Chapter Fifteen Ruby
Stupid rain. Stupid traffic. Stupid motel. Stupid only one bed. Stupid handsome fool sitting on that bed beside me and grinning like he’s never been happier in his life. Stupid memories of that kiss against the bookshelves—tender and sweet and begging to be repeated.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I turn the tap on as hot as it will go, which, considering the questionable quality of this motel, isn’t really that hot. At least it fills the bathroom with enough steam for me to clear my congested thoughts.
I wash my hair with the tiny hotel samples and quietly hum the tune to an orchestral piece that we often warm up to in the studio.
When I turn off the tap and step out of the shower, I can hear the mumbling sound of the television in the room.
Man, this is so weird. I’m sharing a hotel room with a guy that I kissed once eleven months ago and then didn’t see again until he became my enemy at the company.
I’m sharing a hotel room with a man on the Board of Directors.
Also, a man who is apparently the best friend of Eva’s husband. A man who is, evidently, connected to me in a myriad of ways. It’s dizzying when I think too hard about it.
I don’t hate him. I hate that I’m drawn to him. I hate how he made me feel when he disappeared, and I hate that he had no idea what he ruined when he cancelled Giselle. I hate that those things are no longer reasonable excuses for me to stay away from him—not when the explanations he gave are too decent for even my stubborn mind to accept.
Although, it’s really myself that I should blame.
I wipe the condensation off the mirror and set to work combing through my long hair.
Like he said, I didn’t bother trying to reach out to him after the Strand. It’s the twenty-first century. It’s not only up to the man to take the lead nowadays.
Also, the thing with Giselle… I’m angrier at myself than I am at him. It was an opportunity that I was desperate for, and one that I got purely by chance. Katia’s injury was the only reason I was considered for the role. A lot of things come up to chance. I can’t control them.
Just like I can’t control this stupid storm or the way my stupid heart beats faster whenever I look into his coffee-brown eyes.
As I fumble around in my small toiletry bag for my skincare, I hear the door open and close. Did he leave the room? Maybe he forgot something in the car.
I hurry up, knowing that Ben probably wants to shower too. I tug on a pair of old running shorts and a t-shirt from the art school in Boston that Amy attended. It’s not the most fashionable set of pajamas, but I’ve never really cared about that. Plus, it’s not like I’m trying to impress Ben. If anything, it’s better if he’s disgusted by how poorly I dress and forgets about me all over again as soon as this ridiculous situation is over.
When I crack open the bathroom door and peer into the room, it’s empty. Barefoot, I pad across the carpet and kneel down beside my suitcase. I busy myself with making sure everything is tucked in there neatly and set aside an outfit for tomorrow. The sooner we can get out of here in the morning, the better. I might have resigned myself to the reality that I’m most definitely missing class, but I still need to get back to the city as soon as humanly possible.
I stand up when the telltale sound of the keycard in the slot reaches my ears. Ben walks in, his arms laden with colorful plastic packets from the vending machine. He smiles at me, his gaze snagging on my bare legs, then drops his loot down on the end of the bed.
“I was hungry and I figured you were too,” he explains. As if in answer, my stomach growls. I pray it’s not loud enough for him to hear. It’s been hours since we were at the diner and my athlete’s metabolism is always five steps ahead of me.
“Oh.”
He runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “Unless, obviously, you want to just go to sleep. Sorry. It’s late. I should have considered that before I assumed you—”
“No, it’s okay,” I tell him, stepping closer to inspect his haul of snacks. “This is great. I am hungry. It’s probably going to be a little while before I’m able to get to sleep. I still feel kind of… antsy.”
“Yeah.”
“…Yeah.”
Ben clears his throat. Why is it suddenly so awkward between us? Didn’t we just have a halfway decent conversation before I went into the bathroom? Is he embarrassed? Is this whole thing a little too familiar, too intimate, for his comfort level?
Are my pajamas really that repulsive?
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” he says.
I nod. Moments later, he disappears into the bathroom. I bite my lip, annoyed at myself when I find my thoughts lingering on the fact that Ben Hawthorne is taking his clothes off mere feet away from me.
Stupid, I grumble to myself.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and sort through the feast that Ben collected from the vending machine. He must have spent about thirty bucks to get all of this—prepackaged pastries, salty chips, chocolate bars, and fruity candies. There’s no real nutritional value in any of this stuff, but I don’t mind. I’ll survive, and so will my carefully honed muscles.
I claim a packet of fruit snacks and a bag of Goldfish for myself and settle back against the pillows. After locating the remote, I flick through the channels idly. I hardly ever have time to sit down and watch television. More often than not, I’ll turn something on while I cook dinner in the evenings and that’s it.
It’s kind of nice to be a little bit lazy; even if fate and the storm conspired to make me so.
Ben is a lot faster in the shower than I was. Only a few minutes pass before the water shuts off in the bathroom. I fidget on the bed. Soon enough, we’ll be tucked away in our respective beds, so vulnerable in our sleeping states next to each other. I don’t know why the thought makes me nervous. Maybe it boils down to the simple fact that, given my limited dating history, I’m not used to sleeping in the same room as other people. Maybe I’m just being a total freak about this entire thing.
When Ben steps out of the bathroom, my stomach swoops at the sight of him. His dark hair is damp and curling at the edges, and even though he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, the way the clothing fits his tall, slender frame makes me feel kind of lightheaded. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There’s just something about him. Something undefinable.
Ben seems not to notice the fact that my brain has turned into useless sludge. He tosses his dirty clothes on top of his suitcase and then sits down on the edge of the cot. It creaks menacingly, causing both of us to flinch.
He grabs a packet of peanut MMs from the treasure trove and nods his chin toward the television.
“The Devil Wears Prada?” he asks.
A breath of laughter wheezes out of me. “You know this movie?”
“Duh. Who doesn’t know this movie?”
I roll my eyes. “I just didn’t think a guy like you would be into rom coms.”
“A guy like me?”
“I don’t know… rich and worldly.”
Ben chuckled. “I’m financially privileged and well-traveled, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself worldly. My travels involve posh hotels and fancy resorts and exclusive nightclubs. I’m not exactly absorbing the culture. Honestly, my old habits aren’t really something I’m proud of.”
A part of me admires him for being able to admit that. It’s so rare for someone to understand their faults and willingly expose them to another person. It’s hard for me to reconcile this version of Ben with the younger one that apparently partied around the world, but I guess he does look the part of a spoiled prince.
“Is that how you met Sebastien?” I ask.
There’s a light dancing in his gold-flecked eyes, as if he’s amused that I’m asking questions about him. I don’t really know why I’m doing it. I could just shut up and watch Anne Hathaway follow her New York dreams on the television screen.
“I met Sebastien at a modeling gig when I was twenty. He was just the photographer’s intern at that point. It’s how Eva and I have a lot of friends in common too.”
“Is that why you asked me if I was a model when Eva introduced us at the rehearsal dinner?”
Ben smiles sheepishly. “I forgot about that. Sorry. I really feel like an idiot for not recognizing you right away.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault you got a head injury when you were a kid.”
“Technically, it is my fault. I’m the fool who thought it was a good idea to roller skate inside the house.”
“I think both you and the nanny can shoulder the blame together, then.”
He chuckles. For a moment, we fall into silence. He’s still perched awkwardly on the edge of his cot. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that you can rest on comfortably unless you’re completely reclined.
Biting my lip, I pat the opposite side of the bed. “You can sit for a while, if you want. While we watch the movie.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod. It’s a king bed, after all. There’s plenty of space for the two of us to sit here as polite acquaintances.
Ben sinks down onto the far side of the mattress, leaving about two feet between us. On the screen, Emily Blunt’s character says something snobby yet funny to Anne Hathaway’s character. We laugh quietly.
“You can hardly blame me, though,” Ben says after a while.
I glance over at him in confusion. “Huh?”
“The model thing,” he clarifies. “I mean, you’re tall and graceful and beautiful… my assumption makes sense.”
I am tall and graceful, yes. Tall by the mere luck of genetics and graceful only because I’ve trained my body to be that way.
But beautiful? I know that, technically, I have features that many people would consider pretty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A reasonably symmetric face. Yet, my body is also lean where most might prefer there to be curves, and my joints pop with almost every movement I make.
The only time I ever feel truly beautiful is when I’m on stage. It has nothing to do with the makeup, glitter, and tulle. It’s about the wild pounding of my heart, the heat of the stage lights, and the knowledge that I am strong and powerful.
So, I don’t know what to say to that.
In the end, I don’t say anything at all. I just reach for a packet of baked snack crackers and turn my attention back to the television. Beyond the windows, Mother Nature carries on punishing the world with rain and wind.
“I hate the way this movie ends,” I muse a little while later.
“Do you?”
“She was good at her job, but all her friends shamed her for it. She shouldn’t have quit. She also definitely shouldn’t have gotten back together with that guy.”
When I glance at Ben, he’s smirking. “I agree a little bit.”
“Only a little bit?”
“The guy was a loser. Both of them, actually,” he says. “But I kind of like that she quit the fashion magazine and went back to her roots. That’s who she truly is inside.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”“Then again, I’m not really the ideal person to be forming an opinion about anyone’s career choices. I barely have a career.”
I frown at him, but again, I don’t know what to say. It feels weird to comfort him, considering the only reason he has his current position is because of nepotism. Still, if I put my sour feelings aside, I have to admit that he does have a promising vision for the company.
“You’ll do fine,” I finally tell him. “You could affect real positive change if you wanted to.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for example, even though ballet is a female-dominated sport, positions of power in the companies are almost always occupied by old white men.”
Ben snorts. “That’s true. Most of the art world is like that.”
“Most of the world in general is like that.”
“Good point.”
“I’m not saying you should stage a coup,” I clarify, not wanting to make it seem like I’m trying to manipulate a member of the board. “But I think the majority of the dancers would be happy to see some shifts toward gender equality in the upper rungs.”
“That’s a really good suggestion, Ruby. Thank you.”
I shrug.
Both of us stare at the television screen again, yet I have a feeling that we’re not really watching the movie anymore. I can’t stop thinking about the effortless allure of his damp, wavy hair and casual attire, or the fact that I already know what it’s like to kiss him and can remember too clearly how wonderful it was.
Ben Hawthorne is not the man for you, I remind myself sternly.
He clears his throat. “Hey, do you—”
Before he can finish his sentence, the lights flicker. Both of us freeze, glancing up at the recessed lighting overhead. The wind groans as it pounds against the windows.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he murmurs. Yet, even as he speaks, they flicker again.
Then, in one fell swoop, the room plunges into darkness.
The power has gone out.