Chapter Twelve Ben
Idon’t dislike you.
It’s not exactly high praise, but coming from Ruby, it’s almost exactly what I had hoped to hear. Still, admitting that she doesn’t dislike me doesn’t mean that she actually likes me or even tolerates me.
I feel like I’m making progress, though. Even as her mood worsens with the rainfall.
It’s not looking good. As we approach Worcester, traffic picks up. I’m guessing it’s the beginnings of rush hour combined with the collective panic brought about by the threat of yet another major storm. People are rushing to get home, to the grocery store, or to pick up their kids.
Traffic slows to a crawl on the outskirts of the small city. It’s a few minutes past four.
“I think we should have left Mermaid Shores earlier,” I say. I’m craning my neck, trying to see further ahead of the crawling traffic to where it might be speeding back up, but there’s no hope in sight.
“I suggested to leave by ten.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
The fact that we didn’t leave the Cape until noon is definitely my fault and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. It’s not that I was sleeping in, though. I got up at a perfectly reasonable hour. The problem is that I got stuck on a call with my father yet again and had to sit through over half an hour of him berating and lecturing me on my own position on the board… despite the fact that he, himself, has never served on the board of a ballet company.
By the time I managed to wrench myself free of the conversation, I had to quickly jump in the shower, pack my bag, and gas up the car. It didn’t help that I’m unfamiliar with the town Ruby grew up in, so I got turned around about three different times thanks to the road closures caused by the storm.
I don’t bother explaining any of that to her now. It is what it is. If she wants to be angry at me for it, I’m sure she can just add it to the long list of my transgressions.
The rain picks up by the time we finally navigate around Worcester. Traffic remains heavy, however, because it’s raining so hard that, even with the wipers on the highest setting, it’s an effort to see through the sheet of water pouring down. The cars ahead of us are nothing but murky blurs of dull color and glaring red brake lights.
Our top speed is about thirty-five miles an hour.
It’s almost five, and we’re still hours from New York.
At this rate, I’m starting to think we won’t make it back to the city until midnight at the earliest. If we’re lucky, that is.
Ruby is frowning down at her phone. It’s glowing white in the dim light that’s been cast over us from both the storm and the evening hour.
“It looks like this is just the edge of the storm front,” she says, furrowing her brow as she attempts to decode the weather map on her screen. “It’s supposed to move south again within the hour and stick to the coastline. As long as we stay inland until the last possible second, I think we might be able to get around it.”
“Unfortunately, I think everyone else on the road seems to have the same idea.”
Ruby sighs. At some point, she twisted her hair up into a lopsided bun, loose and pretty in a way that would be totally inappropriate for a ballerina on stage yet flatters her, nonetheless. She’s been fussing with the air-conditioning controls for the past hour, complaining about the humidity and then complaining that the car gets too cold, too fast. She finally settled on burrowing into her hugely oversized hoodie and leaving the AC on blast.
Luckily, I like the cold.
“Maybe we should wait it out,” she suggests.
“What?”
“Well, if the rain is going to move away from this area shortly, maybe it’s better to just get off the road for a little bit and let the traffic clear out.”
It’s a decent idea, but I’m surprised she’s even mentioning it. I was just wondering if she might call the army and have herself airlifted out of here in order to get to New York City faster. Apparently, she’s willing to be a little more practical.
“Let’s do it,” I agree. I squint through the deafening downpour as we pass a big blue sign that lists the nearby eateries located off the next exit. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Same.”
Twenty minutes later, after traveling a distance that should’ve only taken us a few minutes at most, we pull into the parking lot of a classic small-town diner. It looks like the sort of thing that only exists on television, but that’s probably just because I don’t spend that much time out in rural places.
The diner is crowded, but the waitress finds us a small booth in the back and wastes no time in taking our order. Ruby gets right down to business, ordering a cheeseburger with no bun, a side salad, something called a Mediterranean wrap, and a chocolate milkshake with two cherries. When the waitress turns to me, she looks relieved when I tell her I’ll just take a burger and fries.
Ruby plays with her straw wrapper while we wait, folding it into an accordion. She’s antsy when she’s anxious—unable to sit still. I wonder if she’s always been that way, or if it’s a result of being an elite athlete. She’s used to constantly moving.
“You can sleep for the rest of the drive, you know,” I blurt out. “I won’t mind.”
“What?”
“It’s going to be late when we finally get there. If you need to make sure you’re rested for whatever you’ve got on your schedule tomorrow, feel free to nap.”
Ruby shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean, I do have a class at eight in the morning, but I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep until I’m actually back in the city.”
I nod. It’s a bad idea to miss class. It might seem strange to outsiders, but ballet dancers take classes several times a week throughout their entire career. It keeps them in prime shape and allows them to master their craft down to the tiny details. They wouldn’t be reprimanded for missing class—not if they have a good reason—but it’s just not a wise move.
When our food arrives, I watch in awe as Ruby dissects the wrap to dump the hummus, lentils, and grilled peppers onto her salad, then neatly folds the leftover soggy tortilla into a napkin. I smirk to myself. Extra protein without the added starch. It’s not really a question of health, but necessity. The way she does it so casually also suggests that she hardly even thinks about it. Her perfectionism is instinctive.
Maybe if I was more like her, my family wouldn’t consider me such a failure. Or, maybe not. I have a feeling that being the disappointing black sheep was always my destiny.
I pick up my burger to take a bite at the same time that Ruby starts cutting into her bun-less burger with a knife and fork.
She narrows her gaze when our eyes meet. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmph.”
“Did you always want to dance for the New York City Ballet?”
Ruby bites her lip, pausing before answering as if she isn’t sure she wants to answer. I raise my eyebrows in question.
“I also auditioned for American.”
“Ah.”
American Ballet Theatre is also one of the best ballet companies in the world. I’d bet that thousands and thousands of people have gone blue in the face arguing that it’s better than the NYC Ballet. They’re both in the city and they’re both extremely prestigious, but they aren’t quite considered competition. American is more classical—married to tradition. If I was on their Board of Directors, they’d probably flay me alive and turn my bones into pointe shoe shanks for removing Giselle from the program.
“Why didn’t you choose American?” I ask. Because there’s no way that a dancer as skilled as Ruby auditioned for ABT and didn’t get in.
“I was told that it’s harder to get promoted in ABT, especially to principal. Some seasons, they invite guest principals from around the world to dance with the company, so you’re not only competing with your own colleagues but also with stars from Russia and Europe. Even when I was younger, I knew I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on myself.”
I like the way she chatters easily about ballet. I bet she doesn’t get to talk with many people about it outside of her circle of fellow dancers. She stabs at her customized salad as she talks, and I find myself marveling at the grace with which she does every little thing—including impaling leaves of spinach.
“Well, I’m glad the NYC Ballet has you,” I tell her.
I offer her a fry. She takes it without hesitation. I offer her a second one. She cracks a small smile and accepts it, but shakes her head when I hold up a third.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” she murmurs.
“Pardon?”
“I shouldn’t have been so rude to you over Giselle. After all, you’re just being true to Balanchine’s vision of modernity for the company.”
“No, you were right for being angry,” I insist. “I shouldn’t have cancelled it after the roles were already established. I should’ve just let Giselle happen and focused on other upcoming seasons. I think I was desperate to prove to my family that I wouldn’t mess this up, so I made a bold choice to try and impress them.”
Ruby nods thoughtfully. “Why do you care what they think of you?”
“They’re my family. How can I not?”
To my surprise, Ruby ignores the hypothetical question and switches gears.
“What would you have done with your life if you weren’t born a Hawthorne?”
I balk at that. Nobody has ever asked me anything like that before. Moreover, I don’t think I’ve ever considered it myself. There’s no point. I am a Hawthorne, whether I want to be or not.
Still, I know that my answer will mean something important to Ruby.
I wonder if she expects me to say I’d be a useless party boy—the stereotype that I willfully lived up to for many years when I realized that my family expected little else from me. I’d like to think that maybe, in the past few hours at least, Ruby has formed a higher opinion of me than that, but I can’t be sure.
Either way, I tell her the truth.
“I do love the arts,” I say. “I’d probably gravitate toward them even if I wasn’t born in a family that famously patronizes artists.”
“Would you become an artist yourself?”
I shrug. “I like poetry. Maybe I’d do something ridiculous like attend a small private college in the middle of the forest and study classic literature until I go mad. That sounds like fun.”
Ruby laughs. The sound makes my heart soar. Do it again, I want to beg. Laugh again for me, please. Even if it’s at my expense.
“I can see it,” she replies, eyes dancing with humor. “You’ve got batty old English professor potential.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Believe or not, yes.”
At that moment, the waitress saunters over. “You folks staying up at the Motor Lodge?”
Both of us turn to her with twin expressions of confusion.
“No, we’re on our way down to New York,” I tell her.
The waitress quirks a single eyebrow at me. “You know you’re still in Mass, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, good luck with that. I’m just asking around because the lodge has got some flooding going on right now in some of the rooms. Apparently, this second storm is supposed to be worse than the first.”
Ruby flinches.
I glance at her. “Maybe we should get back on the road right away.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” interjects the waitress. “Roads are falling apart out there. Flash floods. Trees are going down. You’re better off waiting for it to pass. You done with your plates?”
“Uh, yeah.”
We let the waitress take our plates, then stare at each other in worried silence for a long moment.
“It’s fine,” Ruby says. “We’ll just stay inland.”
“Yeah, no problem. It’ll take longer, but at least we’ll get back tonight. If the storm is in full force by the time we get into Manhattan, at least the streets will be mostly clear of traffic.”
She nods. “Yeah. Totally.”
I reach out and lightly touch the top of her forearm. I don’t know why I do it, only that it feels like the only thing I can really do to offer some form of comfort.
“I’m going to get you home, Ruby,” I promise.
I don’t want to keep being the villain in her narrative. If I can’t get her back to the city in time for class tomorrow morning, it will mean I messed up yet another thing for her. Of course, logically, I know that it’s not my fault Mother Nature decided to dump all her fury upon New England’s coast in the middle of an otherwise pleasant June, but still. I want to do right by her. I need to.
I reach for my wallet.
“No, let me pay,” Ruby protests. “I ordered more than you.”
I give her a firm look that, thankfully, is stern enough to freeze her in place as she reaches for her purse. I’m the billionaire brat. She’s the young artist. There’s absolutely no version of reality in which I am going to allow her to pay for our dinner, and she seems to see that in my gaze.
She presses her lips together and sits back against the cushioned booth.
I slip a fifty-dollar bill under the corner of the little basket holding the sugar packets. It’s more than enough to cover our meals and the tip.
“Come on, ballerina,” I say as I rise from the booth. “Let’s get you back to the big city.”