Chapter Twenty-Six
Is she even your best friend if she won’t bury a body with you?
Ruby
“So?” Elodie asks. “What’s going on with you and Will?”
I groan.
We left Will’s house two hours ago, and I still don’t know what all of… that was about. I don’t think there was a single minute he wasn’t touching me somehow – arms, hands… lips.
I shiver, bunching the fabric of Elodie’s big, puffy quilt in my hands. We’re in her bed, in her bedroom, in the stupidly expensive apartment she shares with Sol. Sweet & Salty Downtown is right across the street, so they save on commuting, but still, to save money, pretty much everything in Elodie’s room is either thrifted, gifted, or handmade.
She sewed her own bedding – sheets included – out of fabric she found at an estate sale for an absolute steal. It took her weeks to finish the set, but now her bed is covered in soft, pink sheets and a “perfectly mis-matched” quilt made up of over a hundred slightly raised puffs, all sewn together. It’s surprisingly comfortable, if a little bumpy.
Her bed frame was a gift from me, technically, though it was Roman who made it. He found out she was sleeping on a single mattress on the floor and did not like that, so he spent a weekend at our parents’ house using dusty old tools in their garage to craft a queen-sized bed frame, then got her a mattress to fit it and swore me to secrecy.
Elodie flipped when we delivered it, squealing and screaming and nearly strangling me when she wrapped her arms around me and burst into tears. I bit my tongue so hard it bled to keep Roman’s secret, and I still hope that someday he’ll tell her what he did. I don’t know why he lets her believe he’s the reincarnation of Hitler. He’s annoying and a little self-righteous, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s not evil. He just suffers from the sad affliction of being a straight white male above the height of six foot. I’d probably be a little self-righteous too if I were what society deems to be the ideal specimen.
Not that I’m ever admitting that to him. The boy needs humbled.
And, frankly, so does his best friend.
Because seriously, what was that?
“I don’t know what’s going on with Will,” I answer, unclenching my hands and smoothing the puffs of Elodie’s quilt back into the perfect little hills that she worked so hard to create. “He’s acting weird.”
“I’ll say,” she says. “He’s acting hot .”
My nose scrunches. “We’re talking about Will,” I remind her, though I don’t exactly disagree. What is a neck nuzzle combined with a thigh squeeze if not hot? The question is why .
“We’re talking about hot Will. I thought Roman and I were going to have to excuse ourselves for a minute there.” She whistles, long and dramatic. “And you! Not even trying to get away. Nary a struggle was seen. Methinks my bestie is coming around to the idea of being Mrs. William Ivan Delimar Hart, hmm?”
I bristle. “How, exactly, was I meant to get away? He had his whole stupid arm locked around me half the day.”
“Ahh, and what an arm it is,” she sighs. “You are one lucky girl.”
“Yeah.” My eyes roll. “I feel real lucky.”
She huffs. “Right. Must be so hard to have a tall, handsome man dedicate half his life to you. His loyalty is a curse. His muscles are a burden. A moment of silence for Ruby’s love life, if you please.”
Hmph. “You forgot the part where actually he isn’t in love with me, and also he’s annoying and stupid.”
Elodie grunts. “If this were a book and you were the main character, I’d DNF. You’re the annoying one. What’s he got to do to convince you? What more could you possibly want? He’s gone for you. He loves you. He wants to marry you and have your babies and live happily ever after. What is the issue here?”
My mouth tugs down. “El, you don’t even read.”
“I’ll have you know,” she snaps. “That reading my Amber D’Amore books over and over still counts as reading!”
Right. Amber D’Amore. Elodie’s favorite author and the reason for her ever-growing collection of Barbie VHS tapes, courtesy of some book character’s obsession with them.
“That’s not even the point,” I grunt.
“Oh? Then what’s the point?” she replies, definitely pinching the bridge of her nose.
“The point, ” I say, “is that it’s getting really frustrating to have to constantly remind everyone that he is joking . I don’t know what today was about. Maybe he thinks it’s funny? He’s never acted like that before. I don’t even know why he would-” I stop, eyes narrowing.
“What?” Elodie asks, and the bed shifts as she rolls toward me. “Why he would act totally in love with you? Is it, perhaps, because he is?”
“Not that,” I snap, heart pounding an angry beat in my chest. “That brat wasn’t asleep!”
He’s dead. He’s so. Freaking. Dead.
“Uh, what?” Elodie asks.
“In the car, El!” I fume. “In the car! He was faking!”
“What’s that got to do with you realizing he’s in love with you? You know, this is just like that time you tried to convince me there was a spider in your room to get out of having to tell me that no, you didn’t want to go to that mountain retreat. Even though I told you, there were only three hikes planned the whole weekend, and they were all less than ten miles!”
“That little weasel was eavesdropping .” I sit up, twist until my feet hit the floor, and stand. “Get up,” I order. “We’re killing a man this evening.”
Elodie, notably, does not make any getting up noises.
“Eavesdropped on what?” she asks.
I grab my cane from where it leans in the corner of the small room, beside her dresser – tall, smooth, real wood, and found on the side of the road in mint condition.
“Eavesdropped on me trying to shut Roman up by mentioning how his bestie isn’t interested in me on a physical level.” I drop into a fairly comfortable high-back vintage chair Elodie found at a massive antique mall in Indianapolis for ten bucks. It needed to be reupholstered, which El did with thrifted curtains found at the same mall. I pull my shoes out from where I’d stashed them under it and start shoving them on.
“Isn’t interested in you on a-” El chokes. “Okay, girl, I think it’s time we truly address the delusion and denial that you live in.”
“No, it’s time for you to put your shoes on so that we can go kill William Hart,” I retort, dropping my hastily shod feet to the carpet.
“Ruby, the man looks at you like you are one of those apple tarts Roman made earlier today. He fairly drools when you walk into a room. One time, I saw him walk into a pillar at the mall because he was so focused on your backside. I sincerely do not think that there’s an issue with attraction. What are you even on about?”
“It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t attracted to me,” I hiss. “Because soon, he’ll be six feet under.”
“Actually,” she says, fun fact voice firmly in place, “they bury people four feet under nowadays. Too many structural issues in the dirt when they went that far down.”
“El?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to join him four feet under?”
She huffs, and still does not make any getting up noises.
“Elodie, let’s go, ” I urge, standing from the chair and gesturing for her to take my place. Shoes don’t put themselves on.
“Nobody is killing Will,” she says. “We’ve got no leg to stand on. We eavesdropped on him and Roman all the time in high school.”
“That’s different.” Obviously.
“Oh? Well, I disagree, and I’m the one who can drive, sooo…”
“This is the worst sleepover ever,” I declare, scowling.
“Oh nooo,” she sighs. “Whatever shall I do?” The bed creaks as she rolls, then there’s rattling at her bedside table – gifted to her from an older woman who used to pretend to read her palm every Sunday. “I guess we’ll just have to watch a movie. Braid each other’s hair. Paint our nails. You know, the scourge of sleepovers everywhere.”
The opening song of a Barbie movie sings through the combination TV and VCR that sits on top of the dresser, forever ready to entertain from the collection of VHS tapes lined up beside it – mostly older Barbie and Disney movies.
“Take your shoes off,” she says. “We won’t be able to keep our deposit if the carpets are yucky.”
I glare, but eventually – grudgingly – realize she’s right. I’m not going anywhere without her cooperation.
I’ll just have to kill Will on Monday instead.
Two days.
That’s fine. It’ll give me time to plot.
I toe my shoes off, shoving them back under the chair, then return my cane to its spot in the corner before I flop onto the bed with a grunt. “I’ll remember this,” I warn. “The next time you want a partner in crime.”
“Uh-huh,” Elodie mumbles, unconcerned. “You want me to make us some popcorn?”
I sniff. “Obviously.”
Tinkling chuckles are her response.
Five minutes later, we’re cuddled up, singing along to The Princess and The Pauper through mouthfuls of popcorn and laughter.
It’s no premeditated murder, but I suppose this isn’t the worst way we could spend the night.