by Poppy Parkes
“It was a mistake to pursue something deeper with you,” he said, making his voice as cold as he possibly could. “And now . . . go. I'm finished with you.” His voice rumbled as a low growl now.
Ruth stamped her foot, but nodded. “Fine. But I'm not finished with you.” With that, she turned on her heel and strode from his office, leaving her vanilla scent behind her.
Derek slumped into his chair, his earlier feelings of satisfaction and refreshment well and truly gone. He buried his face in a hand. Could Ruth have been telling the truth? That she'd lost her phone, that someone unknown stranger had answered the phone?
Some part of him whispered that yes, yes she was telling the truth, that all was well between them.
But then why would whoever answered have known her name? he thought. The memory of the mysterious man on the other end of the line uttering her name flooded back to him, making up his mind.
Derek imagined taking all of the memories he had of Ruth, of her wild hair and delicious curves, of how his heart bounded when he saw her or heard her voice, and shutting them up into a box inside his brain, never to be opened again.
If only her scent didn't linger in his office so.
* * *
Ruth stomped from Derek's office to the elevator and mashed the “down” button, ignoring the secretary's glare. She was too angry to think about anything else than what had just happened.
The elevator pinged and the doors peeled open. She barged on, and the swooping in her stomach had nothing to do with the elevator's descent.
How could he be so unwilling to hear me out? she thought. To trust me? Just a couple of days before he had been just about begging her to get married, and now he couldn't give her the benefit of the doubt?
Ruth shook her head, rhythmically clenching her jaw. It didn't make sense. Well, it sort of made sense, given how he had gotten burned back in high school. But that had happened a decade and more ago.
“Idiot,” she grumbled as she stalked off the elevator when it opened on the ground floor, beelining for the street. She wasn't sure who she was calling an idiot – the apparently fiercely stubborn Derek, or herself for letting him get close to her.
A silly misunderstanding had nearly ended their relationship before it began, and now it looked liked yet another was going to do the same for their engagement. All because of a stupid phone call.
The phone call. The one in which an unknown man had answered her cell. Ruth's pace slowed, her eyes narrowing. Who could have picked up her phone that would care enough to answer a call on it, who could have known her name? She wasn't sure if her name was available somewhere in the depths of the phone itself, so she went with the assumption that whoever had the phone knew her somehow. Or at least knew of her.
Could it be one of her students' parents, or someone else associated with school in some way? Ruth rolled her eyes. Considering her years of former students, there was no way to narrow it down by guessing, at least not that way.
Ruth remembered that she had promised to check in with Padme after confronting Derek. She wondered what her friend would suggest doing. Aside from kicking Derek's ass, she thought with a smirk.
All ass-kicking aside, though, she knew that her feisty friend always encouraged her to fight for those things she valued. And, in spite of his refusal to listen to her, Ruth still loved him, loved how she was with him around.
She knew they were worth fighting for.
But where to begin? She groaned, slumping against the side of a brownstone building in frustration, holding up her hand that the engagement ring adorned, gazing at its splendor. She'd been unable to keep herself from slipping it on that morning.
Ruth sighed. It would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a hay stack, trying to figure out who had her phone.
From the recesses of her memory, one of Cecelia’s chipper and oft-trilled phrases sprang into her consciousness. Need to find a needle in a haystack? No better place to start than where the hay begins. Her way of suggesting to start at the beginning, it would always make Padme, Maddie, and Ruth groan extra loud when she whipped that one out.
But now, Ruth stood up straight. Starting at the beginning . . . it wasn't a bad idea. And the most obvious beginning she could think of was the coffee shop, the one she'd been fleeing before she realized her phone was missing. The one where she found herself uncomfortably face to face with Sam.
Sam.
Ruth gasped. Sam could have been the one to find her phone. She closed her eyes against the Boston traffic, remembering how she'd snagged her bag on the back of a chair in her haste to get away from the awkward confrontation with Sam. It was completely plausible that the phone could have been jolted out of the bag then, and if Sam was the one to pick it up, then he would obviously know her name. If Sam had her phone, that would explain everything. Her heart began to beat harder at the possibility of having solved the mystery.
Ruth pushed out from the wall and strode down the sidewalk, black-booted legs scissoring back and forth with power and purpose. She didn't know where Sam lived or worked, and she didn't have his phone number, but she knew that he was a writer, and that writers have their favorite spots to write in.
She hustled down the steps of the nearest T station, feeling the hot, belching breath of the underground station blasting against her cheeks as she descended. Bounding onto the next train, she remained standing even though there were plenty of free seats to choose from. She didn't even hold onto the handrails, but instead stood with her hands on her hips, feeling like a superhero about to save the day.
And she was determined to do exactly that. She only hoped that Sam would be at the coffee shop.
* * *
The coffee shop was busy, filled with college students at tables spread with textbooks and notes and laptops, entrepreneurs and creatives for whom any place with an electrical outlet and wireless internet was their office, and a few pairs of people chatting happily with each other over steaming mugs of coffee.
Ruth stepped slowly through the buzzing space, scanning the occupants of each table carefully, searching for Sam's tousled blonde hair and skinny frame. Reaching the back of the coffee shop, she sighed. He wasn't there.
Damn.
Turning on her heel, she meandered helplessly toward the coffee bar that was manned by –
Her stomach dropped. Sam. Sam, wearing a white half-apron and a creased forehead as he concentrated on pulling shots of espresso. Another barista, a woman in her mid-thirties with glossy red hair, served pastries and worked the cash register farther down the counter.
Ruth blinked once, twice, as if he was a mirage that would dissipate if she could only urge her eyes into focus.
But no, the closer she got to him, the more solid he seemed to become. Falling into line behind the customers who waited to order their drinks, she couldn't help but stare at the lanky young man.
Who she had slept with. She shivered at the memory.
And who she'd then hurt.
And who might have her phone.
I really do not want to talk to him, Ruth thought. Really really.
But it seemed of the utmost importance that she not only get her phone back, but also get an explanation, if he had one to offer.
Slowly, the line in front of her grew shorter and shorter, until at last there was no one left between her and her goal.
With a deep breath, she stepped forward.
Wiping the counter with a damp towel, Sam began, “What can I get . . .” He looked up and their eyes met with a shock, his voice trailing away.
“Hi,” she said, giving a wave that felt pathetic.
“Ruth,” said Sam flatly, smile dying.
“I didn't know you worked here,” she offered.
“Yeah, well, life of the poet, you know? Got to make ends meet, and this way I get free coffee when I'm here writing.”
“Look, I'm sorry to ambush you like this,” Ruth said with an apologetic shrug, talking as quickly as she could mana
ge. “But I think I might have left my phone here the other day, and I was just wondering –”
“Yes,” Sam interrupted. “I have it. Hang on.” He disappeared through a door way behind him, and reappeared a moment later, holding out her familiar pink-cased phone.
She heaved a sigh, limbs suddenly weakened by a flood of relief. “Oh good. Thank you so much.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Are you going to order anything?”
“Well, no,” Ruth replied. “But . . . okay, this might seem like a weird question but –“
He interrupted again. “If you're about to ask me if I answered any calls from a certain guy that you ditched me for, then yes, I did.”
Ruth stared for a long moment, mouth twisting in perplexity. “Why?”
“I don't know. I shouldn't have. But then I saw it was him calling and it was just an automatic reaction. I'd answered before I'd even thought about it, practically.” He sighed. “I was going to be an ass, to mess with him, but . . . well, I don't like treating other people like that, no matter how much they might deserve it.”
Ruth winced.
“So,” Sam continued, “I played it cool, and tried to tell him that you'd lost your phone, and that I could get it back to you. But he just hung up.”
“If you wanted to give it back to me, why didn't you just bring the phone to my place? You know where I live.” Ruth found herself blushing at the acknowledgment of their night together, wishing she could undo that, to keep Sam from getting caught up in all this mess.
He rolled his eyes. “Look, I'm busy. It's not like I have tons of time to make special trips to help out the girl who was just using me to make herself feel better.”
“I'm really sorry,” she said, wincing again.
“I would have dropped it by the next time I was in your area,” he said, the anger in his voice relenting a little. “And I've kept it safe for you. What else did you expect?”
“I'm sorry,” Ruth said once more. “You're right. You certainly don't owe me anything. Thanks for hanging onto my phone for me.” She stepped out of line. “See you, maybe. Good luck with the poetry.”
Ugh, she thought as she spun and headed out of the coffee shop, feet carrying her as fast as possible without breaking into a jog. Good luck with the poetry? How lame.
Still, she had her phone, clutching it in her hand in victory, and that was what she had come for.
But what now? Somehow Ruth had thought that retrieving her phone was the key, that she could offer it to Derek as evidence of her fidelity. But now that she had the phone in her possession, it felt meaningless. It's not like it came with a written statement from Sam assuring Derek that they had very much not been together the night in question.
Ruth paused, lingering on the street for a moment, causing pedestrians to swerve around her. Maybe she could ask Sam . . .
But no. She shook her head at the notion. It would be a horrible thing to ask Sam for help, after all she'd already put him through. Even if he did write such an affidavit, would Derek believe it?
And did she really want to be with someone that could not take her at her word? The question snaked into her heart, and she realized that it was this very question that she'd been avoiding since she burst from Derek's office not long ago, hurt and seething and determined.
She began walking again, steps slow and heavy now. The truth was that she was innocent of the betrayal Derek had accused her of, and that he didn't believe her when she assured him of her love for him.
Was that a relationship worth fighting for? Because if she had to beg him to accept her acceptance of his proposal, wouldn't she be signing herself up for a lifetime of having to constantly prove herself to the man who was supposed to believe in her more than anyone else in the world?
You don't want that, Ruth told herself grimly, sorrow settling itself over her like a cloak. As much as you want him, you don't want that kind of a life.
She knew that this was the truth. She knew that she was worth more than that because, ironically, Derek had shown her this more clearly than anyone else ever had.
She knew she was better off alone than trapped in a marriage rampant with distrust.
Ruth knew all of these things, knew that letting Derek go was a matter of self-preservation, self-love. But she could not stop the tears from racing burning trails down her cheeks as she made her slow way home, heart heavy with a lifetime of splintered hope.
Chapter 15
Derek lay sprawled across one of the three voluptuous gray suede couches in his otherwise sparsely decorated apartment, arm crooked over his eyes. Since Ruth's unexpected visit at the office earlier, he hadn't been able to regain his previous sense of satisfaction, and he certainly hadn't been able to think about anything else than the fire and then the hurt in Ruth's eyes. Hurt that he'd caused.
“But she deserved it,” he informed the ceiling of his apartment. “She deserved it.” The words sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
And now it was Friday night – a full week since Ruth had come into his life. A beautiful, nightmarish week. He was ready for life to get back to normal – which meant all fun and no commitment when it came to women, without compromise. That would be best.
Would it? a small but insistent voice piped up from somewhere deep inside of him.
Knocking thundered at his front door, making him jump. He rolled off the couch, thankful for being saved from further consideration of his way of being with women. No commitments, he told himself firmly, heading for the door. Period. It was safer, a lesson he'd learned the hard way twice over now.
Pulling the door open revealed Ridger standing on his threshold, a case of beer in each hand, with Sandra slouching at his side.
“Hey man,” said Ridger, grinning. “We thought you could use some pleasant company.”
“And by that, he means booze,” Sandra said, shoving past Derek into his apartment. He stepped back to admit his friend.
“Obviously,” said Derek, he and Ridger exchanging a covert smirk at Sandra's inimitable sass. “Come on in.”
Ridger made for the kitchen area, stashing the cases in the fridge, extricating two bottles before closing the door.
“Just two?” asked Derek as he accepted one, all three of them heading for the gray couches.
“I'm performing tomorrow night, so I don't want to drink. To keep me as fresh as possible,” Sandra explained.
“You never lack in freshness, love,” said Ridger with wiggle of his eyebrows, earning himself a smack across the arm.
“You've never gone off alcohol before for singing,” Derek said, taking a swig of his drink.
“I'm trying something new. Beer gums up my vocal chords. And anyway, we're here to talk about you, not me.” Sandra fixed him with a no-nonsense gaze. “You called her, last night.”
Derek shifted beneath her gaze. “Yeah,” he said, wincing.
“And it fucked everything up, didn't it?”
“Well –” began Derek.
“Yes,” Ridger interrupted. “You can't sugarcoat it, dude. It really did fuck things up.”
“Only because a guy answered her phone,” said Derek “Only because she fucked it up. By cheating.”
“And you're sure that she was, you know, actually cheating?” said Sandra.
Derek gaped. “Are you serious? What else could have possibly been going on?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she said with sarcasm so strong he could practically smell it, “maybe she was unaware that said guy was answering her phone. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Again.”
“Oh,” said Derek, stomach churning uncomfortably at the memory of Ruth's visit to his office earlier. “Right.”
“Yeah,” Sandra snorted. “Oh.”
“Well . . .” began Derek, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No. Speak.” Sandra's words were a command, not a request. “What were you going to say?”
“Fine,” he said. “Ruth sort of said that was kind of what had ha
ppened. But –”
“Wait,” said Ridger, waving his hands for Derek to stop. “Back up. So she actually gave you a legitimate reason as to why she wasn't the one to not answer her phone?”
“She said she lost it.”
“And . . . the problem is . . . ?” Ridger asked, face awash in incredulity.
“I just don't know that I can trust her. I put my heart on the line, and she betrayed me,” said Derek more firmly than he felt. “I'm done with her.”
“You,” said Sandra, “are an immense idiot.” She peeled herself off the couch and stomped into the kitchen. She yanked open the fridge door and pulled out a beer for herself. “I can't listen to this drivel sober, gig be damned.”
