Chapter Three
Ruby
I’m late.
Again.
DC traffic is my nemesis.
A break miraculously forms in the line and the car in front of me lurches forward.
I’m about to follow when a red sportscar cuts directly in front of me.
I growl, slamming on the brake and laying on my horn.
That’s about as outwardly aggressive as I get, but inside, I’m fuming, yelling things like, “Thanks a lot, buddy! It’s not like I’ve got a job to get to or anything! ”
The line-cutter can’t hear my thoughts, but I still pretend he senses my rage. That knowledge makes me feel the tiniest bit better. Even if I’m going to be late.
I push the button on my car’s screen to give Alayna a call. Thank the good Lord she arrives early to open the salon for me most days. It’s within walking distance for her, so she’s happy to do it. But as the owner and manager, I should be the early one—or at the very least, ON TIME.
“Hey, you.” Alayna’s voice rings out through my sensible sedan’s speakers. “Late again?”
A weary sigh leaks out of me. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m so sorry, Al.”
“Girl, don’t be sorry. You live like forty minutes away. You’re allowed to be late sometimes.”
“You mean regularly.”
“Ruby, you’re not late that often…anymore.”
I grip the steering wheel and release a breath.
I know she’s right. Since Mom’s been on the upswing, it’s gotten easier for me to arrive at work on time.
She still can’t bathe herself or do all of Beckett’s morning routine, but she can manage to get him around for school and accompany him to the bus stop in her electric wheelchair.
By her simply being present for him in the mornings, it’s made a huge difference in how much time I have to get ready.
“Thanks, friend,” I say, hoping she can hear the gratitude in my voice. Traffic switches from a slow crawl to a steady flowing stream. “Traffic’s starting to pick up some, so I should be there in the next ten or so minutes.”
“Sounds good. See you then!”
We hang up, and I spend the rest of the drive blaring some indie pop, singing along at the top of my lungs. I need a pick me up today, and this is it.
By the time I walk into the salon more than fashionably late, Alayna’s first client is already checking out, an older gentleman with barely any hair left to even cut. “Thanks, Robert,” she says as he leaves. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
Robert offers me a small dip of his chin before ducking out through the front door. The bell jingles with his departure.
“Four weeks?” I ask Al quietly. “That seems optimistic.”
She chuckles. “The man insisted. Says it’s taken him months to find a good barber after the guy he used for nearly forty years kicked the bucket.”
“Yikes.” I wince before stuffing my purse under the front counter. “A cautionary tale, I suppose. But glad we’ve found a new repeat customer.”
“Right?” Alayna turns away from the register and leans a hip against the counter. “Rough morning?”
“Not really.” I flip my hair out of my face and stretch my arms overhead. “Just had to give Mom a quick bath and that took a little longer than expected.”
Al’s features soften like they usually do when I bring Mom up. “How’s she doing?”
“Really good, honestly. But Mr. Groves is coming over this afternoon, so she wanted to be all fresh and clean when she sees him.” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. “You know what that means.”
My friend pushes away from the counter with a laugh. “Sure do. Your mom is a beautiful woman at her age. But please explain to me how Mama Pinkerington is getting more male attention staying at home than I do going out every weekend.”
I burst out laughing, shaking my head as I hurry toward the back room. “You’re delusional, you know that? Guys fall over themselves to flirt with you at the clubs. I’ve seen it.”
“Not anymore, Ruby,” she calls from the front. “It’s been slim pickin’s ‘round here lately.”
I head straight for the fresh pot of coffee that Alayna put on this morning and pour myself a cup. After adding a splash of creamer and one sugar packet, I trek back out to the main room. “What about that guy from the bookstore? Did he ever call you back?”
Her sigh is so loud and weary, I feel it in my bones.
“No,” she says. “No, he did not.”
An obvious tinge of hurt lines my friend’s voice.
We haven’t really spoken much about the guy who asked for her number at the local bookstore last week, but I’d been meaning to bring him up.
I make a mental note to be more thoughtful and ask questions.
I’ve been trying lately, but it’s easy to forget.
Being engrossed in my own family drama for so long, it takes consistent effort and constant personal reminders to be a better friend to her.
After all, she deserves to have her thoughtfulness reciprocated. As far as I’m concerned, Alayna gets a gold star for being the realest, most faithful friend ever.
“I’m sorry, Al.” Coffee in hand, I step toward her, eyeing what level of hurt she’s experiencing. Is she genuinely upset that the guy hasn’t reached out yet or just disenchanted with the current dating scene?
She busies herself, sweeping up what little hair her new client left behind. “It’s fine. Really.” Her avoidance tells me she’s genuinely bothered by being ghosted.
“Maybe he’s just been busy with work or something.” I remind her.
“Could be,” she says with a shrug. “Better to give him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose.”
That’s what I love about her. She’s kind and forgiving, more so than any other human I’ve encountered.
“Anyway, how’s Beckett doing?” She empties her dustpan in the trash. “Still obsessed with that new game he got for his birthday?”
“Completely obsessed.” I huff a laugh. “It is pretty cool, though. The graphics are super realistic, and the quests are unique and interesting. If I was his age, I’d totally be into it too.”
“I was never really into gaming,” Al says, setting her broom and dustpan next to her station. ”I’ve always been more of a book girlie.”
Which is why I don’t tell her that I am also into Beck’s new game. I doubt she’d judge me or think I’m weird, but gaming doesn’t seem like the sort of hobby a sophisticated woman would be into. And yeah, I realize how silly that sounds. Still, I wish I was more like Al.
“A commendable hobby.” I take a long sip of my coffee, moving toward my station. “All the prettiest, smartest girls read,” I sing-song. “Or so I hear.”
Alayna laughs. “Not sure if that still rings true when the only thing I read about are fairies from fictional realms falling in love.”
“Hey, it’s still words. I say it counts.”
The doorbell chimes and one of my regulars strolls in.
And that commences my workday. Alayna and I work in sync throughout the morning, tending to some of our regular clientele with a couple of new ones mixed in.
We’ve got a systematic flow by this point.
One that a girl like me who thrives on routine can appreciate.
But for whatever reason, I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like if either of us did have a new, exciting romance to gush about when we walked in each morning. It’d certainly liven things up a bit.
***
“I’m going to hit up the bookstore on my way home. Care to join?” Al tosses her purse over her shoulder as we head toward the door.
“I would love to, but I told Mom I’d grab dinner on my way home tonight. She just texted me thirty minutes ago that Beckett’s about wiped out the snack drawer in the fridge. Guess he’s famished.”
She laughs. “Well, he is a growing boy.”
“That he is. Have fun at the bookstore, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See ya!” Al exits first, then heads toward the bookstore at the end of our block. I make a beeline for the side lot where my car is parked.
It takes a lot less time to get home than it did driving in to work, even with stopping at the local drive-thru burger joint to grab us all some dinner. By the time I walk through the door, the savory aroma of onions and Swiss cheese has my mouth watering.
I drop my wristlet and keys on the entryway table by the door and kick off my kitten heels. “Dinner has officially arrived!”
“Hey, Rube,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Beckett just finished setting the table.”
Through the living room and into the kitchen I go, holding up the food bags like trophies. “I hear there’s a twelve-year old trying to eat us out of house and home.”
“Finally!” Beckett moans, swiping both bags from my hands. “My stomach was about to turn itself inside out.”
Mom chuckles. “Oh, Beck. Since when did you get so dramatic?”
“Since he turned double digits,” I say, bending to kiss Mom on the forehead. “Hey. How’d it go today?”
“Good.” She smiles softly. “But before I tell you about my day, Beckett has some exciting news to share.”
My attention snaps to Beck. “Oh? What is it?”
He wears an expression of pure elation. “I won the tickets to Dash’s first game in the All-American hockey tournament!”
My own excitement bubbles over into a laugh. “Wow, Beck. That’s awesome! How’d you manage that?”
Dash’s latest livestream lives in my head rent-free. He seemed pretty sad. And a man that gorgeous should never be sad.
I scold myself for having a crush on my brother’s hero. It’s wrong, right? Sort of feels wrong…
“I entered the giveaway on his livestream! Will you take me?” He bounces up and down expectantly, waiting for my response. I shift my focus to Mom, whose fragile smile tugs at my heart.
“Of course I’ll go,” I say, offering Beck a smile. “It’ll be fun.”
“You know it! There’s even a meet and greet after the game!”
My earlier excitement wanes. A meet and greet? Maybe I can hide in the bathrooms or something when it’s time for that. I’m way too awkward to interact with a guy like Dash in real life. Who knows what my twisted brain would come up with?
“Sounds fun, bud,” I say before he prattles on about a few more details. Once he’s busy making his plate, I turn to Mom. “And how was your day?”
She licks her lips, avoiding my gaze. “Good, like I said. Mr. Groves stopped by at two and stayed until about thirty minutes ago.”
My eyebrows lift suspiciously. “Oh, did he?”
Beckett makes a scoffing noise. “He sure did. He even offered to help me with my language homework.” My brother glares at me over his thick-rimmed glasses, a stern implication evident in his dark blue eyes.
“And did you let him?” I ask, holding back a giggle.
“Really? I’m twelve. I can pick out prepositional phrases all on my own, thanks.”
Mom tuts and my giggle escapes despite my best efforts. “Beck,” she reprimands. “You should be nicer to Mr. Groves. He’s my very good friend.”
“Very good friend, huh?” Beckett lifts one eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Friends don’t look at each other the way you two do. It’s cringe.” His whole-body shiver is over-the-top dramatic, even for him.
“Beck!”
He ignores me and unwraps his burger, licking his lips at the sight of the greasy fare.
“Mom already told you to stop being dramatic,” I warn.
“What? It’s true. They stare at each other. And once, I even saw Mr. Groves try and hold Mom’s hand.”
My gaze swings toward my mother, who does her best to feign innocence. “He was not trying to hold my hand,” she demands. “He was simply inspecting my ring.”
“Your wedding ring?” That mental image unsettles me. “Why?”
“Not my wedding ring,” she clarifies. “My grandmother’s ring. He was asking about the stone.”
My chest deflates with relief. Mom has only ever worn two rings, her wedding ring from Dad and her grandmother’s ring. It’s a genuine ruby that’s so dark, it’s difficult to tell exactly what kind of stone it is.
“I told him it inspired your name.” Mom’s soft smile returns as she arranges her own food on her plate. “Then we got to talking about you and how proud I am of all you’ve accomplished.”
“Mom—”
“Then I went into how thankful I am that you took over most of the mom duties around here after my stroke—”
“Can we not talk about all of this right now?”
“Why?” Her face falls. “Can’t I tell people how grateful I am for you?”
I hold back a sigh. It’s not that I don’t want her to speak kindly of me to her friends, but she acts like I’m a saint, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Besides, the fear of not knowing whether or not Mom would make it through those dark days after her stroke still haunts me.
It’s been months, but I’m not sure my adrenals will ever calm down from the sheer overload of panic that awful day wrought on them.
“I only did what any good daughter would do if her mom suddenly needed her,” I say, avoiding the look she’s giving me, knowing it’ll only bring tears to my eyes.
“Honey, you went above and beyond what a good daughter would do. You stepped in, not just for me, but for Beckett, too.”
“She’s right,” Beckett says, flapping his lips together as he chews. “You pretty much became my mom for a while. It was annoying.”
Mom shakes her head before reminding him to chew with his mouth closed. “You know you needed her at the time,” Mom adds gently before holding out her hand for me to squeeze. “You needed each other.”
Those tears I knew would surface sting my eyes.
“We’ll always need each other,” I whisper. “Let’s just be thankful for where we are now.”
Mom’s face lights up. “You’re right. We are truly blessed.” She gives my hands a firm squeeze, then ruffles Beckett’s auburn hair. “All right, Mr. Man of the House. Ready to say grace?”
He nods and we all bow our heads. His prayer is short and sweet, but heartfelt all the same. And not for the first time, thankfulness for my family and all we still have overwhelms me to the point of tears.