Chapter 6
RUBY
The weeks after the most humiliating experience of my life have passed in a blur.
I make it my mission to stay as busy as possible.
If I slow down, my brain will force me to relive that moment.
If I sit and think about it, I’ll burst into tears.
I should be all cried out after two whole days lying in bed, feeling sorry for myself.
The worst part was Riggs seeing me race out of the clubhouse, jump in my car, and speed off.
I avoid reality, my friends, and family.
I use work as an excuse, but technically not a lie.
I picked up tutoring at the high school after a call from the football coach.
Some players are close to failing math. I accepted the distraction and the extra money.
With my current financial crisis, I can’t turn down any cash.
Monday through Friday, I leave the elementary school at three thirty and head to the high school.
I tutor some clients at the library on Saturdays.
Sundays are for laundry, cleaning, and grocery shopping.
I’m running on fumes, but what choice do I have? I’m not ready to face reality.
Facing reality means thinking about Catcher.
His rejection and the pain still stings.
Remembering that morning is like losing all the air in the room.
I can’t breathe. He didn’t just reject me, he said I wasn’t wanted.
His words echo in my head. I’m not good enough.
How could I feel so alive and desired one moment, and the next, be looked at with hatred from the man who made me feel special?
To make it worse, Catcher didn’t remember what happened that night.
He didn’t look drunk. I wouldn’t have slept with him if I thought he was too drunk.
Everything Catcher said and did felt real.
Sadly, I was wrong, and I paid the price.
When will I learn? Mom says I’m a dreamer with my head in the clouds when it comes to love.
I believe in destiny, stolen glances, and happy endings.
I love the idea of falling in love. Even at my age, I think innocent crushes are beautiful because they’re sincere.
I still believe love will come the way it does in my dreams. I want love resembling what my parents have.
After my crash and burn with Catcher, I’m beginning to realize that kind of love may not be in the cards for me. In my past relationships, I’d give too much of myself, too easily, and carry the weight of the relationship alone. It was always me who wanted more and cared more.
Then came Catcher, and I leaped without looking.
The next morning, fate slammed the door. Reality didn’t match the fantasy. It didn’t feel like disappointment but betrayal. Not betrayal by Catcher, but by myself. I’d convinced myself there was something special between us. The truth? He was drunk. I was just a body to slide into.
I will never forget what Dad told me after my first heartbreak, when my college boyfriend decided to move back home, but we still vowed to try long distance. Friends said it was foolish, that long distance never works. We were crazy in love and thought we’d be together forever. We were wrong.
About two months later, he called and said he’d met someone else. I cried in my dad’s arms for hours. Once I finished, Dad wiped my tears and said, ‘You’re a dreamer, Button. That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you brave. You chose love over logic. Following your heart is never stupid.’
I’m brought out of my thoughts at the sound of a baby crying.
I’m standing in line at the grocery store with the basket’s plastic handle digging into the crook of my arm.
The mother in front of me gives me an apologetic look as she struggles to calm the crying child in her arms while rummaging through her purse.
A sharp huff comes from somewhere behind me, followed by an exaggerated clearing of a throat. I don’t have to turn around to know what’s coming next.
“Some of us are in a hurry,” a man snaps loud enough to be heard by half the line.
The young mother stiffens, her shoulders pulling in as if she’s trying to make herself smaller, and her face turns red with obvious embarrassment.
With flushed cheeks, she bounces the baby, whispering apologies that break my heart a little, as if she’s inconveniencing everyone by existing.
Without a second thought, I set my basket down on the floor and lean forward. “Hey,” I say softly to her, offering a warm smile. “Let me help you. How about you let me hold him for a second?”
Her eyes widen before she quickly blinks back tears threatening to spill, and she shakes her head. “I… I’m almost done. I’m sorry. He’s just—”
“A baby,” I finish for her, still smiling. “And he’s doing exactly what babies do.”
Another impatient sigh erupts behind me.
This time, I turn around. “She’s doing the best she can.
” I don’t bother keeping my voice low. “If waiting in line twenty more seconds is the worst part of your day, you’re pretty lucky.
And if those seconds matter that much, there’s a self-checkout where you can ring up your own damn groceries.
” I nod toward the option. The line grows quiet.
The cashier avoids my eyes and focuses on the register.
No one else speaks as I turn back, while the mother finds her card with her trembling hands.
“Thank you,” she whispers as the cashier finishes up with the transaction and hands her the receipt. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“You’re welcome.” I can’t help but smirk a little. “Sometimes jerks need to be called out and reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around them.”
She gives me a tired but genuine smile before gathering her bags and heading for the exit. When I turn back toward the cashier and set my basket up on the counter, the woman whispers under her breath, “That was awesome.” And for the first time in weeks, I laugh.
Later that evening, the quiet of my house presses in around me as I sit at the small kitchen table, my laptop open and my weekly planner spread out in front of me.
Crayons, glue sticks, and colored pencils are scattered across the tabletop.
I push them aside absentmindedly and stare at the planner, rereading the same sentence for the tenth time.
Mother’s Day Project.
My kindergarteners will be thrilled about the project.
But for me, working on plans tonight feels different.
I used to feel energized by special projects and busy routines—carving out time for crafts amid lessons and typing up activities such as PE, writing, story hour, music, library, lunch, and recess.
Now, each familiar task feels heavy, as though I’m trudging through mud.
I notice the kids’ excitement, but it feels distant, muted by the heaviness I carry.
I go through the motions, my thoughts shifting uneasily between the project and memories that weigh me down.
I can’t find the energy to sort through these feelings.
Halfway through planning a sensory station, my phone screen lights up. Dad is calling. For a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. I don’t trust my voice not to give me away, but I answer anyway, because avoiding my father feels impossible. On the fourth ring, I pick up. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey, Button,” he says, warm and familiar, as though he’s smiling on the other end.
My chest tightens. “Hey, Dad.”
“How’s my girl?” he asks. “You surviving?”
I look at my laptop. The lesson plan stares back. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long week.” There’s a pause. Not awkward, just knowing.
“Mm,” he hums. “That’s not quite what I asked.”
I swallow. “I’m okay. Promise. I’ve just been busy at work and tutoring. Remember, I told you I was helping some football players with their math?”
“Of course. You sound tired. I don’t want you overdoing it, is all.”
“I’m good, Dad. Promise.”
Dad is quiet for a second before changing the subject. He doesn’t push, never does, and that’s what makes it harder.
“Well, your mom’s making pot roast tomorrow,” he says instead. “Thought we might kidnap you for dinner.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Kidnap sounds dramatic.”
“Only the best for you,” he replies. “Seven o’clock work for you?”
“Works for me. I’ll be there.”
Another pause, but it is softer this time. “You don’t have to work so hard, Button,” he says gently. “You know that, right? Your mom and I are here for you if you need some extra cash. Lord knows they don’t pay teachers enough.”
My throat tightens at the thought of my dad finding out about my brother and my financial situation.
I can’t put that stress on them. Dad deserves to enjoy retirement, not spend money on messes caused by their son.
I manage to keep my voice even. “I know you’d help, Daddy.
Besides, tutoring the team is more of a favor for the coach. ” That’s a partial lie.
“All right.” He sighs. “Get some rest. I love you.”
“I love you too. See you tomorrow. Hug Mom for me.”
After we hang up, I set my phone face down on the table. I tip my head back, close my eyes, and exhale slowly.
My dad has always had a way of seeing straight through me without demanding explanations. He loves me unconditionally. It’s the kind of love I’ve always believed in, and the kind I want.
By the time the final bell rings, my feet ache, and my head hurts. Still, I push forward since it’s my week for afternoon pickup in the car rider line.
“Hands to yourself, Jacob,” I call out. Then there is Sara, who insists on showing me what she colored in art class today. “Yes, I love your drawing, but put it back in your backpack, please. You wouldn’t want it to get lost.”
The car rider line is a slow yet steady blur of cars, trucks, minivans, and SUVs inching forward. I step into my spot, walkie-talkie in hand, and a smile on my face, the one that comes easily when kids are involved.