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It feels like a sign.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I shoot my cousin a text, sharing my not-so-happy news and current location, just in case I’m eaten by wild boars while watching a movie on the lawn. Unlikely, considering we’re on an island, but the way my luck is going today . . .
A few minutes later, she texts back.
Gigi: I just checked the train schedule. I can be there by ten tomorrow morning.
Touched, I reply, assuring her that I’m fine and can make my way back home on my own after my two-night—now solo—trip is over.
But she’s having none of it.
Gigi: Of course you can. But why should you when you have a perfectly amazing cousin and friend who wants to be there for you? And with you. I will fetch you piña coladas by the pool, and we don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to. Or we can talk about my crappy love life to distract you.
I saw Theodore last night at the block party. He walked right by me like I was invisible. Even though I was glaring daggers into his goatee and wearing a bright yellow dress with insane amounts of cleavage out on display. Am I invisible, Ruby? Are you my imaginary friend? Am I hallucinating my own existence?
Ruby: No, you are not! You are a shining fucking glitter moonbeam goddess! And Theodore’s a dingbat. Come up. I’ll fetch YOU piña coladas by the pool.
Gigi: No way. I was just kidding. I wasn’t trying to make this about me. Seriously.
About her . . .
When was the last time it was about her?
Probably before the accident. Gigi has been there for me hardcore during the past two years. It’s high time I returned the favor.
Ruby: Why shouldn’t it be ABOUT YOU? It’s been about me for long enough, babe. And I don’t need a shoulder to lean on. Truly. I just need to think some things through. And to be honest with myself.
Gigi: I could stand to do some of that too.
Ruby: Brilliant. Text me when you reach the lobby, and I’ll come down and show you up to the room.
Gigi: You don’t think Jesse will mind? What if he comes back?
Ruby: He’s not coming back. He’s gone.
And it’s true . . . he is. And I’m so very sad about that.
But this was the right thing to do. The work I have to do now isn’t something Jesse, or any man, can help me with.
The list forced me back into the driver’s seat in my own life.
Now it’s time to steer.
25
RUBY
By the time Gigi and I board the train back to the city two days later, I’m certain of three things.
Piña coladas are medicinal and healing.
It’s time to shake up my life. Big time.
Gigi is an even better friend than I realized before we spent two days pondering life’s mysteries in side-by-side lounge chairs.
“So you’re saying you’ve known since I took over as office manager?” I ask around a bite of the semi-stale Amtrak station croissant I grabbed on the way onto the train. “Seriously?”
Gigi nods. “Probably before that, honestly. At your high school graduation party, when you announced you were majoring in business and minoring in art, I remember I got a sharp, stabby feeling in my gut. And I hadn’t had any eggs that day, so . . .”
I snort. “Don’t ever eat eggs again. Seriously. I’m still haunted by the ghost of eighth-grade Christmas, when you decided to see if you were still allergic.”
Gigi shudders. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick. I can’t believe you let me have eggnog.”
I laugh. “Right. It was all on me.”
She sticks out her tongue before she smiles again. “But I think I knew then the pie life wasn’t for you. That you were hitching your wagon to an anchor instead of a star. You were never as pie-shop crazy as the rest of us. And you’ve always hated numbers.”
“I don’t hate them,” I demur.
Gigi’s brows lift. “You despise them.”
“Okay,” I admit with a laugh. “I’m not a huge fan.”
“I can empathize with that, even though numbers are probably my best non-imaginary friends,” she says, confirming that my secret plan for the pie shop is the right one.
The only plan for Sweetie Pies.
For a moment, I almost say something to Gigi about the specifics and what I want to tell my parents, but in the end, I decide to wait. I think my parents are going to wake up and see the light, but if they don’t, I don’t want to offer Gigi something I can’t deliver.
“Yeah,” she continues, “if I had to spend all day coloring, my soul would shrivel up and die.”
I snort. “It’s not coloring. It’s not even close to coloring. Drawing and painting are completely different from coloring.”
