always preferable, of course . . .

  “Quit moving,” I warn from my desk, my eyes flicking up and down from the naked Jesse sprawled on my couch to the sketchpad in front of me.

  “I can’t,” he says. “My cock is sad that you’re so far away.”

  “He’s going to be even sadder when I cover him with cold strips of soggy papier-mâché later. We’re doing that this visit, right?” I tease, biting back a grin as Jesse’s eyes narrow.

  “I know you’re kidding,” he finally says.

  “Do you, though?” I ask, my pencil marking the perfect curve of his ass, adding shadow to the adorable dimple on his left butt cheek. I sigh happily. He really does have the best backside in the entire world.

  “What are you thinking, Trouble?” he asks with a laugh.

  “About your butt,” I answer honestly. “And how I want to kiss it and bite it and tell it it’s the best butt ever.”

  “My butt is open to all of that,” he says in a sexy rumble, with a look that makes my panties go from dry to scandalously damp in seconds.

  “Stop,” I warn again.

  “Stop what?” he asks innocently.

  I
snort. “You know what, Mr. F-me Eyes? I think you just took my butt stuff virginity with that look.”

  His brows lift. “What? No butt stuff? Ever?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Never sounded like fun.”

  “Oh, wow . . . How did I not know this about you before now, Ms. Valentine?” He bites his bottom lip, shooting heavier fuck-me eye action my way before adding in a husky voice, “When you’re ready, I’m going to do things to your sweet ass that will blow your mind, sweetheart. I promise, you’re never going to be the same.”

  My cheeks flush as I hum low in my throat. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

  “About ass-play?”

  “No,” I say, setting my drawing pad and pencil aside before adding, “About how hot it makes me when you say those naughty things.”

  “Love getting you hot.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

  And me.

  And us.

  We really are pretty damned great at being us.

  “Get over here,” he says as I rise from my chair.

  “Already on my way,” I say, reaching for the bottom of my long-sleeved T-shirt and drawing it up and over my head.

  Soon I’m naked too, and Jesse is proving that butt stuff isn’t nearly as weird as I’ve always thought it might be. In fact, butt stuff is pretty freaking amazing.

  Afterward, I lie in his arms, catching my breath from one of the most intense orgasms of my life, wondering why I waited so long to try that. But also so glad I did because I wouldn’t want to do anything like that with anyone but Jesse.

  “Told you you’d be a fan,” he says, so pleased with himself I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Smug isn’t a good look for you.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he says, making me giggle as he rolls on top of me and brings his face closer to mine. “See? I’m handsome as fuck when I’m smug. You’re already excited for round three, aren’t you?”