Chapter 11 Ruby
RUBY
“Ruby? I need you to open the gate.”
Athena’s voice cuts through the fog of wine-induced sleep, and I jerk awake, momentarily disoriented.
The Aston Martin idles in front of my driveway.
Heat rushes to my face as I realize I’ve been sleeping—actually sleeping—in my neighbor’s car.
The last fragments of a dream slip away, leaving only the warmth of the leather seat against my skin.
“God, I’m sorry,” I mumble, fumbling for the gate remote in my purse. My fingers feel clumsy, disconnected from my brain. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.” The admission feels like failure. I’ve been shamefully reduced to dozing like a child on the drive home.
“Don’t be sorry. You clearly needed it,” Athena says. The gates swing open, and she guides the car up my drive.
The house looms before us, dark except for the motion-sensing lights that flicker on as we approach.
It looks forbidding at night—all sharp angles and empty windows, like a mausoleum dressed up as a home.
Claire loved this house. She saw past the stark modernity to its potential for warmth and life. Now it’s just a shell.
“Thank you so much. I can manage from here,” I say as Athena kills the engine. The words come out less confidently than I’d like. “Thank you.”
I push open the door and stand, but the world tilts alarmingly. My hand shoots out to steady myself against the car, leaving a sweaty palm print on its flawless polish. The wine that made me brave at dinner now makes me weak and wobbly, and I could kick myself for having too much.
“Clearly,” Athena says dryly. She’s already out of the car and at my side, one hand on my elbow. “Let me help you inside.”
“That’s not necessary,” I protest, but my feet betray me, stumbling on the flagstone path.
Athena’s arm slides around my waist, strong and sure, and something in me wants to lean into that strength, to let someone else be in control for once.
The thought terrifies me but right now, I have no choice.
“Your keys?” she asks, and I surrender them without argument.
My heels echo in the emptiness as we enter the foyer, and Athena guides me toward the stairs.
“I really am fine,” I murmur, but there’s no conviction in my words. “Second door on the right.”
My bedroom door swings open, and I become vaguely aware of what Athena must see—the untouched side of the king-size bed; Claire’s reading glasses on her nightstand, gathering dust as my cleaner is not allowed to touch them; the framed photo of us in Tuscany that I can’t bring myself to look at but can’t bear to take down either.
Athena helps me sit on the edge of the bed and turns on the light, then stands there, uncertain. She fiddles with her emerald bracelet as she looks down at me. Gone is the powerful casino owner, the mysterious neighbor. In her place stands a woman who has no idea what to do.
“Can I get you some water?” she finally asks, and the simple kindness in her voice undoes me.
A sob rises in my throat, unexpected and unstoppable. I try to swallow it back, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide. The dam I’ve built around my grief develops a crack, then another, then shatters completely.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, but the words dissolve into tears. Real tears, the kind I haven’t allowed myself since those first raw days after the accident. My body curls in on itself, protection against a pain that is unbearable. “I’m so sorry.”
The bed dips beside me, and then Athena’s arms are around me, pulling me close. I should resist—this woman is practically a stranger, and definitely dangerous in ways I don’t fully understand. But I’m so tired of being strong, of being alone.
“Let it out,” she murmurs, one hand stroking my hair. “I’ve got you.”
The tenderness in her touch only makes it worse, and two years’ worth of contained grief comes pouring out in great, wracking sobs that shake my whole body.
I cry for Claire, for the future we lost, for the woman I used to be.
I cry for the empty house and the untouched piano and all the phone calls I never returned.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn, until my blouse is stained with tears and mascara.
Athena holds me through it all. She doesn’t try to shush me or tell me it will be okay. She just lets me fall apart, murmuring soft words in Greek.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper when the sobs finally subside a little. “I don’t know how to be alone. I’m on leave and the house is so quiet.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Everyone says it gets easier, but it doesn’t. It just gets…different.”
“I know,” Athena says softly, and something in her voice makes me believe she actually does know what I’m talking about. She shifts, spooning me, and strokes my shoulder. I’m embarrassed but too exhausted to care.
“Claire would hate what I’ve become,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “She wanted us to travel more, to have adventures. To start a family. Instead, I hide in my office and pretend the world doesn’t exist.”
“Grief isn’t linear,” Athena says, now stroking my hair. The gesture feels intimate. “It’s not something you can schedule or control, no matter how good you are at controlling everything else.”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “Control? I just fell asleep in your car and I’m having a complete breakdown in your arms. I’d say my control is pretty much shot.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she whispers. “Sometimes we need to lose control to find ourselves again.”
I turn onto my back to look at her sideways, wiping at my face. I must look a mess—mascara streaked, lipstick smeared, eyes swollen. But when I meet Athena’s gaze, there’s no judgment there. Only understanding.
Exhaustion washes over me, the combination of wine, emotion, and release leaving me barely able to keep my eyes open.
My body feels heavy, weighted down by the magnitude of everything I’ve been holding back.
The sobs have subsided into occasional hiccups, but tears still leak silently from the corners of my eyes, tracing warm paths down my cheeks.
“You should rest,” Athena says, her hand still in my hair. The kindness in her touch almost breaks me again—how long has it been since anyone has shown me such tenderness? Since I’ve allowed myself to receive it?
I nod, unable to form words. My bed has never felt so inviting, the promise of sleep a blessed escape from the rawness of emotion.
Through half-closed lids, I watch Athena get up. She looks around the room and spots the cashmere throw draped over the reading chair in the corner—Claire’s chair.
She takes it and returns to the bed, spreading it over me. The soft weight of the cashmere settles around my shoulders, and I curl deeper into its familiar comfort.
“Thank you,” I whisper, though the words feel inadequate for what she’s given me tonight—permission to break, to feel, to be human again, if only for a moment.
She pauses at the bedroom door. “Sleep, Ruby,” she says, and I’m already drifting, caught in that hazy space between waking and dreams.
The last thing I register is the soft click of my bedroom door closing, followed by the distant sound of her shoes on the marble stairs. Then sleep claims me completely, pulling me under into blessed darkness where grief can’t follow.