Page 16

TWELVE

ruby

My date with Brad bears an uncanny resemblance to the last date I went on, which is scary because that was in eighth grade.

This one features the smell of beer instead of body odor, but both took place in bowling alleys.

And both turned out awkward. On the upside, at least my date tonight is a pretty good kisser.

“How was work?” Brad asks as rainbow disco lights trail across his face. The place is a combination bowling alley / restaurant / lounge that claims to be upscale, but it’s been giving stale roller-disco vibes since we walked in.

“I didn’t work today. Unless you count folding Lorenzo’s laundry.”

“How’s the job, though?”

“Oh.” I wave it off. “It didn’t really work out.”

“You quit already? What happened, fingers wore out from sprinkling fish flakes into the tank all day?”

I force a chuckle and then hate myself for it. “No, they let me go.”

“No way! You got fired from cleaning aquariums?” His expression is a mix of disbelief and humor that he quickly reins in when he catches my eye.

“I couldn’t start when they needed me. Because of Lorenzo’s surgery.”

“Oh, right.”

“Not saying I wouldn’t have gotten fired either way. I just didn’t get the chance.”

He shrugs. “Who cares, anyway? It was kind of a joke, wasn’t it? Working as an aquarium cleaner?” He slides his gaze over to me like he’s trying to assess whether he’s being insulting.

He is, but I don’t say so because I like him.

Or at least I did? I’m confused. “It wasn’t really a joke—I need the money—but I guess it’s not the coolest job on the planet.

” And here I go, welcoming to the stage the side of myself I absolutely can’t stand.

I did think that job was cool. Why don’t I say so?

We linger in awkwardness for a few minutes as we finish a round of bowling, but Brad pulls us out of it when a cheesy seventies song comes on and he starts dancing, grinning at me the whole time to make sure I’m entertained.

He dances like a dork, but he’s cute enough that it works for him.

I like that he’s working to impress me without trying to pretend he’s cooler than he actually is.

His goofy dancing doesn’t exactly get my pulse pounding the way a drug habit or a bad attitude did with past guys I dated, but those dalliances all ended in either disappointment or disaster.

Maybe a hint of dorkiness is at the root of every lasting relationship.

“Hey, know what I was thinking?” Brad asks when we sit back down after dancing through a couple of songs. He’s pressed close to me, and I can feel the heat of exertion through his clothes.

I smile. I haven’t decided yet whether I want to go back to his place tonight, but I think I’m about to be made to decide. I lean an inch closer. “What’s that?”

“My sister-in-law runs a tutoring business, and they’re always looking to hire new people.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment with a look that says, That’s interesting. “That’s interesting. I just got hired for something else, though.”

“For what?”

It’s only now that I realize I’m a little hesitant to tell him the truth, because I’m pretty sure he’s exactly the type of guy who’s going to judge and judge hard. “Cocktail waitress. At Cameo’s.”

And I’m right. I see it in the confused look on his face: Huh? This chick’s a slut? “The titty bar?”

I restrain my eyes from rolling. “Yep.”

“Wow. I didn’t, uh ... expect you to say that.”

“It’s just a job. Serving cocktails. Seedy digs and whatnot, but it’s fine.”

“Huh.” His body has stiffened.

“And don’t worry, Lorenzo’s already expressed the appropriate amount of male concern to cover both of you. There’s all kinds of security. It’s safe.”

“Yeah, sure. It’s just that dudes can be?—”

“Every girl knows how dudes can be. We don’t need to be told.” I add a smile to soften the harshness of my delivery.

He looks at me. “Right. I guess that’s true.” He shakes his head, moving on. “Anyway, think about working for my sister-in-law. You could probably work there until graduation. She’s looking for long-term.”

“A year at the same job? I’ve never even had a relationship last that long,” I joke.

Brad gives me a kind, if not patronizing, smile. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What is?”

He opens his mouth halfway, then pauses to study me. “I mean, in a year we’ll be adults going out into the real world. And you’re still jumping from one thing to the next—the fish, the strip club, the other little ideas you had. No offense, Ruby, but you gotta grow up and commit to something.”

It’s not that he’s wrong. That’s not why I taste the bitterness of embarrassment at the back of my throat.

It’s that I already knew this about myself.

I just didn’t know it was such a loathsome quality that I need a lecture about it on a date with a guy I think genuinely likes me. “Maybe,” I say, hoping he moves on.

It works. He leans close, nuzzling his lips against my ear, and whispers, “Don’t worry. I think you’re pretty damn cute anyway.”

Anyway? His lips move to my mouth, and I let him kiss me, but I’m moving robotically. I’m not even sure whether I’m kissing him back. I don’t taste a thing.

Maybe I need to get over it. What he said wasn’t even that bad. I’ve had guys say so much worse to my face. Brad might not be subtle, but he was only trying to help, right? Still, I feel the same cold confusion from earlier.

He pulls back, finally noticing this kiss is one-sided. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just expecting a slightly more seductive line before you kissed me.”

Brad takes my hand. “Sorry, Ruby, I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

“You’re not. It’s just ...” I shrug. “Not everyone has their life figured out by the time college ends.”

He gives me a doubtful look. “But you could at least try.”

It hits me then: I don’t ever want to do this again.

I don’t want to go out with someone who likes me despite my nature, not because of it.

I don’t want to give a guy another chance in spite of this, that, or the other bullshit.

I don’t want to go out with someone whose kiss doesn’t make my blood pulse hot in my veins.

And I don’t want to spend another minute with someone who has listened to me tell my life story and still thinks I’m not fucking trying.

When I stand up, Brad looks too stunned to speak.

“I’m heading home,” I tell him.

“Wait,” he says, finding his voice. “Really? Hold on, are you mad? Because of what I said?”

“I’m not mad. And yes, because of what you said.”

He stands up and grabs my arm. “I didn’t mean to offend you, okay? I was just trying to help.”

“I know. Totally get it, but I don’t want that kind of help.”

He gestures around, wide-eyed, like, You’re really walking away from all this? Yep, I am. I’m walking away from the dorky dancing, the lukewarm kisses, the overconfidence, the obliviousness to the fact that being good at one thing—football—means he doesn’t have to work hard for a damn thing else.

But I lied; I’m not going home. I’m going to Lorenzo.