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“Yeah, we’ve got it. Go home,” she tells me.
I thank her and head towards the back door, but instead of heading up the hill home, I head the other way. My mind is still fixated on the cello player and bringing her into my bar to play. At least, that’s what I tell myself I’m doing.
Have you ever had the feeling that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and all your cells start to scream at once for you to get the fuck out of there? Your pulse starts to race, you become unnaturally aware of parts of you that you don’t normally notice like your hair follicles, nail beds, and lymph nodes. This was like that, but the opposite. My hand gripped the cold, metal railing and as a descended the staircase, I could hear the cello playing—right place at the right time. The cells in my body start to sing, every step is lighter than the one before. I could feel the gold thread of fate steering me in the right direction. I skip the bar and head for a table in the corner and let the music wash over me. It’s cleansing, like I remembered. People vastly underestimate the power of music and its ability to heal. I bet she doesn’t. I should have learned to play an instrument, but I suppose I couldn’t have. I was always hungry for life’s most basic necessities. Now, I’m hungry for so much more.
After practically floating through the door in the wake of that gold thread, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I hear someone pulling out the chair next to me. I don’t even need to look to know that it’s him. His presence is heavy and still fresh in my memory from our accidental run-in this afternoon.
“You didn’t come here looking for me, did you?” Jake asks.
“No. Yes. Maybe.” I didn’t think so, but maybe a part of me did. Most likely, it was the part that I generally try to stuff down into a corner and psychically smother out of existence. That part might be my intuition.
“I think maybe I was looking for you, too,” he tells me.
“Why?” I ask.
He answers me with a question. “Are you okay, Ruby? Really? After, you know, everything, are youreallyokay?”
So, he was just worried. Maybe he even pities me. “You know what? I am. I really am. I am killing it at both of my jobs, I love my new apartment. I’m healing, or trying my best to heal, at least. It’s fucking hard.”
“I’m not,” he says.
“Not what?” I ask.
“I’m not okay. Maybe I thought I was, before I ran into you earlier today. I miss you, Ruby. I think about you all the time. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. You’re the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night. I fucking hate it.”
His forwardness takes me aback like it always does. “What about your girlfriend? I thought you were seeing someone.”
“I tried. It was never going to work out, Ruby.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says shrugging, “she wasn’t you. No one is. I mean, the time that we were together, was short. A blip really, or at least that’s how I try to explain it away. But it changed me for the better. It made me want things again. I started drawing again because of you. I’m taking art classes again because of you. I’m, you know, trying to figure out who I am outside of who everyone expects me to be. I never would have done any of that without you.”
“So then, I’m not your evil origin story?”
“No,” he says and laughs, just a little. “You’re just my origin story.”
His words cut through me, but in a good way. They cut through the surface and the bullshit walls I’ve been working tirelessly to tear down so that, for once, I can know what it’s like to really live. But old habits die hard, and instead of showing it, I backpedal.
“So, you’re taking art classes again, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I’d like to work in a gallery or a museum, maybe teach. Sell my own work on the side. I don’t know, I just know that I don’t want to keep doing what I’ve been doing.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” I tell him. “I love that for you.”
“Well, you’re about the only one,” he says. “Shit. I need a drink. Do you want a drink?”
“Um, no. I’ve been trying to cut back, actually. It’s been brought to my attention that I might have a bit of a problem with alcohol, so I’ve added that to my list of character flaws that need to be addressed.”
“I think that maybe I do, too,” he says, not quite laughing.
“See? We have so much more in common than we thought we did before,” I say in jest, but he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for something else—something other than sarcasm, deflection, and self-deprecation.
“I miss you, too, Jake,” I tell him. “I miss you every day.”
“Can we start over?” he asks.
“I’d like to,” I say. “I’d like to try.”
