Chapter Four
Kicking puppies is actually not that fun, it turns out.
Ruby
The end of the workday is, inarguably, the worst part of my day.
Why is it the worst part of my day, when most people herald the end of working hours as if it were the second coming of Christ himself?
I’ll give you one guess.
“You ready to rumble, Rubble?” Will asks, bursting into my office. Uninvited.
“You’re supposed to meet me downstairs,” I remind him, like I do every day.
“I’d rather walk you down,” he answers, like he does every day.
I sigh.
He approaches, and I give him my back, arms reaching behind me to slide into the coat I know he’s grabbed from the hook by my door.
The thick wool slides up my arms to settle on my shoulders, and Will’s hands follow, squeezing me once before moving to pull my hair out of the collar.
“Do you need to grab anything?” he asks.
I shake my head, lifting my industrial-sized tote bag to show him I’ve got all I need.
He takes it from me.
“Will,” I snap, making a grab for it.
“It really brings out my eyes!” he claims, gently pushing me toward the door.
“I have it on good authority that that bag is hot pink,” I say as we exit my office.
“So are my eyes,” he responds. “I can only assume you got the bag as a tribute to their beauty. Your obsession is noted, lovely. I’m touched.”
I sniff, not dignifying that nonsense with an answer as we pass empty assistant desks to make our way to the elevators. It’s hours past the end of regular working hours, and I take the opportunity to enjoy the silence and calm that isn’t typically present here.
Our floor houses the entire financial team for Whirlwind Branding, a firm that specializes in branding for large companies and corporations. We’ve got some of the best artists, marketers, and social media experts in the world, which requires some of the best financial experts in the world.
Supposedly, that’s Will and me.
And our team, of course.
Ten of the brightest and boldest math nerds on the planet.
You’d think ten people plus support staff wouldn’t make that much noise.
You’d be wrong.
Between meetings, hallway chats, keyboard clicking, printers printing, and calculators calculating, the noise levels can get a lot higher than I ever would’ve guessed before I started working here.
Which makes this end-of-day quiet all the better.
It’s rare, and it’s welcome, and it’s glorious.
Until Will opens his big mouth and ruins it.
“What are we having for dinner?” he asks.
My eye twitches.
“You could have dinner at your own house,” I suggest.
He scoffs, as expected, and I sigh.
The downside of living with my brother, also known as the best man I have ever met? The wonderful, kind, generous, perfect man has declared our house “a home for all”, meaning Will has carte blanche to come over and act like he lives there. Which he practically does, honestly, since Roman renovated the guest bedroom specifically to suit Will. I’m told it’s decorated in a nearly identical replica of his bedroom at his house.
When asked why the man would ever need a room at our house, Roman said it was “ so cruel” to keep making Will sleep on our busted couch every night after he inevitably ended up at our house for dinner or a movie or games or to do whatever it is that he and Roman do after I’ve run up to my room to get away from them – usually right after Will has alluded to our “great love” for the millionth time.
My protests that Will could simply stay at his own home were met with immense confusion.
Boys are so stupid.
“Why did you even buy that house if you were never going to be in it?” I ask into the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
The elevator dings, and we step into the box of terror, still without a response from Will.
I frown.
“Will?” I ask, gripping the safety rail and turning toward the spot behind me where he usually settles.
“Do you want me to stop visiting?” he asks.
I start, twisting to face the elevator door.
“What are you doing?”
Why isn’t he getting in?
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks again, and the elevator shifts with his weight seconds before the doors grate to a close.
My brows furrow.
“Stop what?”
“Stop visiting,” his voice is soft, almost hurt, and entirely not where it’s supposed to be.
“Why are you standing there?”
He’s supposed to be behind me, in the corner. He is not supposed to be in the front corner, opposite of my side.
I do not like this.
I do not like it at all.
“Ruby, focus, please,” he mutters. “Visiting. Do you want me to stop?”
“I want you to get back in your corner where you belong,” I answer.
Distressing me further, he moves, but not to his corner. He approaches me, and the heat of his hand hovers above my cheek, not quite making contact.
“I’ll get in my corner after you answer my question. Do you want me to stop coming over?”
I gulp, fighting off the frazzlement that him breaking routine is causing.
Do I want him to stop coming over all the time? Absolutely.
But Roman.
Roman, who loves me with everything he is, and loves Will just as much.
Roman, who considers Will to be the brother of his heart.
Roman, who would be devastated if I told his brother he wasn’t welcome in our home.
I sigh.
“Roman’s making lasagna.”
A pause, then the heat above my cheek becomes his hand on my skin, sliding into my waves to pull my face forward to rest against his chest. His other arm wraps around my shoulders, holding me tight against him.
“I love lasagna,” he tells my hair.
My nose wrinkles.
“I love not being forcibly hugged,” I respond, but it’s lost in the soft material of his coat.
Unable to escape him, lest I let go of the rail and we fall to our doom, I stand perfectly still, frowning into his chest until he lets me go.
When he finally steps back, his hands slide to my upper arms, loosely holding me there.
I scowl.
“Why are you being weird?”
“Since when is hugging you weird?” he asks, squeezing my arms once before letting go.
Cool air sweeps in as he steps away, then a thump sounds from his regular corner when he plops himself into it. Frowning, I face the doors, determined not to let his weirdness get to me. He wants to act out of character and then deny it? Fine. I’m not going to reward him for it by giving him extra attention.
One tense eternity later, we reach the ground floor, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“It’s snowing,” Will says. “If you wait, I’ll bring the car to you. Should only take me a few minutes.”
I nod, more than happy to avoid a snowy, icy walk to the car. A quick “wait here” and he’s off, blasting me with frigid air as he goes through the door. I shiver, bundling further into my baby blue peacoat.
“Ruby!” a male voice proclaims behind me, and I startle before gathering myself.
“Brian,” I greet, smiling in his direction. “What are you still doing here?”
Our resident mailroom master moves closer, keys jangling at his hip as he walks.
“Just doing a bit of sorting. A bit of delivering. You know how it is,” he says. His keys stop their song several feet away, a little to the left of me, and I squint at his slightly darker-than-the- things-behind-him blob.
“Sorting and delivering this late? I hope they’re paying you well.”
“Tonight was more of a… passion project, of sorts,” he says, eliciting an eyebrow raise from me.
Mailmen have passion projects? Involving mail ?
“You’re waiting for Will?” he asks.
I nod, mind stuck on what sort of passion could possibly happen in a mailroom.
Oh. I shudder.
Gross. Ew. No.
“Brian…” I hesitate, not wanting to ask but feeling obligated, as a senior member of the company. “You weren’t… with someone, were you? Just now?”
I hold my breath and cross my fingers. Brian’s always seemed like a nice guy – a little bit chaotic, sure, but ultimately friendly and kind. I’d hate to find out he’s doing unmentionable things when he thinks the building is free.
“With som– oh! My goodness, of course not!”
I let out my breath, relieved beyond belief at the genuine offense in his tone. I’ve never been so happy to offend someone in my life.
“Well! You said passion! What’s passionate about mail ?” I defend myself.
“What’s passionate about… I’ll tell you what’s passionate about mail!” he proclaims. “Every single thing about it, that’s what!”
My brows rise high on my forehead, unconvinced.
“You’ll see!” he all but yells. “And when you do, it’ll be the most marvelous experience of your life!”
A freezing breeze hits me from behind, followed by Will’s voice. “Did you just tell the blind girl she’ll see?” he asks, choking on laughter.
“And you’ll see too!” Brian huffs.
I repress a snort as his keys jingle-jangle away – not in the direction of the door, I note.
“Nice seeing you, Brian! Have a good night!” Will calls after him, amusement lacing his voice.
“Be nice,” I chastise. “He’s probably exhausted from his passionate evening of mail.”
A pause.
“Passionate evening of… mail?”
I nod, somber.
“It’s a passion-filled field, you know.”
It has never been harder to keep a straight face.
“Why do you keep saying passion?” he asks. He sounds funny – kind of wheezy.
Weird.
I shrug, cool as a cucumber, and make my way toward the door.
“Let’s get home,” I say. “I’m hungry.”
Hesitation, then, so softly I nearly miss it, he murmurs, “Yeah, Rubble. Let’s get home.”