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“I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I mean—” I shake my head. “You just haven’t seemed like yourself. Not for a long time.”
“My best friend died and I wasn’t sure I’d walk again,” she says, her eyes beginning to shine. “Sorry if I wasn’t Suzy Sunshine.”
“I don’t mean that, and you know it,” I insist, hating that I’m hurting her, but she needs this and I’m willing to fight for her to have it. Even if she’s the one I’m fighting. “Grieving is good. Sticking your head in the sand isn’t. You’re not happy, and no amount of bowling or obsessive cleaning of your apartment or doing the same things you always do over and over is going to change that.” I point to the paper in her hand. “But this might.”
Ruby’s eyes narrow and her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say a word. Not a word, for so long that I start to worry she’s decided to give me the silent treatment indefinitely.
Then she says, “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think. Do it. Now,” I challenge. “And let me do it with you. You don’t have to tackle this alone. I’ve cleared my schedule for the next two weeks. I can be completely at your disposal.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s great, but like I said, I’m not ready. I need some time to think, to . . . mentally prepare.” She lifts the list. “And some of this stuff is pretty elaborate, Jesse. It’s going to take at least a few months to get a plan in place.”
I sigh. It’s time to drop my other bomb. I should have dropped it a month ago, but I’m superstitious. I didn’t want to tell anyone about the move until the garage sale was final and all my ducks were in a row. “I don’t have a few months, Ruby.”
She blinks and her lips begin to tremble at the edges. “What? Why? Don’t tell me you’re dying from cancer or something, Jesse, or I swear to God, I might start crying and never stop.”
Damn. She’s sweet.
So sweet, it’s even harder to say, “No, I’m fine. I’m just . . . leaving. Moving. To L.A. to open a bigger, better Jesse’s Garage location. I leave in two weeks, so this could be our last hurrah.”
The look in her eyes shifts from scared to what the fuck have you done, Jesse, confirming that I’ve botched this job completely.
I start toward her, hoping the right words will miraculously pop into my mouth, but before I take two steps, she’s spun and made a run for the garden gate.
I call for her to stop, to talk to me, but she’s already jogging into the alley and out toward the street, moving fast, proving all that PT was time well spent.
4
THE LIST
By Claire Hendrix
RUBY’S RECIPE FOR HER BEST LIFE—
TO BE SHARED WITH A FRIEND
1. Try something new! (Like a new food, weirdo. You realize there are toddlers with more expansive palates than yours, right? It’s time to open up that pretty mouth and taste the bounty the world has to offer! There are thousands of taste adventures just waiting to be chewed. And swallowed. It doesn’t count if you don’t swallow.)
2. Sorry, not sorry! Go an entire day without saying you’re sorry. (You don’t have to apologize for existing.)
3. Make an old dream come true.
4. Make something ugly beautiful again. (Because you’re so good at this. Seriously, the world needs all the Ruby beauty it can get.)
5. Do something unexpected! You know you want to . . .
6. Get your feet wet. Literally. It’s time to learn to swim so you don’t drown, because not-drowning is a good thing.
7. Test your limits. Maybe even say the hard thing . . . because you’re so good at the hard thing, my dearest, bestest friend. I believe that and so should you.
5
RUBY
I jog down the alley toward the main drag, ignoring Jesse’s shout for me to wait.
I can’t deal with this. Any of it.
Not the list or the way reading it made me feel—like I was drowning on dry land—or Jesse leaving in two freaking weeks and acting like it’s no big deal that he’s bailing on everyone in New York who loves him.
It’s too much, too sudden, too soon.
The list is a starting gun, trying to force me into a sprint when I’m not even done stretching. I just finished PT. I’m finally back to normal, and I want to enjoy that for a while.
But are you enjoying anything?
Jesse’s right.
You haven’t been yourself and you know it, Miss Dread Balloon.
And it looks like Claire knew it too.
I slow to a walk, swallowing against the sour taste rising in the back of my throat.
Claire knew I was struggling even back then. Two years ago, it wasn’t a dread-balloon situation, but I’d felt . . . frustrated.
