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Which is how I end up returning to the tow truck with a wire dog crate with a canine passenger and a big plastic bag.
Tank shakes his head as I open the door. “Leave it to you to be gone ten minutes and come back with a dog, Ruthie.”
He’s right.
“I’m guessing you didn’t tell him you’re allergic?”
Let no one say my friend doesn’t know me well.
Chapter Five
Shane
Conversation with Ruthie
If you still want to come over, you can do it now.
Be forewarned, I’m in a bad mood.
When are you in a good mood?
That’s not helping.
I’m standing in front of a bakery case, feeling my eye twitch. Is that a tic? It feels like a tic.
What’s a pastry, anyway? Would any kind of baked good qualify, or is this supposed to be some British Bake Off bullshit? I could text my mother to ask, but she’d probably ask me who the pastry’s for, and I don’t want to set her off on a tangent of, Oh, please, settle down, Shane, and give me some grandchildren.
Scowling, I cut my losses and stuff the bag full of cookies and dried-hockey-puck scones. But after I’ve done that, I see the refrigerated case next to where I’m standing, and there’s a frosted mini-cake, shaped like a heart. Should I get one for her for the irony? Ruthie might be a pill, but she’s capable of finding irony funny. So I add that to the basket, and then another one. Because even if Izzy’s asleep, I should still get her something.
I don’t know what Ruthie likes to drink, other than that she’s not a fan of whiskey. So I grab some pink shit that passes for wine, then a six pack of cider in case that won’t do. I need to show her that I’m a man capable of conciliatory gestures.
Sucking up. I already know you can do that when it suits you, suggests Ruthie’s voice in my head. I dislike the way she keeps popping in there. Like she’s my conscience the same way Jiminy Cricket’s dick is Myles’s. But that’s Ruthie—edging her way into every situation.
She just had to charm the pants off the legal beagle, and now here we are…
Except that’s unfair, and I know it. This was my doing, pure and simple.
I sigh as I head to the register. The checkout clerk, a teenage boy with braces and a fresh batch of acne, gives me a sidelong look as he rings up my purchases. Then, as if he’s worked himself up to it, he asks, “Are you bringing these to a sorority party?”
A laugh escapes me. Because it does look like I’ve shopped for multiple women—not one, infuriating, difficult-to-please one. “Something like that.”
He nods four times. “Legend.”
I felt like one once. Now, I’m sucking up to a woman who drives me crazy so I can get a job for a lawyer I don’t respect.
“How do you do it, man?” he asks as he finishes bagging the last baked item. “I can’t even get one girl to look at me.”
I glance at him, taking in the acne and the braces. It’s like looking through a periscope into a past I didn’t like. Sighing, I say, “Confidence. Women like a confident man.” I nod at the huge bag of baked goods and alcohol. “And listen to her hints. She says she likes pastries, you buy her ten of them. The bigger the gesture, the better it’ll go down.”
Or at least that’s true of most women. It occurs to me now, with this bag of crap, that it’s never been true of Ruthie.
“So it’s just for one woman?” I can see his spirits sinking.
I grin at him. “Today, it’s just for one woman, but I’ve been invited to sorority parties back in the day. Give it time, my friend.” Then I collect the bag and head out to my car, feeling a little better for cheering the kid up.
When I get to Ruthie’s, I park, scowling a little to myself. I’ve stopped by here before with Danny, and it’s always struck me as a very insufficient sort of neighborhood for them. The buildings are old and ill-kept, with siding that looks like it could be pulled off like a fruit by the foot. Ruthie must make peanuts at the diner, though, and even less from her little schemes. Danny helps her when he can, but she doesn’t let him do much.
I’m feeling contemplative as I get out with the bag and approach the external door of their unit, knocking twice.
