Um, you think?
I liked the idea of determining my own direction, so, again, I said nothing, even though his tone was as inviting as worn flannel. I wanted to curl up in it and assure myself that he was right. I was worthy, I could overcome, I could accept help.
For the remainder of the ride, I hummed along with some Reba McEntire song that reminded me of days I didn’t want to remember and tried to beat back the way I used to feel when he held me in his arms and hold tight to my intention to remain unaffected by him. I directed him to “take a left” or “hang a right” until we arrived at my modest duplex with the double porch swings and planters of tulips. I rented the space, but I had taken ownership of making it pretty with a spring wreath and a few hanging ferns. The elderly lady next door had contributed some money toward my efforts to spruce up the rental. I liked the results.
“Here I am,” I said, gesturing to my place. I did a double take when I saw the bouquet of flowers on the doorstep.
“Looks like you have a delivery,” Dak said, turning into the driveway. “I’m guessing they’re from your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He looked at me and lifted a shoulder. I knew he was remembering Ty and judging him. Okay, so Ty dressed in circa-eighties douchebag, but he’d been cool to Dak when he’d acted like an ass. My date that night wasn’t necessarily a guy Dak would hang with, but that didn’t mean Ty wasn’t a good guy.
“Well, thanks again, Dak,” I said, dropping my hand and feeling for the crossbody I had dropped onto the floorboard when we’d first left Mooringsport. My actions shifted me closer to Dak, and I felt his hand tug my hair.
I grabbed my bag and looked up.
“It’s been good seeing you, Ruby.”
He could have said many things—I could see that in his eyes. Maybe something inane, like Way to finally get your shit together, or encouraging, like You’re doing good, kiddo, or perhaps even sentimental, as in I wish things hadn’t ended the way they had. But Dak wasn’t prone to needless words. Never had been. So by telling me it was good to see me, I knew what he meant because I felt the same roller-coaster emotions, that vacillation between regret and acceptance, that small question of what if, that whiff of attraction, of longing, or wanting something that probably could never exist again because we were no longer those stupid kids who believed in white picket fences and staring off into the sunset side by side.
I lifted my body and looked him right in his pretty eyes and said, “Yeah, you too.”
My right hand groped for the door handle just as he leaned toward me.
My stomach tightened in expectation because I wanted to feel his mouth against mine. Part of me needed to taste what once was, revel in the desire I had always felt for this man. Part of me knew it would be bad because I could slide right down that slippery slope. But he bypassed my lips, instead brushing a kiss on my cheek. “Be well, Ruby. You deserve happiness.”
His words were like the swish of a hand over a fevered brow—desperately wanted but, at the same time, useless to do any good.
So I opened the door and climbed out. When he backed out of my driveway, I didn’t look back at him. Instead I took the bouquet of red roses nestled in baby’s breath and lifted it to my nose. They smelled of waxy nothingness. The card attached read, “Looking forward to tonight.”
I unlocked my door and took the flowers inside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CRICKET
Once upon a time I had loved going to balls. Mardi Gras, cotillion, or deb functions with sparkles, champagne, and the opportunity to judge the band procured for the Baron’s Ball against the one they used for the ARTini bash. This was always a fierce discussion topic among my friends for some reason. Oh, along with the flowers. Did they spend enough? Who did them? But at any rate, I had always looked forward to tugging on a fancy dress, painting my toenails blush, and fastening on my grandmother’s good jewelry. But after a few years, it was the same people having the same conversations around the same glitzy watering holes. I had begun to dread all social events that involved wearing heels and making small talk, but because of Scott’s reputation and because the bank depended on him to hobnob with people who brought him new business, I went for the prescribed two and a half hours and then massaged my feet all the way home, looking forward to pajamas and Netflix.
But for some reason that escaped me, I was looking forward to attending Gritz and Glitz tonight.
Okay, the reason didn’t escape me—I loved the way Ruby’s dress looked on me, and I relished the opportunity to brag on my assistant’s ability to create something bold, original, and, for all the Gen Xers out there, upcycled. I knew that people were going to be intrigued by me wearing something “so not me,” the way I knew that Scott wouldn’t be able to find his black dress socks and Julia Kate would want money for pizza that night.