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“Sounds great.” Ruby grins, and I’m sure only I can tell it’s forced.
On our way to the table, she points to an antique muffler hanging on the wall, a Gotham-esque image painted on the car part.
“He has one of your pieces,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.
It’s a good whisper, a proud one, and I like it.
“Fucker bought it clandestinely at a gallery. Even though I told him I’d give him something for free,” I grumble without real complaint.
“I love that he’s supporting your side hustle,” she says.
We settle at a table in the corner while Abe gets to work whipping up the mushrooms. Ruby slides into her seat without a hint of stiffness, reminding me how far she’s come.
“So, how does it feel to go a day without PT?” I ask her.
She smiles and sighs, her shoulders easing away from her ears in a vision of pure relief. Pure happiness. It’s wonderful to see.
“Amazing. I actually had time to shop and have lunch with Gigi. And to clean and catch up on work without worrying about fitting in a grueling workout on top of my morning jog. I feel so . . . normal. Like I can just be a person again.”
I beam. “Nice.”
She leans in closer, as if she’s sharing a confession. “It feels so good not to have an appointment to dread, you know? Good like chocolate melting on your tongue, like sun warming your face, like a new Taylor Swift album dropping a month early.”
“Those are all very good things,” I agree, doing my best to ignore how sexy she made those descriptions sound. “I know it was a long road.”
“It was. But I’m lucky, right?”
That’s one way to put it. Or maybe it’s the only way to put it. “You are.”
That’s why we’re here, working through the list—so she understands it’s okay to feel lucky. To feel alive. To reach out and grab all the things she wants from life even though Claire can’t do the same.
She drums her fingers against the table then gestures to the red and white awning. “So why mushrooms instead of . . . anything else? I’ve never been to the top of the Empire State Building, either, you know. And I really should get around to that, considering I’ve lived here my entire life.”
There are so many ways to answer that question. There are so many “new” things Ruby and I could have tried together—like kissing or finding out if we enjoy each other’s company as much with our clothes off as we do with them on.
But that’s exactly why I suggested mushrooms.
Food is safe.
I’m not.
I’m pretty sure a fling with her dead best friend’s older brother is the last thing Ruby needs right now. Or ever.
But she does need to push herself, so I keep my answer as truthful as I can. “Because I think you’re going to love them once you get past that sweet tooth of yours.” I stop, take a beat. “And because I know Claire would want you to try different things that are hard, not ones that are easy.”
Ruby nods slowly, thoughtfully. “True. That would be very her.”
A few minutes later, Abe arrives with an artfully arranged platter of sautéed mushrooms and couscous, with several tiny bowls full of brightly colored pickled vegetables to the side.
“Voila,” he says, clearly proud of his creation.
Ruby thanks him, but dread creeps into her eyes. Before he can leave, she thrusts a hand into the air like she’s answering a question in grade school. “Wait. I know what will make these taste even better going down.”
I fight a laugh. “Wine?”
She gives me a you know me so well look. “Always. Everything’s better with wine.”
We order drinks—white wine for her and a craft lager for me—and start dishing food onto our plates. As Abe delivers our beverages then moves back behind the counter, an older couple, maybe in their sixties, ambles by our table. He’s a little gray, and she is too, but they look happy.
They also look like they’re from out of town—they’re far too bright-eyed and white-tennis-shoed to be local.
I bet they’re on some kind of anniversary trip, checking out the hip Brooklyn neighborhoods and having a blast. The woman glances at our platter as she passes and says quietly to the man with her, “Those mushrooms look incredible.”
Ruby clears her throat and calls out sweetly to the woman, “You can have mine if you’d like.”
I kick her playfully under the table. “You devil.”
The man eyes our food with a grin. “What are all of those? I’ve only ever had the button mushrooms.”
I chime in, “You’ve got porcini. Cremini. Chanterelle. You should grab the sampler too. Sadly, I can’t let her share. We’re on a bucket-list mission. We’re trying something new tonight, and this fantastic woman here is about to explore a new food.”
