Page 27

TWENTY-ONE

ruby

It’s when I get slapped on the ass that I decide to quit.

Fuck the men in this place, fuck Lorenzo for dragging my heart in every direction, and fuck me for letting it happen.

Sure, it’s my own fault my stomach has been turning inside out all afternoon at the thought of Lorenzo and Alli together.

I pushed him to see her. I pretended I didn’t care.

And I know why I did it. The only way I can trust myself never to kiss him again is if he belongs to someone else.

And if he gets back together with Alli, it won’t be because I told him to.

It’ll be because he wants to. And Lorenzo deserves what he wants.

But how is he going to flirt with me like he’s never dared before and then drop Alli’s name into our conversation like a bomb? Does he really think the idea of him and her together doesn’t completely crush me?

Even though I think I could pull off a memorable rage-quitting scene, I don’t quit right then and there.

I finish out the hour left in my shift, take my paycheck, and say goodbye to the small handful of people who know my name, thankful I’m never coming back to the distinct, sickening smell of stale cigarette smoke, male sweat, and clashing perfumes.

The money was okay, but I wasn’t making anything near the kind of money the dancers were. Anyway, money, while fabulous, isn’t what keeps me awake at night. It’s the future. And it’s Lorenzo’s words. I whine about all the years I wasted in high school, but I’m still wasting them.

I’ve thought about the aquarium job every day, about how much I wanted it and how ashamed I feel telling everyone I got fired before I even started.

Everything that’s happened in the last few weeks rages and burns inside me: losing the job I wanted so badly, hearing Professor Wythe insult and encourage me in the same breath, kissing Lorenzo, feeling the warmth of his attention and then pushing him toward Alli.

I can’t just take this feeling and go home. I need to do something with it.

Back in civilian clothing and with my hair scraped into a ponytail that reads as sleek, professional, and willing to grovel, I park near the biology building on campus and try to compose myself.

It’s not a great time—late afternoon and I’m showing up unannounced.

I’m not at my best—angry, tired, and reeking of the club.

But the words I want to say burn in my throat, desperate to get out.

I take the stairs to the second floor and walk down the empty fluorescent-lit hallway, my left shoe squeaking.

I don’t know whether I hope to encounter the same man who hired and subsequently fired me, or if my luck might be better with someone I haven’t already pissed off.

I push open the door to the lab, and there’s a familiar face behind the desk.

His eyes are on his computer screen. “Can I help you?” It’s only then he looks at me.

“Hi, Mr. Simms.”

His brows knit together and he opens his mouth but stops. I can see him searching for my name and coming up short.

“Ruby,” I offer.

“Right. Ruby.” He nods. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.” I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about the job.”

“Fish care facility assistant.” He says it like he’s attempting a tongue twister. “What about it?”

“Has the position been filled?”

He eyes me. “It’s being taken care of.”

“Because I couldn’t help but notice the job opening is still posted on the university website.”

He shrugs. “Not my department. Tech and whatnot.”

“So you’ve found someone else for the job?”

“Why are you asking? You lost that job.”

I wince. I was hoping they were in dire straits and Mr. Simms would be thrilled to see me walk in the door and offer my services.

I was probably an idiot to tell my boss at the club I wouldn’t be coming back.

But I did, and now I need money, and anyway, this is where I want to be.

“I know, but here I am asking for it again. If it’s open, that is. ”

The fact that he doesn’t immediately shut me down tells me they’re still looking for someone, so I proceed with my hastily prepared speech.

“I know I made a bad first impression by not being available. The circumstances were highly unusual and won’t happen again. My best friend was having surgery, and at the last minute his parents couldn’t care for him.”

Mr. Simms looks bored. “So you mentioned.”

“He plays football for Shafer. Rossi? Middle linebacker.” I’m taking a risk by saying this.

Most people worship or at least have a healthy respect for Shafer football players, but there is that certain subset that resents their privileged status on campus.

I’m banking on Mr. Simms, being a rather gruff sixty-something white guy, falling into the former category.

There’s a little spark of interest in his watery blue eyes. “Your boyfriend, this is?”

“Oh, no. Best friend growing up. Strictly platonic.” I’m hoping this endears me to him, this vision of me sacrificing for my best friend and the good of the Shafer athletics department, expecting nothing in return, not even some good dick.

“Anyway, nothing like that will come up again—if the job were to become available to me, I mean.”

He squints at me with a look that’s somewhere between pity and irritation. “There some reason you want this job so badly? If I’m remembering, you’re not even studying biology.”

Until now I feel I’ve been rather charming, at least for someone with zero natural charm.

But this question cuts through my facade.

Why do I want this job so badly? “I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life.

I’m not particularly talented at anything, so it’s kind of a puzzle.

But I love animals and I’m good at working alone and I haven’t stopped thinking about this job since the day you told me it was mine.

Also, if I don’t get it, I have to live with my parents for the rest of the summer. ”

He tips his head side to side like he considers these reasons almost convincing but not quite.

“And I know I wouldn’t disappoint you,” I add quickly. “I really want to be here.”

He gives me a long look. “Well, truth is we’re still searching for someone to fill the job. We’ve made do with our limited summer staff, but it’s not putting smiles on anyone’s faces.”

This puts a smile on mine.

“But,” he says, holding up a finger to stop me right there, “I’m not the only one who makes the hiring decisions. And no one’s gonna be particularly eager to hire someone who’s already proven unreliable.”

I swallow. “Understood. So you can just let me know.” I’m being presumptuous, but I’m hoping it works in my favor. “Should I leave my contact info?”

“I still have it,” he says in a tone that says he’s grown tired of me. I need to get out of here.

“Perfect. Thank you, Mr. Simms. Thanks for even considering me again.”

“Okay.” He’s focused his attention back on his computer screen before I’ve even turned around.

I head down the hallway, uncertainty making my stomach tight. So he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me, but he didn’t shoot me down. Outside, I take the side exit to the parking lot—and come face-to-face with someone I really don’t want to see.

“Brad. Hey.”

He looks startled to see me. “Hey,” he says shortly.

I’ve thought about this moment several times. I just never figured out what I’d actually do when it came. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.” Awkward silence. I prepare my exit. “Well, I?—”

“I keep thinking I’m gonna hear from you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, after that dramatic exit?” So typical, any female who expresses a feeling is instantly a drama queen. “We’re having a great time and then boom—I’m watching you walk away.”

I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes at his CliffsNotes version of our date. “We just didn’t hit it off, that’s all.”

“I thought we did.”

I soften at his earnestness. “I’m sorry. We did at first, but ...”

“Okay, look.” He smiles and I’m reminded how cute he is.

“Maybe I got a little preachy. But you can’t blame me for wanting to help out when I see you struggling.

” It’s ... nice, I guess. Annoying and patronizing but well intentioned.

I think. And then he adds, “I just want what’s best for you. ” And it all turns.

It’s the worst line of all time and, not coincidentally, my parents’ favorite line to pull out when they’re trying to justify being controlling, hypercritical assholes.

“How can you know what’s best for me? You hardly know me.”

“Okay, but ...” He smirks. “Some things are obvious.”

“It’s not going to work. We don’t need to deconstruct all the reasons why, do we? It’s just not going to work. Sorry.” I turn to walk past him, but he stops me.

“Hey, I get that you’re a girl who knows what she wants—and that’s cool. I respect it,” he says like he actually thinks it’s uncool and has no respect for it at all. “But I said one wrong thing and you bolted. Can you give me a break?”

A girl who knows what she wants . The label beams back at me enticingly.

I’ve always thought of myself as someone who had no clue what she wanted and with zero ability to make life happen.

What if I was wrong? Because I do know what I want.

I want to be free to make mistakes without being shamed for them. And I want Brad to get out of my face.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say as I move past him. As soon as Brad is behind me, I’m thinking about what else I want.

Lorenzo.

I want Lorenzo. It dawns on me what I’ve done.

I’ve told myself I’m unworthy of him so many times that I’m denying myself the only person I love with all my heart and pushing him toward the one girl who wants me out of his life.

A girl who might be picture-perfect but who’s never made Lorenzo smile the way I can.

She might be his type and I might be anything but, but the way he’s looked at me ever since I kissed him tells me there’s more to love than being his type.

Brad is right: I know exactly what I want. Is it too late to claim it?

It takes me a long time to get ready for Reeve’s party because I’m not sure exactly what I’m getting ready for.

I want to tell Lorenzo the truth, but I don’t know when I’ll work up the courage or how he’ll respond.

In the end I settle for dressing like it’s any other summer night out—a black sundress, loose hair, glossy lips, and lots of mascara—but I hope I’m wrong.

I text Lorenzo to tell him to let me know when he’s on his way, and I finish getting ready, spritzing on perfume and smoothing down the frizz at my temples, but every time I glance at my phone screen, my stomach churns a little harder to find he hasn’t replied.

I’m ready by nine, and even though we didn’t say that was when he was picking me up, that’s when the party starts, and Lorenzo is nothing if not annoyingly punctual.

For twenty minutes I sit on my bed and play a block-blaster game on my phone that does nothing to stop my brain from conjuring up vivid images of what might be keeping Lorenzo.

Then I call him. He doesn’t answer. I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling and half listen to my upstairs neighbor bang out some crashing beats on their drum set while I let my imagination do what it wants.

Lorenzo’s spent the last few hours with Alli, so busy he can’t spare five seconds for a text.

There are only so many things that can keep a man occupied like that, and all of them make me seethe with regret.

I go to the party alone, and even though I told myself Lorenzo wouldn’t be there, my heart sinks when it’s confirmed.

All the simmering anger that’s been building inside me boils into resolution: I have to stop pretending.

I hardly know what the truth is between him and me anymore, but I’m going to find it, and I’m going to say it.

And if I’ve just lost him to Alli again, I won’t pretend that doesn’t crush me.