11. Ruby
11
RUBY
My hand feels like it belongs in Harry’s.
When I first saw him in the den with my dad, the image of him kissing the beautiful woman on TV came flooding back, making me feel queasy and broken inside. But then he told me that he’d flown from New York to Chicago to tell me there was nothing going on, and everything else seemed to evaporate like morning dew in the summer sun.
Even my mom.
She can’t tell me what to do. She can’t tell me what to do. She can’t!
It goes round and around inside my head like a mantra. I’m an adult. I have to find my own path even if it is a bit windy and hilly sometimes, and I know my dad needs me, but it isn’t like I’ve left for good. Is it?
Harry hails a cab and I climb into the back seat while he gives the driver directions. He stows his suitcase in the trunk and sits beside me, his fingers instinctively seeking mine.
“Are you sure about this, Ruby? We can turn around, go back and speak to your mom. I don’t want to be on bad terms with her from the outset.”
The bruises around his eyes and temples are still yellowy-green. His arm is still in a cast, the pouches under his eyes are puffy, but he is still the same Harry who tripped over me on the skating rink a few weeks ago. I don’t know anything about him, not really, but that first day on the ice added the prefix ‘my’ to his name without me even realizing.
My Harry.
No fighting it. No turning back. No regrets.
I shake my head. “I’m sure about this.”
“If you change your mind?—”
“I won’t. No one has ever traveled across the country for me.”
No one has ever traveled anywhere for me, but I have the weirdest sensation that our journey has only just begun.
“Okay. I just want you to know that we’ll do whatever you want, Ruby.”
I can’t help laughing. “Next you’ll be telling me that I have three wishes.”
“Oh no.” Harry’s tone is serious. “You have far more than three wishes.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And you still have a promise to keep too.”
I barely register the city passing us by. For the first time in my life, it feels as if the world is a giant shell that is slowly opening to reveal the purest pearl inside. It doesn’t even matter where we’re going, and I’m not surprised when the taxi slows to a halt at the airport drop-off point.
I’m not leaving Chicago behind.
I’m taking the first step over the side of a precipice, and I’m not the slightest bit afraid because I know that Harry is waiting there to catch me.
Inside the terminal, the airport is buzzing with excitement.
Harry squeezes my hand, his body communicating with mine. He checks out the departures screen, his eyes scanning the destinations and flight times.
Finally, he says, “Do you trust me?”
“It’s a bit late to ask me that now.”
Leaning closer, he kisses the tip of my nose and sends a whisper of anticipation down my spine. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I’m starving, so I make my way to one of the airport cafés and order pepperoni pizza slices to go and a couple of sodas. When Harry finally returns waving tickets in front of my face, his eyes are glittering.
“I hope you packed your passport.”
I hand him a slice of pizza. “I packed it last night. I was going to give you twenty-four hours, and then I was coming for you, Harry Weiss.”
He blinks. A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting him up from the inside. He takes the pizza, his fingers stroking mine and sending sparks of electricity through me. “I wish you’d said, you’d have saved me a journey.”
He bites the end of the pizza slice as I punch him playfully on the arm.
Harry doesn’t tell me where we’re traveling to until we’re boarding the British Airways flight to Edinburgh.
It’s crazy. I’ve never been further than Mexico and I have no idea what to expect. But the word Edinburgh clings to my tongue like peanut butter, nesting there as if it was always waiting for Harry to introduce us to each other.
We fly overnight. First class. We’re greeted by stewards wearing suits and ushered into our sleeper seats like plush armchairs, with fresh flowers on tables and heavy purple drapes separating us from the rest of the aircraft.
“It’s like going to the cinema.” I fasten my seatbelt and lean across to kiss Harry. “Only bigger.”
Harry inclines his head. “And don’t forget the minor detail that we’ll be flying above the clouds.”
I laugh. It’s an intoxicating, heady experience. The curtains, the plaid blankets, the glass of champagne— in a real glass —that the steward serves when we’re comfortable. I sip the bubbles and wait for them to go straight to my head.
What am I doing?
“Harry, pinch me.”
He obliges, and I squeal like a child.
We eat a full-blown three-course meal washed down with wine, play Rummy for a while with the complimentary playing cards, and when the lights inside the aircraft are dimmed, I rest my head on Harry’s shoulder and fall asleep instantly to the low purr of the engines. By the time we reach our stopover at London Heathrow, it feels as if we have known each other forever.
I know nothing about Harry’s childhood, his family, his life in New York, but it’s unimportant because I know Harry. The rest will come. It will seep into our life through shared experiences and snippets of conversation, and there’s no rush.
Edinburgh is like no city I have ever experienced before.
We check into the George Hotel, a grand old building that seems to span an entire block with wide arches and tall stately columns giving it a regal appearance. Stepping inside is like stepping back in time to an early twentieth-century colonial mansion, with parquet flooring, wood paneling, huge gilt-framed paintings and plush sofas. The reception is framed by more columns and heavy white drapes, buttoned armchairs strategically placed around small round tables.
While Harry checks in, I turn three-sixty, soaking up the genteel atmosphere and hushed whispers of guests passing through on their way out to explore the city.
How is this even happening to me, I think.
Yesterday I was in Chicago and today… Today, I’m in Edinburgh !
Our suite overlooks George Street with its ancient buildings and trams trundling along the middle of the road. I can see the castle in the distance at the top of a hill. An actual castle. An actual castle that was once inhabited by real live monarchs.
I drag myself away from the view to freshen up before we go and explore. There’s a walk-in shower in the marble-tiled bathroom, complimentary robes and slippers, and towels so thick and heavy that I don’t want to get dry.
Dressed, I take a shortbread and then we step outside into George Street with its restaurants, wine bars, and modern stores set inside magnificent aging buildings. Following the map of the city we found in the room, we make our way towards the old town where cobbled streets wind up and down steep hills, and in and out of buildings that are centuries old. The imposing castle sits sentinel at the top of the hill as if protecting its people.
We explore the Royal Mile, the streets lined with towering tenement buildings, cafés, souvenir shops, and museums. We sit inside St. Giles Cathedral for a while, soaking up the solemnity and splendor of its architecture. We visit the graveyards, known as kirks, and study the names on the ancient headstones. We see the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, the dog who, according to legend, guarded the grave of his owner for fourteen years.
We eat haggis in a breakfast bun with square sausage. It’s spicy, the texture rough on my tongue, and I like it until Harry says, “Try not to think about what it’s made from.”
“What?” I freeze, the haggis halfway to my mouth. “Now you have to tell me what it’s made from.”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course I do. You can’t throw a curveball like that at me without following it through.”
“It’ll put you off.” Harry obviously has no such qualms as he chews and swallows another mouthful of haggis.
“Tell me! Or I’ll…” I peer all around searching for something to threaten him with.
“You’ll…?” Eyebrows raised.
“I’ll buy you a kilt and make you wear it with nothing underneath.”
Harry laughs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Harry…” I start walking towards the kilt shop.
“Okay, it’s made from sheep offal and?—”
“Enough!” I open my mouth and stick my tongue out to catch the chill and blow away the taste of the haggis.
Still laughing, Harry takes another mouthful and grabs me so that I can’t escape.
After, when I’ve washed away the tang of sheep offal with a bottle of water, we stand in the cold listening to a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes. The sound is so unlike any other musical instrument, so gut-wrenching and pitiful, that I lose track of how long we stand there in the cold, our noses turning pink, Harry’s arm draped over me. He buys huge tartan shawls to wrap around our shoulders, pulling mine around my shoulders and kissing the tip of my cold nose.
We tour Mary King’s Close, the underground city, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the sight of the narrow dingy streets that housed so many people centuries ago. “People actually lived down here?” I huddle against Harry, soaking up his natural protection and warmth.
As the starry, velvet night sinks overhead, our footsteps slow down.
We haven’t discussed our plans beyond going back to the hotel after dinner. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. Neither does the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. All we have is this moment in this beautiful city, and nothing else matters right now.
Walking along the cobbled streets, Harry suddenly takes my hand and drags me into a tight alleyway between buildings. Narrow stone steps lead down to dense darkness, and he grips me tightly, leading the way until we reach a tiny square courtyard surrounded by dozing buildings.
Harry leans against the wall and hugs my head against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, through his coat, and I close my eyes, soaking up his warmth while his arms shield me from the chill.
When he tilts my head back and kisses me, heat floods through my veins. I don’t want it to end. We could stay here forever, I think, walking the bumpy streets, discovering hidden alleyways that lead to real homes inhabited by real people. This is a city of secrets, so what harm will one more do?
I explore Harry’s mouth with my tongue, my nipples hardening beneath my clothes. Freeing my arms, I wrap them around his neck and run my fingers through his hair, our kisses growing harder, more demanding.
His lips travel down my neck, his fingers fumbling with my coat zipper. When he tugs it down, the chill spreading through my sweater and raising goosebumps on my flesh, I shiver. But it isn’t just from the cold.
He reaches underneath my clothes with his good hand and squeezes my nipple, forcing a groan from my lips. “How does that feel, Ruby?”
“Good…”
“It’s going to feel better than good.”
If this isn’t right, then nothing else ever will be.
“Harry…”
The sound of his name is all he needs.
Spinning me around, he pushes me up against the stone wall and lifts my coat and sweater to expose my breasts.Then his lips are there, and his tongue is chasing circles around my nipple, the tingling spreading between my legs.
His mouth is hot on my nipples, the cold winter air caressing my bare stomach. I arch my spine, pushing my nipples into his mouth, wanting him to be greedy, to devour them with his tongue.
Harry kneels. He tries to unfasten my jeans, but is struggling with one hand, so I undo them for him. I’m already wet. My pussy is clenching and unclenching uncontrollably before he has even touched me. So, when he slides the tight denim over my hips and drags his moist tongue across my skin, I tilt my head backwards and stare up into the darkness at the millions of brilliant stars twinkling overhead.
He said he wanted to do this right. I only hope he understands that, for us, this is perfect.
“Talk to me, Ruby.” His voice sounds far away.
“I…” I can’t talk. I can’t think of anything but his tongue between my legs.
His fingers are on my thighs, spreading them apart, and I gasp at the chill between my legs. I don’t know if it’s the cold, the impossibility of finding ourselves in another country, in a city steeped in history, or the thrill of danger that someone else might walk down those stone steps and find us here, but my entire body is thrumming for Harry to fuck me.
His tongue flicks between my legs and I must groan out loud because the sound hovers in front of me. I want to bat it away, but I can’t move. All my concentration is being used up by the feel of Harry’s tongue, licking, flicking, gently parting my pussy, teasing me before he goes in.
I want this sensation to last forever.
I want it to be over.
My mind no longer belongs to me. It belongs wholeheartedly to Harry’s tongue, dragging across my clit, back and forth, until my orgasm explodes out of me. I can’t think. Even the stars are blinking in and out of existence as my body shudders, my breath lost somewhere in the courtyard until I can think clearly enough to rescue it.
Harry rises. “You taste so fucking good, Ruby.”
His tongue fills my mouth, and I can taste me, my orgasm, mingled with the taste of him. He presses his body against mine, pinning me to the wall. I try to explore his body with both hands, to keep this going, to make sure that he doesn’t stop, but he grabs my wrists with his good hand and raises my arms above my head.
“Not here.” His voice is husky. “This is only the beginning, Ruby.”
Reluctantly, I allow him to pull away from me. I tug my jeans back up, fasten the zipper, my pussy still throbbing. I straighten my sweater and pull down my coat as if I’m snuggling back inside my cocoon, armoring myself against the outside world.
His face is in shadow in the unlit courtyard, but I could recreate it with my eyes closed. It’s as if I have always known this man. As if our paths were simply biding their time until they crossed.
We mount the narrow stone staircase and emerge back into the busy city like moles crawling out of our burrow. Then we walk back to the hotel in comfortable silence, fingers entwined, sparks flying between us while adrenaline pumps through my veins.