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“What’d she say to that?” I ask woodenly as she sits at the table. The little dog in the crate stops attacking her snack for long enough to sniff Ruthie’s toes and then give them a lick. Ruthie grins so big it wrinkles her nose. It reminds me of the hundreds of times I’ve seen her do it before, and I feel a gush of reluctant fondness—and of regret.
Because she’s never grinned like that for me.
She shoves a fork at me. “Sit. Enjoy my bounty.”
Shaking my head, I say, “They’re for you and Izzy.”
“I insist,” she says, holding her fork in the air like it’s a weapon. “You don’t get to throw calorie bombs at me without letting one catch you.”
I lift my hands up, palms out. “Do I get to choose?”
Her smile turns crafty and she nods to the chair across from her. “Sit.” I have to sit facing sideways, my legs having nowhere to go under the table. But I wedge myself in, and she pushes the cake in between us with a smile of victory. “You’ve got to eat your own cake.”
“So, I can tell you’re dying for me to ask. Why’d you see Josie, and what does that have to do with you kidnapping the mutt?”
She opens a can of cider and presents me with a second one. I’d planned on hitting the whiskey at home, but I don’t say no. Maybe she’ll be in a more congenial mood if I drink with her and eat the cake. I don’t particularly want grocery store cake, but I guess that’s my fault for not getting the good stuff. “They cancelled the reading-books-with-dogs event and brought Josie in instead. Because she can do her schtick inside.” She lifts the can, wielding it like it’s a weapon she can clobber me with. “Now, I know what you’re going to say, so I’m going to beat you to it. I never should have tried to get the bookmobile off the ground in the winter. It was stupid and short-sighted and exactly like me.”
I watch her, my eyes taking in that red bra strap while my mind remembers the way the bottom of her sweatshirt almost covers those shorts, as if she’s got nothing on underneath it but panties.
I pop the top of the cider for something to do, and also because I need to remember Rule Number One. “Sure, I might have been thinking all of that, but I’m too well-mannered say it.”
Laughter spurts out of her. “Fuck you. And I’ll have you know the dog’s name is Flower. She will also answer to Flo if you ask nicely.”
I cough, then say, “Did you name her Flower, or was that her name at the shelter?”
She studies me over the top of her cider can. “You figure I did, right? Silly, knows-nothing Ruthie with her fairy lights and bookmobile.”
“So she came to you with the name you would have chosen,” I surmise, smirking at her. Because I may have come here to charm her, but I do enjoy this game we play, which has only one established rule on my side. “I’m guessing you saw that as a sign from the heavens.”
“Could you blame me? Josie the Great had just told me Flower would spend her whole life alone in the shelter with only a hedgehog as her friend. Then I went to meet her in the van, and guess what she was holding between her paws?”
“If it was a dead hedgehog, I question your logic in bringing her home.”
She shakes her head, a smile playing at the edges of her lips. Then she pops the lid on her cake. “It was a stuffed hedgehog.”
I shake my head ruefully. “They played your bleeding heart like a fiddle. I’m jealous of the hustle.”
“You would be.” She waves her fork at me, then spears it into the middle of the heart cake, which feels like bad news for my plan.
“You’re starting in the middle?” I ask.
“Just to mess with you?” she asks, spearing out some cake. “Absolutely.” Then she sticks the fork in her mouth and makes a sound that isn’t helping me form an immunity to her sweatshirt and shorts.
“Ruthie, for God’s sake.”
“It’s good.”
“It’s shitty grocery store cake. It can’t be that good.”
“Yeah, speaking of which, thanks for the awesome gift, Vain.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Now what, pray tell, brings you here? We can dance around it all night, but we both know you want something. You always want something.”
“Why, Ruthie, I’m hurt.”
Chapter Six
Ruthie
As if I’m frivolous enough to think I have the power to hurt him. Shane and my brother are five years older than me. When I look back at the photos of Shane from when they were teenagers, I see a gangly kid with acne. At the time, though, he seemed larger than life—as if he already knew he’d grow into this impressive swan of a man, dark-haired and muscular, with the kind of forearms that inspire sonnets. It’s because he’s always had this air of confidence. Of everything I see belongs to me.
