Chapter 8
8
RUBY
Finally.
Today is the day.
My plane leaves at nine thirty, and roughly eight or so hours after that, I’ll be landing in sunny Costa Rica.
I happy dance my way into the bathroom for a quick shower. After drying my hair and dressing in my travel outfit of khaki shorts, a green T-shirt, and slip-on shoes—the blue clogs will have to sit this trip out—I grab my matching green bucket hat for later. I lug everything downstairs, leaving it by the front door, and go to the kitchen.
Then I laugh. Dad left me a note propped up on the coffee pot, with the words ‘eat me’ above an arrow pointing right. Beside the coffee pot is a half of an everything bagel just waiting to be toasted. We share a bagel almost every morning. It’s a silly thing, but I love it more than I can say.
Not five minutes later, Matthew knocks on the door. We get my things loaded into his car after he bitches for five minutes straight that my suitcase is too heavy, and we’re off to the airport. I’m going to miss him. I’ll even miss my boring daily routine a little. But this is an adventure, and one I’m ready for.
“So, you’re not gonna say anything to Tod?” he asks.
He knows the answer to this and thinks he can change my mind by bugging the shit out of me.
I look out the window at swirling fog and lean my head against the cold glass of the window. Before dinnertime, I’m going to be in a completely new world. New to me, anyway.
“Nah. I’m good. You know that,” I say in an end of subject tone of voice.
He clicks his tongue and sighs with great drama. He wanted me to give Tod a good dressing-down, but I decided I was above that. Letting him know he got under my skin is the last thing I want to do. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Look, I might not be the coolest chick in San Francisco, but I do have some game. And sometimes saying nothing says the most of all.
So, fuck that jerk.
At the airport, Matthew wheels my suitcase inside for me, then catches me in a swaying hug. “Be extra careful, okay, but not so careful that you don’t have fun.”
I hold him tight. “I wish you were coming.”
“You know, honey, a librarian retreat is so not my cup of tea. But a cruise ship full of Speedos, I could hang with. If you know what I mean. See you in a week.”
He watches me head for to check-in and the next time I turn around, he’s gone.
Holy shit. I am really doing this.
Before long, I’ve made it through security and am sitting in a first-class lounge, courtesy of Tyler, waiting for my flight. I’m three chapters into my book when boarding is announced, and I fall in line with the other passengers.
I settle in and holy crap, I’ve flown before, but never first class. Here I am, Ruby Brooks, sitting in a luxurious airplane seat, sipping icy champagne at nine thirty-five in the morning. Seriously, my little crib here in first class is more like an apartment than an airplane seat, and there is leg room for miles.
A girl could get used to this.
Thank you, Tyler .
But on the other hand, I’m a little embarrassed at how attentive the flight attendant is and how elitist it all seems—for heaven’s sake, I’m just a librarian, and a freaking junior one at that.
Of course, I feel like a massive imposter. The woman next to me is tapping away on a laptop that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Across the aisle, a man in a crisp suit is already fast asleep, a silk eye mask in place.
I’m contemplating whether it would be completely tacky to chase my champagne with a Diet Coke when a slight commotion temporarily halts my self-conscious anxiety, and another passenger makes his way down the narrow aisle.
Well, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s Chuck Newcomb, one of the Aftershocks hockey players. Tyler’s friend.
And a jerk of epic proportions.
To be fair, I don’t really know him. Sure, we’ve met at a couple team events, but I doubt he knows my name or would even recognize me out of context. He's grinning that infuriatingly charming grin of his, the one that makes women swoon and men want to be his best friend.
But I also happen to know he is truly notorious for a variety of shortcomings—and damn if he doesn’t look the part with his trendy man bun, beard stubble, and leather jacket.
With my book over the lower half of my face, I hide as he swaggers down the aisle like he owns the damn plane. He’s on the other side, one row back, so I have to crane my nosy-ass neck to check him out.
Not that I would. Because I don’t really care.
His Buddy Holly nerd glasses, somehow, look sexy as hell on him. Not a lot of people could pull that off. All chiseled jaw and brooding eyes, he’s also the walking, talking embodiment of toxic masculinity.
And he clearly knows he’s hot, reveling in the attention of the female flight attendants—and some males, too—starstruck and fawning over him as he makes his way to his seat.
You'd think actual royalty had just boarded, not an overpaid man-child who gets paid to hit things with a stick.
"Oh, Mr. Newcomb," one of the attendants giggles, "we're such big fans. Do you think maybe we could get a picture later?"
So. Gross.
People are ridiculous. They’re acting like he’s some kind of freaking god or something, when he’s just a ripped hockey player with a penchant for being a hot-headed jerk. Thank God I’m headed to my retreat because I’m sure there’s no way in hell he’d attend something so evolved . God forbid, he might end up developing a couple insights about himself—the kiss of death for jock meatheads like him. He’s the kind of guy who thinks reading is for nerds and emotions are for the weak.
He’s probably getting picked up by some celebrity to be taken out on a yacht.
I roll my eyes as I scrunch down, throwing on my bucket for extra privacy, and pulling it low over my eyes.
Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me...
He’d probably never recognize me anyway, but why risk it?
I can't help but feel a mix of irritation and something else... something I'm not quite ready to admit that migh t be a twinge of jealousy. Not that I want Chuck's attention, God no. But when was the last time anyone looked at me like that? Like I was something special, not just the weird librarian girl who'd rather hang out with fictional characters than real people?
And go for a roll in the hay with the library’s resident IT dork?
I shake off the thought. This retreat is about finding myself, not pining after the attention of lunkheads like Chuck Newcomb.
As the plane taxis, I scan the retreat brochure for the hundredth time. Yoga at sunrise, meditation workshops, nature hikes... it all sounds so peaceful. So far removed from loud hockey games and rowdy sports bars. I smile to myself. At least I know I won't be running into Chuck there.
When we take off, I watch San Francisco get smaller from my window. I dive back into my book and manage to ignore the low rumble of Chuck’s laughter a few rows back. I get lost in my thriller once again, and after a brief snooze full of dreams about sun-soaked beaches and the sound of crashing waves, the plane begins its descent. Nerves churn in my stomach, twined with excitement.
It's happening, yo.
The flight attendants come around with a last-minute snack, and I have to admit, first-class dining is a far cry from the mystery meat sandwiches I'm used to in economy. As I'm savoring a bite of what I'm pretty sure is the best salmon I've ever tasted, I overhear a snippet of conversation from behind. I remind myself not to grind my teeth at the sound it.
"So, Mr. Newcomb, are you headed to Costa Rica for vacation?" one of the attendants asks, her voice syrupy sweet.
"Something like that," he replies, a smirk in his voice. "Let's just say I'm on a... wellness journey."
I nearly choke on my salmon. A wellness journey? Chuck Newcomb ? The same guy who once tried to fight the entire Anaheim Ducks team single-handedly?
No. No, no, no. He can't possibly be going to my retreat. I’m sure there is more than one wellness resort in Costa Rica. He’s probably going to the show-off-jock one.
Right?
Regardless, I spend the rest of the flight on the verge of low-key panic, jumping every time I hear movement behind me. By the time we start our descent into San José, I've concocted at least a dozen elaborate plans to avoid Chuck.
As soon as the seatbelt sign goes off, we begin to stand to disembark, but there’s a commotion behind me. Chuck, because he’s Chuck, is rushing down the aisle to the front of the plane instead of waiting his turn. I curl my lip in disdain. The man has proven yet again that he's the massive douchebag I always thought he was, and now I’m doubly disgusted.
As we weave through the terminal, I hang back far enough to hide but close enough to keep an eye on him. He still doesn’t notice me at the baggage carousel, nor when we walk out to the curb to catch our ground transport.
That’s when I see him climb into a fancy limo. Thankfully, I’m rid of him and the possibility of running into him, but really? A limo?
A a man holding a sign with the resort logo appears.
"Hi," I pant, skidding to a stop in front of him. "I'm Ruby Brooks. Here for the retreat."
He politely takes my bag and I follow him, passing by a public bus with people hanging out the windows, yelling at arriving passengers and selling their wares. I smile at the quaintness of it all, and am so distracted, I slam right into the back of him.
I laugh. I’m on vacation. I’ve got to laugh, right? “I’m so sorry, Se?or . I need to pay better attention.”
“It is no problem, Se?orita .” He gestures toward the bus entrance, the bus with people hanging out the windows.
A quick peek inside reveals that regular dining room chairs replace a few of the bus seats.
Is that even legal?
I gulp. “What’s this bus, Se?or ?”
He chuckles. “It is your bus to the resort,” he says proudly.
I scrunch my face up in confusion. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, are you sure?” I turn to get a better look at the bus, with its bald tires and rusty holes.
No. Just no.
He smiles beatifically, oblivious to my hesitation. “Se?orita, let me help you aboard.” He reaches for my suitcase and disappears into the bus. I have no choice but to follow.
Swallowing hard, I board and take the first available seat that isn’t a chair, and find myself next to a woman holding a squirming cloth sack. I eye it suspiciously—what in God’s name is in there? — before recoiling as a deafening squawk explodes from within.
Chickens. My God, she’s got live chickens in a cloth sack on a bus.
My frantic thoughts are interrupted as the van rumbles to life and begins to creep forward, its shock absorbers clearly nothing more than an afterthought. It’s hot and humid, and the air coming through the missing windows doesn’t do much to cool anything. People are chattering, happy, and while some stare and some politely pretend not to stare, I study the passing scenery.
When the resort said it provided transport from the airport, it didn’t mention something like this.
But the scenery is pretty, fading only when the bus hits potholes and swerves to avoid goats and other obstacles. In fact, a time or two, I’m pretty sure we’re on two wheels. My stomach is in my throat as we skim the edge of steep cliffs, and I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my skin.
The woman beside me waves to get my attention and holds her sack toward me. “You want?” she asks.
“Um. Excuse me?”
“ Pollo . Chicken. You want one? I give to you for cheap.”
“You’re asking me if I want to buy a chicken?”
Her smile blooms and she nods.
“Oh. Well. That’s very kind of you, but no. I don’t have anywhere to put it,” I explain, pointing at my overloaded tote bag and small pant pockets.
“Ah. Si . No room.” She nods again, and I’m relieved she’s not going to pressure me to make a purchase, because I have no idea what I’d do with a live chicken.
At a tap on my shoulder, I turn to see an old man behind me, his gray hair sparse and his smile showing several missing teeth. “You are American? American girl?”
I nod. “Yes. Si .”
“You are married?”
“Oh. No, I’m not married.”
“Ah, good. Good. You will marry me then?”
I blink. “Ah… what?”
“We will marry, yes, and I will go to America with you. We will be happy, yes?”
Is this man drunk? Or just old? Maybe both. “No, thank you,” I reply. “I’m sorry, but no.” I shake my head frantically to make sure nothing is lost in translation.
He shrugs, not too defeated. “Too bad, American girl. I make a good husband,” he says, nodding seriously and tapping his chest for emphasis.
Then he turns to the window, ignoring me as if he hadn’t just lobbed a marriage proposal my way, and I am left completely baffled.
What the what?
The bus gives another lurch, and we’re all jolted forward. I quickly forget about chickens and marriage proposals and Chuck Newcomb, and focus on surviving. As I watch the lush landscape roll by, I'm filled with anticipation. This week is going to be all about challenging my limits, and maybe even learning to stand on my head without falling over in an advanced yoga class.
Little do I know, the universe has a wicked sense of humor, and my Chuck-free bubble is about to be popped in the most spectacular way.