Lessons in Heartbreak (The Kings #2)

Chapter One Ruby

Chapter One

Ruby

Despite the fact that worst-case-scenario thinking was my default state of mind, I never could have guessed that my friend’s gift of a monster sex toy would kick off the most dramatic series of relationship events I’d ever experienced.

It wasn’t the sex toy, per se. How could it be? Not that it wasn’t dramatic, of course. That thing had more bells and whistles than most of the electronics in my possession.

It was more what it represented.

Because the first thing I felt when I laid eyes on it—buried underneath tasteful wrapping paper and a beautiful shiny bow—was pure, unadulterated terror.

How was anyone supposed to slip under their sheets—mine, in this instance, were high thread count, with a cute little-blue-flower print—spread their legs for a giant rotating, vibrating thing with appendages, and feel even the slightest bit relaxed?

In truth, this was a me problem. Lauren was great, as was her gift-giving ability.

There was an element of thoughtfulness to this terrifying gift that I wasn’t quite ready to see.

It stemmed, of course, from our repeated conversations about my lone sexual experience and how I was seemingly incapable of creating more experiences—better experiences—to wipe that one out.

The longer I went without those more frequent and better experiences, the harder it became to put forth the slightest effort. Now I had the strongest notion that when my gynecologist asked me to spread my legs for my next exam, a stray moth might fly out.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to try. Not really. But letting someone in—to me—was as scary as jumping out of a plane with no parachute.

I know, I know . . . control freak was right above worst-case-scenario thinking on my list of personality traits.

The hardest part about being a control freak was admitting it, and it took me until my thirtieth year to be able to do so. And here’s what makes it so hard to admit—when you struggle with control issues, especially as a younger person, most people look at you in such a positive light.

My parents were constantly told things like, Oh, she’s such an old soul.

Ruby never causes any trouble, does she?

You’re so lucky. She’s such a serious little thing. You must never have to worry about her.

But you know what that really meant? It meant I took on about a hundred times more responsibility than I should have at a young age. It meant that I was juggling mental weight that was far too heavy for someone in my age bracket.

Old soul was just another way of saying can’t relax enough to express their emotions.

And as I got older, that positive reinforcement just kept on coming in.

I was responsible. Organized. Motivated. High-achieving.

That list showed up in so many places in my life: In my grades.

My extracurricular activities. The complete and utter lack of a social life.

While most kids in high school were going to football games and getting asked on dates, experimenting with their sexuality and hooking up with harmlessly inappropriate peers, I was locked away in my room, doing homework and reading and making sure that every single domino was lined up to get all the things I wanted out of life.

Valedictorian? Check.

Student body president? Check.

Debate team, yearbook staff, event planning–committee chair—the list went on and on.

To no one’s surprise, my parents ate all this up.

It was the clear benefit of being the only child of two high-achieving people.

They were the ones who wanted to keep every test marked with an A, the ones who loved hearing about any project I was working on; who happily encouraged me to take on more responsibility, to volunteer for more committees because it would look great on a college application.

Achievements were the way we related most.

Was I doing all the right things at the right time? Check, check, check.

Ours wasn’t a relationship based on deep, emotional talks, but more of a “Look at this bright, shiny thing I’m bringing home!

” declaration. They loved those little trophies, real and unseen.

And oh, it was how I’d always felt the most loved.

The discussions about books and the deeper themes found in the text; the pulling apart of the things we all read, the things they taught in their respective college courses—my mom was a statistics professor, my dad a lit professor, both tenured at Colorado State University in Fort Collins.

Because of that, college wasn’t as heavy on the extracurricular, and instead of living in the dorms to get the messy experience there—I could do without the great social experiment, thank you very much—I chose the safer, much more practical option of commuting.

They supported the choice because it was responsible.

It was financially smart. It was prudent.

Just what every twenty-year-old girl likes to be called. Prudent.

Believe me, I still got the college experience. The number of hungover frat boys who tried to cheat off my papers in class was truly staggering.

But I was consistent. I always got good grades. There was no stumbling in late at night or tripping into class with bleary eyes and two-day-old mascara. It never bothered me back then because I was admired by my peers, my professors, and my parents.

It wasn’t until later that there was a creeping sense that maybe something wasn’t quite right.

There were always reasons, of course. Valid, believable, sympathetic reasons why I held the reins of my life with an iron grip, keeping every day scheduled and structured in a way that eased my mind. Because it was safe, and I could predict each outcome with surgical precision.

And it was on my thirtieth birthday, when my coworker Lauren surprised me with a present, that I knew I couldn’t avoid the truth any longer.

We’d gone out to dinner at her insistence, and after a shared bottle of wine at my house (I never drank in public, because, honestly, someone could spike your drink when you least expected it), she said, “Ruby, I got you the most perfect gift in the world. Something you need desperately.”

“A new planner?” I asked, perking up instantly.

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for proving my point.”

The box was immaculately wrapped—tiny pink and white flowers on a silver background, tied up with a rose-gold bow—but when I opened it, the thing staring back up at me had my jaw falling open, heat crawling up my neck at an unstoppable rate.

“What is that?” I gasped.

She laughed, reaching forward to pull it from the box, where it was nestled in brightly colored shreds of paper. It was big. Light blue, with a small arm that hooked out of the front and buttons along the bottom.

“You know what this is,” she said slyly. Then she hit one of those buttons, and it started vibrating. A lot. And the little arm on the front moved.

“That’s supposed to go inside?”

She patted my arm. “Trust me. It’ll do you a world of good, honey.”

My eyes widened, and I snatched it from her grip, dropping it immediately when the feel of it had heat billowing from the surface of my skin. “I am not using that, Lo,” I hissed. “It’s obscene.”

She merely smiled. “It sure is.”

I slammed the top back on the box and shoved it away from me, watching while it slid across the wood floor.

Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz.

Now the box was vibrating, and it was moving from the force of those vibrations, the sound echoing through my living room like it was plugged into a massive speaker. I pinched my eyes shut while she laughed.

“Ruby,” she said gently. “Look at me.”

“No.” I buried my face in my hands. Something about the gift made me want to burst into tears. I knew why she was doing it. I knew why she was trying, even if I was not the right audience for that sort of . . . apparatus.

Gently, she wrapped a hand around my wrist and pulled. “Take a deep breath, all right? I’ll take it home with me so you never have to see it again.” She sighed. “Probably should’ve started smaller. Maybe a nice little vibrator instead.”

I gave her a look. “You think?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Would you have used that?”

“No.” My hand fluttered to my chest, my heartbeat hammering away. My eyes slammed shut as I counted the beats to center myself. “I don’t think so.”

Lauren was one of my only friends. Don’t get me wrong, I was friendly with everyone in town. There wasn’t much of a choice with how small our town was, but when I moved to Welling Springs as the new head librarian, she’d basically forced me into being friends with her.

She was funny and irreverent, with a loud laugh and the kind of irrepressible warmth that seeped into every corner of the room when she was around.

And if there was anyone who knew the corners well, it was me. In a group of people, that was often where I found myself—out of sight, where no one would notice me and I could observe from a place of relative safety.

People like Lauren, the ones who did so well as the centerpiece of whatever conversation they were in, fascinated me. A puzzle I didn’t quite understand and could never really figure out. But as a friend, I was grateful for her.

Usually.

Except when she gave me a monster-size penis replica and expected me to be excited about it. If I tried introducing that to my poor lady parts—which had only ever been viewed in detail by my doctor—I was quite sure I’d hear panicked screams coming from the general vicinity of my vagina.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She never did anything quietly, so I peeled my eyelids open to study her. “I just know you’ve been”—with a tilt of her head, she searched for the right words—“struggling to let people in.”

I’d spent my whole life in white-knuckled control of the things within my power, so it was terrifying to have someone challenge one of the things that wasn’t. It felt like a rush of icy frost racing up the surface of my skin, eclipsing all the heat her gift had generated.