The Datsun shimmers.
I step back, rag in hand, and circle my favorite car one more time.
Even the hubcaps shine.
They’d better—I’ve spent the bulk of the last forty-eight hours here in my garage prepping this beauty for a road trip across the country.
Maybe I should check the oil one more time.
I do.
It’s all good.
And the tire pressure.
Yup. That’s solid as well.
“Need anything else, you sexy silver beast?”
She’s silent.
And so is my phone.
So is my apartment.
So is my fucking garage, emptied out and waiting for the new owners to take possession next week.
I’ve heard nada from Ruby.
Not a single word since I left two days ago.
All I can do is keep myself busy, which hasn’t been easy, since my garage is already spic-and-span.
I finished packing up some books and plates and clothes in my apartment, though the movers I hired will do the rest next week.
Time is unwinding.
My chest seizes.
Grabbing my phone, I check the messages one more time.
They mock me, glaringly empty.
Nothing from the woman whose voice I’m dying to hear.
I heave a sigh, the weight of my own choices sinking me. My bones are heavy, and it’s my own damn fault.
Which means the thing I need most now is a kick in the pants.
There’s one person who’s excellent at giving those.
It doesn’t take long to catch Max up on what went down. I give him the details as we wander through his wife’s favorite wine shop so he can grab a bottle for a fancy Friday night dinner at home.
He picks up a Syrah, studies the front, then sets it down with a dismissive wave. “Boring.”
He reaches for a Merlot next, clucks his tongue, then taps the front. “Yep. This is the one. Perfect new wine. Theresa will love it.”
I furrow my brow. “How do you know?”
“Because it has ducks sword-fighting on the label.”
“That’s how you pick wine for your wife?”
He shoots me a duh look. “How else would I do it?”
Fair point. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a wife to buy wine for. Or even a girlfriend, since I fucked that up.
“Theresa has a theory—the more interesting the illustration, the better the wine.”
“And how does that theory hold up?”
“So far it’s been on the mark. She contends that winemakers who spend time on clever labels also spend time on the vino. Ergo, the pick-by-drawing method.”
I peer at the jousting water fowl, and of course it makes me think of Ruby and all the funky things she draws.
But everything makes me think of Ruby. How could I think of anything but her? The woman I said goodbye to two days ago. The woman who went to bed alone in a hotel room I intended for the two of us. The woman I can’t get out of my head.
Instead, I’m with Max, helping him shop for a dinner he’s going to be making for his wife.
It’s so fucking domestic.
And incredibly cool. My buddy, the guy I’ve known for years, loves to do simple things like this for his woman, the mother of his child.
We head to the checkout. He buys the wine, then we leave the shop and walk along Ocean Avenue.
As the early evening sun warms my face, he turns to me. “So, you want to know what to do next with Ruby?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Was it always perfect with Theresa? You must have hit a rough patch at some point, right?”
He laughs, but it’s not at me—it’s with me. “No, Jesse. I am the only man in the history of the world who has never pissed off his wife.”
“Lucky bastard,” I mutter.
“Of course we hit rough patches. In the early days, her grandmother wasn’t thrilled about her dating a guy who wasn’t Korean, and Theresa refused to get engaged without her halmoni’s permission. We bickered about that for a few months before Grandma finally got on board. And we struggled when we were trying to get pregnant too. Theresa was emotional and depressed, and so was I. Neither one of us knew what to say to the other for a while. Hard patches are hard. But they’re also normal.”
“So what do you do?”
“Talk it out,” he says. “But . . .”
“But what?” I ask, agitation whipping through me. I have a feeling he’s going to say talking won’t work for me.
“I’m not sure that’ll work for you.”
Yup. Sometimes, knowing your friends this well sucks. “And why’s that? Why can’t I talk to her? Or, I don’t know, show up on her doorstep with ten thousand flowers? Or hold a boombox over my head outside her window?”
But even as I list all those options, they sound wrong.
So un-Ruby.
Max arches a brow. “You don’t have to throw a parade or buy out a flower shop for her. There’s a place for the grand gesture, but this isn’t it.”
My shoulders sag.
“Hate to break it to you,” he adds with a sigh, “but sometimes you just have to bide your time. Give your woman space. I think that’s what has to happen here, bro.”
I grit my teeth and clench my jaw as we stop at the light. “I’m in love with her, Max. And I fucked it up. But this can’t be the end. I want to prove to her that I can be what she needs.”
“But you already said your piece. You explained why you did what you did. You apologized. And she said she needed space. Judging from the times I’ve met her, Ruby seems like a straightforward, honest person. I don’t think she said that so you’d do the opposite, Jesse. I think she said it because she actually needs space.”
I hate this advice.
I hate that I can’t solve this problem by doing something. Can’t fix it with a wrench, or a new set of tires.
All I can do is wait, and that’s not in my nature. “How the hell am I just supposed to . . . sit here? Doing nothing?”
Max is quiet for a beat. “Isn’t that what you did with the list?”
The words cut me to the core with their unadulterated truth.
He’s dead right. I waited with the list.
I waited two long years. I waited until she was ready.
Maybe that’s exactly what I should be doing now.
But first I have to talk to her, one more time. I have to let her know that I’ll wait for her as long as she needs me to.
I'm totally willing to do that.
I want to do that. If she wants me to.
Because she’s absolutely worth waiting for.
I say goodbye to Max, take off around the block, pop into a corner store, and grab a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a pencil.
I write a short note and draw a simple picture on the bottom.
A man and a woman. She’s sitting in the O of the giant YO statue outside the Brooklyn Museum. He cups her face, looking at her like there’s nothing else in the world for him. Like she’s the only thing worth looking at.
I go to her place and slip it through the slot in her mailbox. When she gets home, she can open it. And it’ll say . . .
Let me wait for you? As long as it takes?
I love you.
When I leave, I don’t return to the garage. I don’t tinker with the Datsun. I don’t spit-shine it to within an inch of its life.
Instead, I grab a bag of ready-made sandwiches at the deli on the corner and head to the old schoolhouse, where I watch the sun shine on the mural Ruby and I painted together and share my late lunch/early dinner with two homeless men already settling down inside.
“I bet a lady painted it,” the older, bearded guy says around a mouthful of egg salad.
“Looks like something a woman would paint,” the shorter, younger man agrees.
“No, not a woman,” the other man corrects him. “A lady. Someone sweet and classy. And kind.”
“She’s all of those things,” I chime in. “And talented and strong and funny.” I sigh. “The whole package.”
The older man smiles. “I thought so.” He claps me on the back. “It’ll work out, son. Don’t worry. Love finds a way. It really does.”
I want to believe he’s right.
If he can believe, what excuse do I have for staying a pessimist?
But I doubt I’ll feel right until I hear from her, until I know how she feels about me waiting.
And find out if she might decide to wait for me too.