It’s been the best part about staying here—getting to watch him in the kitchen. Seeing a small sliver of that passion I got to witness the full force of in another life.
Ryan snorts. “Yeah. So say you, Mom, and my three blog readers from fifteen years ago.”
I stop to look at him. “I mean it. You could do something with this. It’s not just that you can cook—it’s that you’re creative about it.”
“Because I have to be.”
“Right. And there are a lot of people in similar shoes.”
He’s quiet, and I can tell from how he’s skimming the recipe that he’s considering whether it works, and how he can make it better. As casually as I can, I ask, “Would you ever revisit the idea of culinary school?”
“No,” he says quickly. “That ship has sailed.”
“Has it?” I keep cooking, hoping it’ll be a little easier to say the hard thing when I’m not looking at him. “It’s just—I worry you avoided it because I discouraged you. Because I put a bunch of fears in your head.”
Ryan clicks his tongue. “Who, you? Put fears in my head?”
I make a face, and he laughs. But I have to swallow down the tough memories that rise to the surface. We’re seven, and I’m yelling at him because he doesn’t want to wear elbow pads on his bike. We’re twelve, and I’m checking to make sure he’s packed his EpiPen for camp. We’re eighteen, and I’m telling him I didn’t get into Berkeley—a lie—so that I could follow him to college. Keep him safe, like Penn said, so I could feel safe, too.
I step back from the stove and turn to Ryan, wondering why it’s sometimes hardest to be honest with the people you love the most. “I really wish I hadn’t talked you out of it. I never should’ve discouraged you from trying.”
He offers me a warm look, setting his hand on my shoulder. “Relax, Ruby. I asked for your opinion. And you’re not the only reason I didn’t go down that path. There was also the abject fear that I wasn’t good enough, and the genius plan to follow Molly Mason to college in hopes she might fall in love with me someday. So don’t take all the credit, alright?”
I manage a laugh. “Fair enough. Just know I think you could do anything. Okay? Anything but scarves. They don’t work on you.”
Ryan studies me. “I love you, but I’m starting to wonder who the hell you are these days, and what you’ve done with my sister.”
That cracks a laugh out of me. “You and me both.”
Bridget comes over for brunch and critiques my subpar cooking skills. Ryan saves the day by whipping up a second round of French toast drizzled with pumpkin-seed butter.
Afterward, we sit on the kitchen counters, drinking heinous amounts of coffee, laughing so hard our bellies ache. We swipe through every guy and girl on Ryan’s dating apps, and I giveBridget a strappy lavender top I picked out for her earlier this week. It looks an awful lot like the one she chose for me to wear in MASHland, and she has a date with Ethan tomorrow. I’ve suggested they try roller-skating, because there’s something to be said for holding hands in the dark.
It’s a good day. A great day. The kind of aimless, meandering afternoon I stopped leaving room for in my life, too rigid or maybe too fearful to allow myself the simple freedom of an unplanned moment. I go to sleep feeling happy in the bone-deep way that comes from doing nothing with the people who are everything.
I’ve been so focused on who I want to be, trying to map out exactly how I want my life to look, but really, what matters is who’s in it. Who I love, and how well I love them.
The rest, I hope, will fall into place.
—
I drive tothe suburbs in the morning, missing my Jeep. My white Nissan just isn’t the same.
I’ve avoided Lakeville ever since I woke up in Penn’s apartment. I told myself I had no reason to go back, but I think I steered clear so that some part of me could pretend it was all still there: The Disco Diner, the mansion, a Penn who saw me differently. After talking to Ryan, though, I’ve realized how good it feels to shake loose from the stories that hold me back, and I’ve decided I need closure. I can’t move forward if I keep straddling worlds.
Main Street is bustling when I pass through town. A few blocks away, I park and get out of the car, struck by a sense of loss so swift and intense, I lose my breath.
There’s no seventies-style sign with a disco ball spinning on top. No marquee talking aboutrollin’ with the homies. And nopink-and-teal roller skates have been painted on the outside of the nondescript, abandoned, run-down brick building in front of me.
I step through the gravel, grieving that I’ll never get to revisit my ridiculous, perfect rink again. That it lives only in my heart.
I should’ve taken more pictures. I should’ve tried to email myself footage of Disco Penn in hisSaturday Night Feverbest, just in case the photo might make it through time.
Unsteady and unnerved, I tug at the door, surprised when it pulls open. Inside, I’m overwhelmed by the emptiness, and the darkness. Although it’s nothing that couldn’t be solved with a few glow sticks.
“Hey!” It’s a man’s voice from outside. “What do you think you’re doing?”
How embarrassing, sneaking into an abandoned building like a criminal. “Sorry!” I call out. Sheepish, I head back outside, nearly running into a familiar face.
