29
RUBY
Today, Morgan Matthews is getting a proper date. She doesn’t know it yet, but I do, and I’m practically bouncing off the walls.
It’s almost the one-week anniversary of, well, whatever we are, and I want to mark the occasion. There’s a lot to be grateful for: It’s been a week of stolen kisses in hidden doorways, of making out in empty classrooms and locker rooms, of FaceTiming all night every night after Chuck falls asleep, of holding hands under desks.
It has also been a week of dodging Everly’s questions: “What are you two exactly?” I still don’t really know yet. But whatever this is and whatever it’s becoming, we’re one week closer to it.
Which means tonight is going to be a big step. Tonight is a real date, at an actual restaurant. We’re going to hold hands. Flirt. Kiss. Do all the things that other couples do. Things that make my stomach flip in good and bad ways, but I know how much it’s going to mean to Morgan, so it’s worth it.
I’ve been counting down the seconds all day while I’ve been stuck at the studio working for Charlene. By the time classes are done and it’s time for my private lesson, I’m too distracted to really focus on the practice interview questions.
“What is one moment in your life you’d like to relive and why?” Charlene asks.
It takes all my willpower not to answer, When Morgan finally kissed me back. Instead, I mumble something about past pageant duties, and she frowns and tells me to speak up.
Eventually, she takes pity on me and offers to check my walks and talent routine instead. Tap isn’t technically her jurisdiction—I have a whole other instructor for that—but she says she wants to make sure it all “flows.” I think we both know I’m useless until I burn off some of this jittery energy.
I practically run to my car afterward and barely even get it started before I’m texting Morgan. I remind her I’m picking her up and tell her to wear something casual but nice-ish. She jokes: I guess that means no graphic tees then? And I don’t know what to say, because graphic tees are totally fine for where we’re going. I worry that maybe I set her expectations too high. I debate calling the whole thing off. Then I rush home to stress-dress instead.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” my mom asks when I’m elbows deep in my closet looking for clothes that say I’m trying but not too hard.
“Out with friends,” I say, settling on a cute top and jeans so tight I can barely breathe. I hope Morgan appreciates the way they show off my . . . assets.
“You have a pageant tomorrow,” Mom says, leaning against the door frame. And god, I hate when she finds some stupid Sunday pageant to enter me in. They’re almost always the mall modeling ones that aren’t even worth the cost of entering. Mom watches me, waiting for me to say something negative, daring me, maybe. She’s holding a coffee mug, but I smell the sharp tang of alcohol coming from it.
“Jesus, Mom, don’t you have to work?” I pull the mug out of her hand, setting it on my dresser as I turn back to my clothes.
“What the hell, Ruby!”
“Don’t let Chuck . . .” I trail off, because it doesn’t matter. Chuck’s going to drag Mom down if she lets him, and for whatever reason, she’s too lovestruck to do anything about it.
“Mind your own business,” she snaps.
“Kind of hard to mind my own business when yours is living in our house, getting you drunk before your shift.”
“Watch it.” And there’s enough fire in Mom’s eyes to tell me to leave it alone.
“Sorry,” I say, softening my tone. “I just worry.”
Some of the hardness slips from her face as she pats my arm. “You don’t have to worry about me, baby. You just focus on getting us the win tomorrow.” She smiles when she says it, like it’s a pep talk and not a leash around my neck.
“I will,” I say. “But right now, I gotta go.”
“Wait.” She stops me as I walk by, my date outfit balled in my arms.
“What?”
“You tell that boy no hickeys this time.”
• • •
I’m sitting outside Morgan’s apartment, trying not to freak out, twenty minutes before the time I said I’d be here.
I found a gas station halfway between her house and mine and finished getting ready there, under the dingy lights of its old bathroom. The scent of cheap toilet cleaner and chemical air freshener still clings to my skin. Worth it, though, to get out of my house without answering any more questions.
Then I stopped at the grocery store and bought Morgan a flower—a single purple carnation—to kill time. I would’ve driven around longer, but I was worried about wasting gas. I tried to calculate if I could put more in and still cover dinner, but it seemed safer to park here and wait it out.
But the curtain keeps moving in Morgan’s living room, and I’m almost positive someone keeps checking to make sure I’m still here.
I debate waiting for her to come out. I’m sure she will when she’s ready. But I don’t want to be the type of person who waits in the car, or worse, beeps. I want to be . . . respectable, if that’s even possible. Because I’ve never done this before, but I bet she has. And I bet it was classy and with someone who could afford more than one stupid grocery-store carnation.
The curtain moves again, forcing my hand. I pop open my car door with a reluctant sigh and drag myself up the steps to her apartment way too early. The door swings open before I can even knock, and Dylan stands there, waiting.
“Uh, hi,” I say, awkwardly ducking under his arm and into the living room. I realize too late I was supposed to wait to be invited in, but oh well. Here we are.
“You must be Ruby.” He shuts the door. “I’m Dylan. Have a seat.” I stay standing until he crosses his arms and arches one big hairy eyebrow at me, and then my butt hits the couch fast. “Thank you. I hear you want to take my baby sister out on a date.”
I shake my head no on instinct because I don’t know what’s safe to share or what he knows.
Dylan tilts his head. “You don’t want to take her on a date? Because she’s in her room getting ready under the impression that this is, in fact, a date. If it isn’t—”
“I wasn’t saying it’s not a date,” I cut him off, worried she might hear.
He puffs out his chest. “You shook your head no when I asked if you were taking her out.”
I wince. “I didn’t mean no no. I meant no . . . I don’t . . . not want to take your sister on a date.”
“You shook your head no because you don’t not want to date her?” Dylan asks, and I swear he’s trying to hold in a smile when he rubs his forehead. “Let’s try this again: Do you want to take my sister on a date?”
I nod slowly, realizing with relief that it doesn’t feel weird to say that—or at least imply it with a nod—to another person. It feels kind of good—in fact, really good. Too good to be relegated to a nod only.
“Yeah, I want to take her on a date,” I say, and then I suck my lips over my teeth because saying it out loud feels bigger than I expected.
“Good. And what exactly are your intentions with her?”
“My what?”
“Your intentions. What do you want to get out of this?”
“Um.” I swallow hard. “Some food?”
I’ve never been grilled like this before. But then again, first date ever. First almost-one-week anniversary ever. Maybe that’s just how it works.
Dylan shifts a little and clears his throat. “I meant more like, where do you see this relationship going?”
“Oh,” I say, “uh . . .”
Is he asking me if we’re going to have sex? I don’t—
“What are you doing?” Morgan asks, bolting into the room. She looks incredible in black leggings and a silky pink halter top that matches her hair and shows off her shoulders. And shit, those are some perfect shoulders. I try—and fail—not to stare.
Morgan smiles at me and then turns her attention to her brother, her eyes going cold. “Seriously, Dyl, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know! I’m winging it!” he says. “Keisha’s father did this to me before our first official date, and I was just trying to pick up the slack since Dad’s not here.”
She groans. “Why are you so annoying, and how can I make it stop?”
“It’s okay, seriously,” I say, worried she’s really mad.
“Annoying you is part of my job as your brother.” Dylan musses up her hair and earns himself another scowl. “And pissing you off is part of my job as your temporary guardian.” He points at me over Morgan’s shoulder. “You seem cool, Ruby. Don’t mess this up, and don’t break my sister’s heart, or I’ll break your—”
“Dylan!” Morgan shouts.
“Too far?”
“Too far.”
He shrugs. “Fine. Have fun on your date, be good, and Ruby, have her home by eight fifteen.”
“Eight fifteen?” Morgan shrieks. “First of all, I don’t even have a curfew, and second of all, if I did it wouldn’t be eight fifteen! That’s in like two hours!”
“All right, I give up,” he says. “Parenting is too hard. Just come home safe before tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Thank you.” Morgan sighs before stepping forward to give him a hug. “I promise to be safe and to be home before midnight.”
“Great,” he says cheerfully. “Oh, and I’m taking Keisha out again tonight, so I won’t be here when you get home regardless.”
She punches his arm. “You suck so much.”
“Love you too, Morgie,” he says in a baby voice as she yanks me out the door.
• • •
Morgan doesn’t uncross her arms until we’re on the highway, and even then, it’s only to adjust the air-conditioning vents. She’s had a death grip on the carnation since we left. “I’m sorry about that.” She looks at me nervously. “I hope it didn’t freak you out.”
“I thought it was cute, actually,” I lie, well, half lie. It was a little cute, aside from the whole utterly traumatic thing. I smile at her anyway, as hard as I can. I know what she’s really asking is Are you going to ditch me because of this? and I’m not.
“Nothing about Dylan is cute,” she huffs, going to recross her arms, but I grab her hand, pulling it into my lap and lacing our fingers. I zip into the fast lane, accelerating just hard enough for her head to hit the back of her seat. I feel like an absolute rock star, zooming down the highway in the best car with the perfect girl.
I could get used to this.
Morgan raises an eyebrow at the dingy restaurant when we pull in forty-five minutes later, and I can’t help but think of her brother making the same face as he asked about my intentions. I hope she’s not wondering about that too. I hope she’s not pissed or disappointed that our first real date is three towns over, where I know for sure we won’t run into anybody from school.
“This looks . . . nice?” Morgan says, her voice lilting up.
Yeah, so maybe asking her to dress nice-ish was mostly for my benefit, but still.
“I have it on good authority the food here is amazing.”
“Whose good authority?”
“That hyper chef guy on TV. He came here once to film a couple years ago. See, they even have a sign about it right there.” I point to a plaque next to the wheelchair ramp boasting the restaurant’s status as a “Dedicated Divine Diner,” just like the name of the show.
“Well, if there’s a sign,” she says with an amused glint in her eye.
“Come on, let’s go check it out. Actually, wait. Don’t move.” Morgan watches me run around the front of the car. I nearly trip when a rock wedges into my flip-flop, but I pull it together at the last second. I fling her door open with an exaggerated bow and hold out my hand.
“Oh my god, what are you doing?” She laughs, putting her hand into mine.
“I literally have no idea.” I smile. “But this is what they do in the movies.”
“Do you get all your dating ideas from TV and movies?”
“Pretty much.” I blush. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Never done what?” Morgan asks, following me inside.
“Gone on a real date with anyone.”
Our server shows up before she can respond, grabbing two menus and leading us to a little table at the back of the restaurant. I take the seat facing the door, just to be safe. I hate that I can’t turn it off, the constant worry of being seen.
Morgan glances at the menu and sets it down. “Do you want to order for me?” she asks. “They do that in the movies a lot too.”
“Uh, I can?” I say, feeling the pressure. The only things I’ve ever seen her eat are pizza and salad.
“Oh my god, you should see your face right now.” She nudges my foot under the table.
“That bad?”
“Pure panic.”
“Wow, I suck at this.”
“You don’t,” Morgan says, tapping my menu to make me look up. “But is this really your first date?”
I nod, still staring at the menu, determined to get this right.
“Ruby,” she says, and waits for me to look up. “I don’t need movie dates. I just want to be with you.”
If my cheeks weren’t red before, they are now, because that is, like, the nicest. Why is she the nicest? And how?
The server comes to take our order before I have a chance to spin too far out. Morgan orders chicken tenders with fries, and I get a burger that winds up being the size of my head.
We both laugh when I bite into it and half the condiments squirt out.
Morgan makes laughing feel easy, like happiness is the default instead of something always just out of reach. For the first time in my life, my cheeks hurt not from forcing a smile onstage, but because I legit can’t stop smiling at the person across from me. It’s kind of nice.
Halfway through dessert, a brownie sundae we decide to split, I ask Morgan about her commitment letter for college and running Division I next year. She seems surprised, and I admit I’ve been googling a lot about running and college and how it all works—and maybe more about her too. I can’t help it.
She gets quiet and messes with her napkin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says.
“Something.” Nerves well up inside me as I try to figure out what I did to veer us off the fast track to happy town.
Morgan shrugs, digging her spoon into the rapidly melting ice cream. “It’s just everything is kind of up in the air with that.”
“But you signed a letter of intent. The picture came up when I—”
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’m lost.”
“So a letter of intent is like me promising to go to their school and them promising me money, right?”
I nod.
“Well, apparently, they put loopholes in the pile of tiny little letters at the end, which, in my excitement, I didn’t bother to read. So it went from a sure thing to ‘pending based on the outcome of my waiver.’ Basically, I’m screwed until further notice, everything’s on hold, and I’m so sick of it. I just want to run.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m dumping my problems all over our nice date.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say, reaching over to hold her hand. “I get how that feels.”
“You do?”
“With the pageants and stuff. I love makeup and dresses and all that crap, don’t get me wrong, but I hate the pageants themselves. And I hate how much money my mom spends on them.”
“Couldn’t you just stop doing them, then?”
“Not if I want a place to live.” I laugh until I see her horrified face. “I’m kidding. Probably. It’s complicated, and yeah, my mom and I have a lot of issues. But she could’ve been Miss Teen USA if I hadn’t come along. Her whole life would have been different. She made a lot of sacrifices to have me, you know? I’m working on a way to get off the circuit, but I don’t know if I could ever completely take pageants away from her. I owe her that much.”
“You don’t owe your mom your future just because you think she gave up hers for you.”
I pull my hand back. “It’s not what I think. It’s the truth.”
Morgan frowns. “I know, but this is your life! And the way you talk about this versus how you absolutely lit up at the garage? It’s like you’re two different people. You don’t have to live like that. You have options.”
“Why do you care so much about my ‘options’?” I ask, making air quotes. Like an asshole.
“I want you to be happy.”
“Are you happy?” Because it doesn’t sound like it, and she has plenty of options.
“Right now, at this moment?” She tips her head.
“Sure,” I say, even though I meant in general. But now I really want to hear her answer.
“Yeah, actually. I’m having a really great time with you.”
“Good, me too,” I say, battling against her spoon for the last bite of ice cream until she grins and lets me win. “Let’s be happy, then. We can worry about the rest another day.”
Morgan’s quiet for a second and then reaches for my hand. “Tell me more about fixing up cars?”
So I do. And she listens the whole time, adding little comments here and there to let me know she’s paying attention.
And this time, I don’t let go of her hand once.