Chapter Ten Ben
Iam inarguably the dumbest man alive.
I’ve been on the road with Ruby for barely an hour, but I’m already starting to think that this trip is doomed to be a disaster.
Ruby is right. It’s normal to be disliked. The fact that I’ve been so caught up about why she dislikes me has now turned this entire situation into one that is unbearably awkward.
Frankly, I’m ashamed of myself.
As soon as a sign for a rest area appears, I announce that we’re stopping there. Ruby protests, saying we have to make it to Manhattan before the next storm starts, but then she stops herself and admits that she does, in fact, need to use the restroom.
We pull into the parking lot of the nondescript gray building that holds the bare minimum of roadside needs—bathrooms, gas pumps, an information desk, and an off-brand coffeeshop. Ruby unbuckles her seat belt and practically flings herself out of the car, half-jogging toward the building in her efforts to get away from the tense atmosphere we both created.
I take my time, pausing outside long enough to lean my forehead against the side of the car and close my eyes. Inhaling deeply, I try to reconcile my blurry memories of the alluring, intelligent woman I met eleven months ago with the tempestuous goddess that has now twirled back into my life.
I kissed her. I kissed Ruby.
It had been a risk I was so desperate to take. I can recall that much. At that point, we’d spent almost two hours roaming the endless stacks of the Strand. We had found ourselves up on the second floor, huddled away in one of the more dimly lit corners of the cluttered shelves of books. I was telling her about how I once tried to teach myself French by reading TheLord of the Rings in the language which, given the wealth of made-up languages throughout the book, was a complete nightmare. Thanks to the dyslexia that I also struggled with, I had trouble differentiating French from Tolkien’s multiple languages for the elves, meaning that most of what I tried to read was absolute gibberish to my eyes.
She was grinning as I told the stupid story, laughing at my small misfortune in a way that made me feel like it was hardly a misfortune at all. She murmured something about how she was semi-fluent in French—which, in hindsight, is definitely because she’s a ballerina, even though she never mentioned that—and then I pulled one of those lame one-liners about how maybe she could teach me French and blah, blah, blah…
Before I had been fully aware of what I was doing, I was tucking a strand of wavy brown hair behind her ear, gazing into those bright blue eyes, and leaning in to press my lips against hers.
Thinking back, I’m not sure I know how long the kiss truly lasted. It could have been seconds. Or minutes. Or lifetimes. All I can remember is that she tasted like peach lip balm: sweet and addictive.
When the kiss was over, she blushed and looked away. I had considered going in for a second kiss, but then she subtly moved further down the narrow aisle of books and plucked one of them off the shelf. A pointed change in the mood.
Which was good, of course. Making out in public is something teenagers do.
Never mind that I wanted to do it anyway.
I thought about her for weeks afterward, especially when she didn’t answer any of my messages.
Stupid. I should have sent more than two texts. I should have tried harder to reach out once I was back in the States.
I grumble under my breath as I straighten to my full height and head inside the small building. Ruby is nowhere to be seen, so I duck into the men’s room.
Not that any of it matters anyway. Once again, Ruby is right. There might be no official rules about it, but if word spread around the company that Ruby was involved with someone on the Board of Directors, it wouldn’t bode well for her reputation. It doesn’t matter how ridiculous and unfair that is. It doesn’t matter that no one on the board has any power to decide which dancers are promoted. It’s just the way things work.
Still… we could keep it a secret. Nobody would have to know. Or I could step down. Find a different artistic cause to champion.
I don’t want to do that, though.
As I wash my hands, I scoff under my breath. I don’t know why I’m debating this as if there’s any chance in the world that Ruby would consider going on a real date with me. There will be no second chance between us. She’s obviously not interested.
I push open the bathroom door.
Then stumble when I run directly into a slender body.
Ruby lets out a startled noise and hops backward. I reach out for her shoulders to steady her. For a moment, we stand there like that, awkwardly half-embracing right outside the bathrooms.
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I should watch where I’m going.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. I can”t read her expression but I feel the intensity of her eyes on mine and at least it feels like she’s not completely full of hatred anymore. “If you cause me to trip and break my ankle, I’ll hunt you for sport.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “I’d let you, honestly.”
We both know that, to a ballerina, a broken ankle is no laughing matter, but the tiny joke seems to lighten something between us.
Suddenly, I remember that I’m still holding on to her and let go as if I’ve touched a hot stove. I take a step back. The weight of the awkward smile on my face is uncomfortable.
Ruby clears her throat quietly and looks down at her shoes. “I’m, uh, going to grab something to eat. Would you like anything?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just coffee, I think.” I step away toward the tiny café, and Ruby walks into the little convenience store area without another word.
What just happened?
Did that stumbling collision just knock something out of balance? Or did it knock something back into balance?
Was she also thinking about that kiss we shared?
The teenage girl behind the counter at the café raises her eyebrows at me. I realize I’ve been standing there, stupidly silent and unmoving, for several long seconds.
“Medium coffee. Cream and sugar. Please.”
“That’ll be three forty-one,” she replies in a bored voice.
Three bucks for bad highway coffee? I might have so-called endless flows of money, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the cost of things. I’m not out of touch. I wish Ruby knew that.
I wish I could stop caring so desperately about what Ruby thinks of me.
I swipe my card, accept my coffee, and then head back out to the car to wait for Ruby. She emerges from the building a few minutes later, her long hair swishing from side to side as she floats gracefully across the parking lot. My lips curve into a smile of their own accord as I watch her approach, and it’s an effort to return my expression to neutral when she opens the door and slides smoothly onto the seat.
She’s holding a green juice and one of those protein bars that usually tastes more like sawdust than anything else. I wrinkle my nose.
“What?” she snaps.
“Nothing.”
“You’re judging my snack choice.”
“I would not call that a snack.”
“What would you call it then?”
“Torture.”
To my utter surprise, Ruby snorts. “I know. But I need to make sure I’m getting enough protein.”
I nod in understanding. It’s not just about vanity or obsession with flawless macronutrient balance. The fact of the matter is that every single inch of Ruby’s muscle mass is carefully crafted to help her body do something that it technically shouldn’t be able to do. Those muscles need to be fed properly or they’ll fail her. Meaning, if she tries to dance on tired or weakened muscles, she could risk a career-ending injury. Just one single misstep could destroy everything.
So, I don’t say anything else about the sawdust snack.
“How is your coffee?” Ruby asks as I merge back onto the highway.
I’m so shocked by the simple, polite question that I almost find myself laughing.
“Disgusting,” I answer honestly.
“You didn’t drown it in cream and sugar?”
“I tried. How do you know I…?” The rest of my sentence dies on my tongue.
We went to a café that day. After we left the Strand.
And she remembers my coffee order.
“In my defense,” Ruby murmurs, sounding oddly nervous, “my memory is a little too good. I blame it on the fact that I’ve been memorizing ballet combinations since I was five.”
“No, I remember,” I tell her, switching lanes if only to give myself something to do other than openly stare at her. “You ordered a matcha latte. With almond milk.”
“Oat milk.”
“Oh.”
“I’m kidding. It was almond milk. More protein in almonds.”
I sneak a glance at her. She’s not quite smiling, but her eyes are dancing with amusement. It’s the same look I saw her give to other wedding guests all weekend. I never thought I’d actually get to witness it being directed at myself.
The conversation dies after that. Apparently, that’s the best we can do after the dramatic explosion of truth that cleared up everything that happened eleven months ago. We’re reduced to brief discussions of protein and caffeine sources.
I drum my fingers on the dashboard, eyes on the road.
I should say something. She should say something.
This is oddly reminiscent of the days following the time we spent together last year. Clearly, neither one of us is willing to stick our neck out and take the risk of breaking the ice.
“So,” I blurt. “You started dancing when you were five?”
“Yep.”
“Did you know you wanted to be a dancer even back then?”
Ruby pauses, as if trying to figure out why I’m suddenly asking these questions. Then, to my relief, she actually answers.
“Not really. My mom put Amy and me into a ballet class at a local school. Amy wasn’t really into it, so she quit after a few months.”
“And you were obsessed from the very first day?” I guess.
“Not really. I liked it plenty, but for a couple of years it was nothing more than a fun activity I did after school sometimes.”
“What changed?”
“My parents took me into Boston to see Swan Lake.”
“Ah.”
“After that, my mom had to bribe me to take off my ballet slippers and tutus. I was always twirling and leaping around the house. I think my parents must have assumed it was a phase at first, but they agreed to let me graduate up to the more advanced class. And then the teacher recommended that I start attending a more formal ballet school in the city. I guess I was showing a lot of potential, or something like that.”
“That must have been really exciting.”
Please keep talking, I want to beg her. The sound of your voice is like music to my ears.
“My parents were amazing about it. I mean, they drove me an hour and a half into Boston twice a week so that I could go to the fancy school. They didn’t even care that there was a very real chance that I might get a little bit older and suddenly lose interest in it.”
“Except you didn’t lose interest.”
“Nope. And then when I was twelve, I started training en pointe and that sealed the deal. I can’t remember there ever being a moment after that when I didn’t want to be a dancer. I never considered anything else.”
I open my mouth to respond—to tell her that she’s incredible and inspiring and a man like me could never deserve a woman like her, so it’s probably a good thing that we messed it all up all those months ago—but then a musical ding echoes from the dashboard.
Ruby cranes her neck to see. “What’s that?”
I frown at the little orange symbol. “Low tire pressure.”
“What?”
“It’s probably fine,” I say quickly. “This car is brand new. The sensors are just really sensitive. I’ll pull into the next rest area we see.”
“Even brand-new cars can get flat tires, Ben.”
“We don’t have a flat tire, Ruby. We just have low tire pressure.”
“Because something on the roads probably punctured the tire! They were a mess from the storm!”
“Or because I’ve put hundreds of miles on this car recently and therefore, the tires have just deflated a little bit.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“I think it is.”
Ruby huffs. “I can’t afford delays. Just pull off at the next exit.”
“I literally just said I’d do that.”
“You said the next rest area. That’s not for another forty miles.”
I let out a long sigh. There goes every ounce of pleasantness we managed to cultivate.
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
Except, it’s not fine. Because five minutes later, the dashboard makes another little ding, followed by an extremely insistent ding-ding-ding.
The orange light turns red. The steering wheel starts edging toward the right, as if the suspension is suddenly very off balance.
“Darn it,” I mutter. “I have to pull over.”
“Wait until we get to the next exit!”
“That’s in another seven miles, Ruby! I can’t drive with a flat tire on the highway for seven miles!”
“I thought you said it wasn’t flat!”
“Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I!?”
Ruby lets out a noise that sounds an awful lot like a snarl. I focus on safely navigating to the breakdown lane, then slowing down to a steady crawl until we come to a stop securely off to the side. Frankly, I deserve a pat on the back for that admirably calm handling of a potentially dangerous situation. However, when I glance at Ruby, she’s back to looking like she wishes she could explode my head with the force of her thoughts alone.
I open my door, grateful that the highway is fairly empty up this way. I’d really rather not have too many witnesses to Ruby flaying me alive.
Because we do, indeed, have a flat tire. I lean down, finding the culprit right away. There’s not one, but two nails embedded in the front right tire, either from navigating the messy roads back on the Cape or from sheer unluckiness. The tire itself is sagging sadly, losing more air by the second.
I cringe, climbing back in the car and reaching for my phone.
“It’s flat,” I mutter.
“I’m going to strangle you.”
“Well, at least wait until after I call AAA.”