Chapter Sixteen
Ruby
The chocolates sit on the counter like they’re waiting for me to decide whether to eat them or toss them out. I ignore them. Measure. Mark. Drill. Repeat.
It’s easier to focus on the wall than the box. Easier than thinking about how someone knew where I live. The eerie block lettering. The note. Someone watching me at work. I suppress a shudder and press the drill a little harder than necessary.
Brent. The name settles in my head like it belongs there. Too persistent. Too interested. Too comfortable asking questions that aren’t his to ask. ‘You’re always here, right?’ My teeth grind together as I squeeze the drill.
“Careful,” Xavier says from behind me.
“I’ve got it.”
“I know you do.” That doesn’t stop him from steadying the board anyway. The muscles in his forearm flex beneath the tattoo. The lines shift with the movement, until it almost looks alive.
I drive the screw in, step back, check the line. It’s straight. At least something is.
The box hasn’t moved. Of course it hasn’t. It’s not going to get up and walk itself out.
My teeth grind together as I squeeze the drill.
He didn’t say anything about my house. Didn’t ask where I lived. But in a town this small, you don’t have to. You only have to ask the right person. Or the wrong one.
“Ruby.”
I blink. “What?”
“You missed the mark.” Xavier taps the spot lightly.
I look down. I did. “Fixable.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t ask what I was thinking about. Doesn’t push. Which is almost worse. He knows what I’m thinking about. I wish he’d say that I’m worrying for nothing. But he remains silent.
I adjust the angle, reset, try again. The drill hums. The house creaks. And underneath it…. A sound. Soft. Low. Not the wind. Not the house settling. Something else. I freeze. “You hear that?”
Xavier’s already turned toward the back of the house. “Yeah.”
His posture shifts. Subtle. But not relaxed anymore. Tight. Alert. The sound comes again. A low grunt. Rustling. Movement. From the back. The laundry room.
My stomach drops for half a second…. Until it clicks. “Oh….”
But Xavier’s already moving. Fast. Too fast for something harmless.
“Stay here,” he says, low, controlled, but there’s something under it. Like he’s expecting someone. Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do about it. And it’s kind of hot even if it’s not necessary in this case.
I follow him anyway. Because of course I do. Soft grunts. Rustling straw. The low, contented hum I’ve heard since I was small enough to sit in a feed bucket and swing my legs.
“Xavier, wait. Let me get the door. It’s harmless. Not harmless exactly, but not sinister either.” I grasp his arm and push it open. “They’re here.”
Xavier pauses behind me. “Who’s here?”
I kneel, counting. One, two, three… eight. Delilah nudges one closer, grunting. “They’re beautiful.”
Samson stands off to the edge, massive and calm, while Delilah shifts in the straw. A cluster of tiny pink bodies presses against her belly, squeaking as they search for milk.
“Oh,” Xavier says behind me. “This is not what I expected.”
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”
Xavier leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, taking in the scene. “You do this alone?”
“Usually with my dad, but I’ve done it alone.”
One of the piglets squeals, and I guide it toward Delilah. The tiny body fits in my palm, warm and impossibly fragile.
His voice is softer when he asks, “What happens to them?”
“Sometimes I keep a few. Take them out to Dad’s farm. Sell the rest to people who want them as pets.”
“For what?”
I shrug as I count them again. Still eight. “Shoes. Feed. Vet bills.”
Not a lie. Just not the whole truth. Tuition. Books. Lab fees. I set the piglet down and wipe my hands on my jeans.
“You worried?”
I glance at Delilah, at the way she moves to shield them, at Samson’s steady watch from the corner.
“Always,” I admit. “First few days are the hardest.”
He studies me. “Hog farmer’s daughter. Thought you’d be used to it.”
“They’re not inventory to me.” He doesn’t interrupt. “Samson and Delilah are my babies. I’ve had them since they were born. And it’s different when you know what can go wrong.” The words hang in the air. I don’t mean to say more but the words come out anyway. “My mom died having me.”
Silence fills the room. Why did I say that?
Xavier straightens. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not many people do.” Delilah nudges a piglet closer. “Complications. Rural hospital. Dad was alone with a newborn and a farm full of animals that didn’t care he was grieving.”
I swallow hard over the lump in my throat. Not that I miss her. I didn’t even know her. But I miss what other people had. A normal life. A mother that braided a little girl’s hair. Gentle hands to rub your back when you have a nightmare.
Not that it was awful. Dad is great. It’s just…. Complicated.
“That’s why you’re worried,” he says. It’s not a question.
I nod as he steps into the room, careful where he places his boots, and crouches beside me—not touching. Just there.
“They’re lucky to have you.” The certainty in his voice hits deeper than it should.
“They’re pigs.”
He shakes his head. “They’re yours, and you’re taking good care of them.”
Delilah grunts, settling. The piglets quiet.
For a moment, everything narrows to warm straw, soft sounds, and Xavier. I wasn’t expecting his support, but it’s nice to have.
The chocolates don’t follow me back here. Neither does the question of who sent them.