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EIGHT

ruby

Tuesday morning, I’m not worried about Lorenzo’s surgery until the nurse hustles me out of the pre-op area and closes the curtain around him.

A quick, uncomfortable series of what-ifs runs through my brain as I wander back to the waiting area.

There’s always that chance, however minuscule, of something going wrong.

Then what would I do? Without Lorenzo, I’m completely alone.

That’s when my brain goes to the place I hate most of all: life after college. I fill a paper cup from the waiting area watercooler and slump into a plastic chair.

A year from now Lorenzo will be starting his pro football career, I’ll be starting a job of my own—hopefully—and we’ll probably be hundreds of miles apart.

The beginning of life without Lorenzo at my side.

Dread doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel.

Lorenzo likes to act like nothing will change next year, but for all his intelligence, he doesn’t see the bigger picture.

He’ll be rolling in cash, swamped by the most beautiful women in America, and traveling constantly for games and endorsement deals.

I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to move into my childhood bedroom.

He won’t forget me, of course. I’ll get flowers on my birthday and an invitation to his wedding, but no one who knows him in that life will ever get to know me.

The thought brings a sharp curl of pain to my gut.

Sometimes I try to remember life before I met Lorenzo.

My parents claim I had friends, but since I can’t remember them, I have doubts.

Probably they were the disciplined, overachieving children of my parents’ disciplined, overachieving friends whose habits were intended to rub off on me.

Full of piss and vinegar from day one is how my grandfather has always summed me up.

My dad can’t stand when he says that. He doesn’t approve of his father’s ways any more than he approves of his daughter’s.

But life after Lorenzo won’t be anything like life before him.

Back then, I didn’t know what I was missing.

Even now, when he’s not around, I feel it.

When I’m with other people, even those I consider friends, I feel how strange I am, how hard I have to work to blend in.

Everyone else seems to know what they want and how to get there.

I’ve tried to pretend I’m the same, and I’ve tried to embrace being the rebel who doesn’t want to get anywhere in life.

Neither quite works. I can’t be me unless I’m alone or with him.

Nerves prick at my skin, stealing my ability to sit still, so I head outside to walk the gravel paths that wind around the hospital grounds and shift my focus to more immediate unpleasant matters. I have to call my dad, and I might even have to grovel. Because as of two days ago, I’m jobless.

I haven’t told Lorenzo that when I called my boss to ask whether I could start a couple of days later than agreed on, the guy fired me.

Does it even count as firing if you lose the job before you ever started?

The memory of the conversation makes me warm with humiliation.

My boss wasn’t even an asshole about it; he just sounded tired and disappointed and not particularly surprised.

Maybe if I’d prepared better, I could have convinced him how much the job meant to me and how I intended to make up for switching my start date by being the best damn fish facility care assistant Shafer University has ever seen.

I’d have gladly made up the hours by coming in early or staying late.

I blow out a breath, refusing to get stuck in the tangle of regret.

If it couldn’t be Gina taking care of Lorenzo today, it had to be me.

Anyone else would have stressed him out too much.

And while that job meant something to me, this surgery means everything to Lorenzo. Giving up my job was an easy decision.

I find an empty table in a small courtyard and pull up the note on my phone where I made my calculations.

Do I really have to do this? But my situation is right there in stomach-churning black and white: I have just enough money saved to pay my rent through summer.

And I have zero left over to turn on the lights, run the fridge, buy groceries, or take showers.

If I don’t land a job with decent pay—like right now—I’ll have to sublet my apartment and spend the summer back home, working for my parents.

And every job I’ve called or emailed about in the last few days has either been filled or beyond my qualifications.

I always told myself that as soon as I hit college, I’d make sure I never needed a thing from my parents beyond tuition, yet here I am, ready to grovel so they’ll swoop in and save my ass.

I dial my dad, my chest tight. I’ve heard that smiling can improve your attitude, so I force a smile as the phone rings. This is going to take everything I have.

“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers.

“Ruby. Nice to hear from you at last.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a while. How are the preparations for summer workshops coming?” As headmaster, my dad runs programs for students of all ages all summer long.

“I’m fine-tuning the details as we speak.”

“So you’ve done all your hiring?”

Pause. “Ruby,” he says knowingly.

I breathe into the phone. Do I really have it in me to do this? “Yes?”

“Why are you inquiring about staffing?”

“I ...” Yes, I’m really going to do this. I have no choice. “I was wondering if you had any need for another employee.”

There’s silence and then a harsh crackling on the line. I picture my dad sighing deeply; Richard’s I’m disappointed sigh. “I don’t suppose you’re asking for a friend, are you?”

“Nope, I’m available.” I say it like this is his lucky day.

“I’ve been telling you since January I wanted you working here for the summer, and I just needed to know by May. What happened to the fish job?” He says fish like it’s some absurd new trend.

I seethe for an instant. Why does everyone seem to find this job worthy of being mocked?

It’s a university job, it’s steady pay with real responsibilities, and I was pretty fucking excited about it.

I can’t tell him the truth. “Nothing happened to it,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Turns out it won’t be as many hours as I need, that’s all. ”

“Well, Ruby, a loan is out of the question.”

“Did I ask for a loan?”

“We both know it’s coming.”

Actually, it isn’t. I’d rather live at home with them and play housekeeper all summer than grovel for money. “I don’t want a loan. I was just asking about my options.”

He laughs disdainfully. “Sounds to me like you don’t have any!”

“So is that a no? I can’t work at the school?”

“How on earth could you with your summer class?”

“You always say you need part-time help, and my class is only three days a week.”

“ Sometimes I need part-time help. And June’s fully staffed.

I took care of that months ago,” he boasts.

“July is ... supposedly taken care of, but already one of my counselors is hemming and hawing about her availability. How someone can make it through postsecondary education without the ability to make a short-term commitment is beyond me.”

My dad will take any opportunity to drag young people. I start leafing through the newspaper someone left on the table while my dad makes sweeping accusations about an entire generation.

“In any case,” he continues, “I don’t suppose you could commit to August, with fall semester starting.”

“Right.” I flip to the classifieds page near the back of the paper. “But I can do some admin stuff in the office. Or I’ll work in the preschool; you’re always complaining about turnover there.” I love helping with the little kids, especially the toddlers.

My dad makes a disapproving noise. “They’re possibilities,” he says grumpily. “I’ll have to think about it and discuss it with your mother. And you’d be living with us, correct?”

I swallow the absolute dread that rises up. “Yes.”

“What about your class?”

“Yeah, it’d be a lot of commuting, but it’s possible.”

“You’d be expected to contribute to the household,” he warns. “Meals, of course.”

“Sure.” My cooking is the one thing my parents always compliment me on.

“As well as chores and keeping your room tidy. Plus a curfew. We don’t care how you live at college. In our home, there will be rules and expectations.”

Despair washes over me. I can’t do this.

Not this summer, and not ever again. It’s not the curfew, it’s the fucking control.

The smarmy sound of his voice, him laying down the law because no matter where he finds himself, he has to exert his power.

Without it, he’s nothing. My eyes land on a small classified ad in the lower left corner of the page: College girls wanted.

I know the name of the business and I know what we’re wanted for.

“Yeah, I get that, Dad,” I say quickly. “So talk it over with Mom and let me know. It’s just one idea I had; you know, if some other job options don’t work out.”

“What other job options?” He sounds bewildered to learn I’m not completely at his mercy, which is fair, because until ten seconds ago, I was.

“Just some other things I’m exploring. Let’s talk in a few days.”

“Ruby, if you accept a job at the school, I won’t tolerate you changing your mind at the last minute.”

“I’m not going to, Richard!” I snap. “That’s why I’m not committing to anything right now. I’m only asking what the possibilities are. Can we just have a discussion?”

“Fine, Ruby. We’ll have a discussion—that’s if there’s anything to discuss.”

“Great,” I say dryly. “So let me know if there is. Thanks.”

We exchange a terse goodbye and hang up. I want to fucking scream.