Chapter Eighty-Nine
Ruby
The gravel crunches under Xavier’s tires as we pull into my driveway. Neither of us moves. The porch light spills across the yard, catching the fence line, the pig pen beyond it. No movement. No shapes where there shouldn’t be.
“Everything looks good,” Xavier says.
“Don’t say that.” I shudder at the words. He’s right, but it doesn’t ever stop the feeling of being on edge. And it feels like we’re tempting fate when we say anything out loud.
Squirt comes barreling toward us the second we open the backdoor, hooves thudding unevenly across the floor. He nudges hard into my leg, grunting, already searching for food.
“Hey,” I laugh, bracing myself as I step out of the way, letting him join us in the yard. “You’re going to knock me over.”
He pushes again, insistent, damp snout rooting at my jacket pocket.
“You spoil that pig,” Xavier says.
“He’s hungry.”
“He’s always hungry.”
“Same,” I shoot back, trying to push back the unease of spending time with my friends while pretending nothing's going on between Xavier and me.
They didn’t ask. But I know they wanted to. Every time the conversation drifted anywhere close to Xavier, I steered it somewhere else, to anything else.
I didn’t want to see the sympathy in their eyes when I insisted we were ‘just friends.’ Or hear myself say I was fine. None of us would believe it.
And Lindsey.... Of course she’d shown up. Maybe she was there for Sam. Maybe. But I couldn’t ignore the way her attention kept drifting back to Xavier. The way she’d found reasons to be near him. The way she’d watched him even when someone else was talking.
I knew that look. Not because I’d seen it on someone else. Because I’d spent weeks trying to hide it on myself.
And hearing him say we’re just friends to Lindsey shouldn’t hurt, because that’s the story we’re selling, but it did. Way more than I wanted it to.
He huffs a laugh as we near the pig pen. The second they spot the bucket, the entire pen comes alive. Grunts. Snorts. Piglets darting over one another like the world might end if breakfast is thirty seconds late.
“They act like you haven't fed them in a week.”
“They're dramatic.”
“You sure they didn’t learn that from you?”
I glance sideways. “I’ve never been dramatic.”
He laughs. The sound catches me off guard, sending a zing of adrenaline through me. “Ruby….”
“What?”
“You’ve argued with me over insulation.”
I cock my head sideways. “You were interfering when I had everything under control.”
“You gave me a ten-minute lecture because I called Samson ‘the pig.’”
This time, I cross my arms over my chest and tap my shoe on the ground, but my heart thuds harder. One of the things that’s always drawn me to Xavier is his sense of humor. “Because he has a name.”
His grin widens. “See?”
Laughter spills from my lips. “You forgot the part where you deserved every one of those lectures.”
“I probably did.” The seriousness of his tone takes me by surprise.
I stop at the gate, reaching for the latch. He notices. Doesn't say anything. His hand settles lightly against the middle of my back. Just enough. The hesitation disappears. I pull the gate open.
Samson lumbers over, giving Xavier an appraising look. Xavier looks right back. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“He doesn’t.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
I dump feed into the trough. Samson shoulders another pig out of the way.
Xavier watches him. “He's kind of a jerk.”
I glance at Samson. Then at Xavier. “I can see why you two don’t get along.”
His head turns. “Did you compare me to a pig?”
“I compared the pig to you.”
“That somehow feels worse.”
I shrug. “I said what I said.”
His laugh follows me into the pen. Warm. Easy. The kind that makes the cold evening feel a little less chilly. I smile, but my gaze drifts briefly past the pen. Tree line. Fence. Nothing there. I check again.
Inside, Xavier shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on the stack of trim boards propped against the wall before settling on me. “What’re we tackling tonight?”
I glance around the kitchen, tapping a finger against my chin like I'm debating it. “The window trim.”
He follows my gaze, then bends to flip open the toolbox with a practiced snap. “Good choice.”
The next hour passes the way most evenings have lately. One of us measures. The other cuts. He hands me the nail gun without asking. I already know which pencil is his. He already knows where I keep the wood filler.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped explaining things. We just.... Work.
He’s holding one end of the trim while I line up the other when our shoulders bump. “You keep drifting into my workspace.”
“This is my house.”
“Technicality.”
I roll my eyes. “You're lucky you're useful.”
“I hear that a lot.”
I reach for the hammer at the same time he does. Our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away.
He winks. “Ladies first.”
“I’ve seen you steal the last cinnamon roll.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “That was survival.”
“It was selfish.”
“Worth it.”
I laugh as he hugs me and then lets me go again. It comes easier than it should. Like this. Like us. The thought settles heavier than I want it to.
I keep my attention on the trim as he snatches up the hammer. “So....” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He glances over. “So?”
I force myself to keep my attention on the wall. “Our friends.”
His hammer pauses. “What about them?”
“They kept looking at us like they suspect something is going on.”
Silence. Just long enough for me to wish I hadn't said anything. “They’ll get over it.”
“Right.” I swallow hard.
‘They’ll get over it.’ Will they? Or are they just seeing what I’ve been trying not to? That I’m building this up into something it isn’t, and the fall is going to be epic. The real question is, will I get over it?
He goes back to the trim. Like the conversation is over. Like it isn't sitting in the middle of the room with us.
Because of course that's his answer: ignore it. Don't name it. Pretend it isn't there. It's exactly what he's always done.
The problem is.... I don't know how much longer I can.