Ruby wrapped herself tight around her beloved and kissed his cheek, then his forehead. Her boyfriend. Her sweetheart. Her husband-to-be! “Don’t worry, all right?” Gabe said, pushing a lock of hair off her forehead, twining it around his finger, and letting it boing back into place. “My mom will get along fine with your family. And if she doesn’t…” He bent close, nuzzling her neck in a way that never failed to make her shiver. “If she doesn’t, she’ll be all the way in California.”
“I won’t worry,” said Ruby. “I promise.” She tilted her head up, and he bent down to brush his lips against hers.
They both used the bathroom. Gabe dotted prescription acne medication on his cheeks and his chin. Ruby popped in her retainer. Gabe kissed her forehead, then each eyelid, then rolled onto his back and was almost instantly asleep. Ruby lay awake in the dark. In Brooklyn, the attic was always quiet. Now, in their walkup in Queens with windows that faced the street, her nights were punctuated by laughter, shouting, sometimes the sound of breaking glass. Cars and buses drove by, along with police cars with their sirens wailing. In Brooklyn, it was easy to imagine that she and Gabe lived in a castle, that they were a prince and a princess, high in a tower. Their time in Park Slope had felt enchanted, with delicious meals magically appearing, where they had people around when they wanted company and solitude when they wanted to be alone, or together, just the two of them. Now that they’d moved out, Ruby wondered if what she was feeling was that enchantment fading, the luster of new love disappearing, evaporating like a dream, revealing the reality of the world. Maybe I’m homesick, she thought, and told herself that she just needed to get used to the new place, that she and Gabe would make it cozy and soon it would feel like home. She tried to ignore the tiny voice inside of her that was whispering, This is a bad idea, you’re rushing into it, you’re too young, this won’t work; tried to ignore the growing certainty that what she was feeling was surprise and disappointment. When she’d called Ronnie, she’d expected her to say, Ruby, please tell me you’re kidding?; when she’d told her stepmom and her dad, she’d been waiting for them to laugh, to shake their heads and tell her, Absolutely not! She’d been counting on one of the grown-ups to put an end to it. No, Ruby. This isn’t going to happen. But they hadn’t said that. They had congratulated her. They’d smiled their approval; they’d raised their glasses for toasts, they’d treated her like an adult who could be trusted to make decisions about her own life. Except, Ruby wondered, what if she was making a bad decision? What if she couldn’t be trusted? And, if that was true, what was she supposed to do now?
Eli
Elijah Danhauser was a good man.
Growing up in Massapequa with his parents and his brother, he had been a good son and a good brother, hardworking and decent and kind. He’d worked hard at school and treated his elders with deference, his peers with kindness, and his parents with respect. While his brother, Ari, was crashing cars, flunking out of colleges, and getting arrested, Eli drove carefully, studied hard, and graduated with honors. In adulthood, Eli had tried to be as good a husband as he could to his first wife, Annette. He and Annette met in college, at Syracuse University, at a fraternity party. Annette was petite, with big hazel eyes underneath a wide forehead, wavy brown hair, and a quick, bright smile. They’d fallen in love when they were both juniors and were inseparable for two years. After graduation, they’d set out together to see the world. For eight years they traveled, working menial jobs for six months to save enough money to fund six months of adventures. Eli had a strong back and was good with his hands and could always find work doing carpentry or construction. Annette had an ear for languages and, with her cheerful personality, usually ended up bartending or waitressing. Together, they had biked from Canada to Mexico and worked on a ranch in Montana, with Annette helping in the kitchen and Eli repairing miles of fence on the range. They’d spent a summer at a hotel in Iceland and three months crewing a billionaire’s yacht. They’d followed the Dave Matthews Band on its world tour in the late 1990s （Annette’s choice, not Eli’s）， and spent half a year living in Madrid, where they could visit the Prado every day （Eli’s choice, not Annette’s）。 They’d led cycling trips through the Lake District in England and through the wine country of France and up and down the hills of Tuscany. They swam in volcanic lakes in Guatemala and spent six weeks in a yurt in Saskatoon. When their thirtieth birthdays were approaching, Eli wanted to get married, buy a house, start a family. He’d assumed Annette would want the same things by the time she turned thirty. He’d been wrong. Annette, it turned out, wanted none of those things. She had no interest in marrying Eli, or anyone else, and had even less desire to buy a house and stay in one place. “I can’t do it,” she’d said tearfully, in the midst of one of their discussions that always seemed to turn into fights. “I’m not exaggerating. At all. If you make me live in a suburb, I’ll die.” She’d swung her long hair over her shoulder and started to braid it, a thing she did when she was trying to soothe herself, and Eli had promised no suburbs, but couldn’t they find a city they both liked?