35

RUBY

“Dammit.” I groan, sliding out from under the car and slamming my wrench on the ground.

Billy glances at me and then goes back to tinkering with a motorcycle engine on the other side of the shop.

I sit up, hanging my elbows off my knees as the sweat drips down my face. We were hit with an early heat wave, which means it’s about a billion and a half degrees in here. And I’m stuck in gloves because I can’t risk messing up my manicure this close to the pageant. Perfect.

A water bottle appears in front of my face, Billy’s grease-covered hands gripping it tightly. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

The bottle crinkles when I grab it. He tosses me a clean rag, and I pour some water on it and wipe it over my face and neck. “The brake caliper piston seized.”

He takes a sip from his own bottle, seeming to consider his words carefully before moving on with a simple “You know that’s not what I’m talking about, kid.”

And I know it’s not. He wants to know why I’ve been here at the shop every spare second that I’m not at school or doing pageant prep, but I can’t tell him. He wouldn’t understand, and if I told him everything, he might even get freaked out. I couldn’t bear that on top of . . . well, on top of everything else.

“Come on, what’s eatin’ you?”

“Nothing,” I say, walking over to the radio. Billy has it set to some terrible classic rock song about painting things black, which is perfect for my mood. I crank it up loud and grab a fresh rag and a carburetor that needs to be cleaned from my workbench, pointedly sitting with my back to him.

I assume he’s gone back to working on the bike—Billy’s never been one to push—until I hear him turn the radio down. I spin around in my seat slowly and find him watching me, completely amused.

“What?” I pout.

“I was just thinking that people have probably been throwing fits and blasting that song since 1960, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen it happen in real life.”

“You weren’t even alive in the sixties.” I snort.

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He squirts some GOJO into his hands, scrubbing off the grease in the industrial sink beside me. “Come wash up.”

“I’m still working,” I say right as a delivery guy pulls up to the door.

“Not when dinner’s here, you’re not,” he says, going to pay the guy and grab the bags of food. They’re from Mama’s Restaurant—I can already tell—which means it’s probably Mama’s roast beef sandwich special. My mouth waters at the thought of it. At $8.99 a sandwich, it’s a rare splurge.

I pull the gloves off my hands as quick as I can and then duck into the bathroom to clean up a little extra before joining him at the picnic table behind the shop. He’s already halfway through scarfing his down by the time I’m out.

Billy slides my box over to me as I drop into my seat.

“Thanks.” I take the biggest bite I possibly can, my cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk’s, but I don’t even care. Billy doesn’t give a shit about me being presentable, pageant-ready, or ladylike. He doesn’t care if I inhale roast beef and love grease and loud, fast cars. He doesn’t give a shit about anything at all as long as I keep my workspace clean and do a good job.

Or so I thought, but then he sighs and gives me a look I’ve never seen before. It seems almost . . . worried?

“All right, I’ve let this go on long enough,” he says, like it’s actually killing him to say this. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong before I get an ulcer.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Ruby, you’re talking to a guy with two ex-wives, okay? I know what it looks like when a woman’s upset. And I also know . . .” He hesitates. “I know your mom can be . . . a little difficult about things. If you want to talk, I’m—”

“I don’t.”

“Well, if you do,” he says, picking a stray bit of lettuce off his wrapper and chewing it thoughtfully, “I’m not saying I’m the best at advice, but you could do worse. That’s all. I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

I stare down at my sandwich, blinking hard, because that’s probably the nicest thing any adult has ever said to me, and I am not equipped for this. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t even know how to begin to feel about it.

Because the truth is, I want to tell him. I want to tell someone. Because this has been hell for me, and nobody knows it. I’ve even been putting on a brave face for Everly, even though helping her with her Heart Eyes project is killing me. But seeing Morgan in school, sharing a class with her, acting like everything’s okay? It’s too much.

Last week, I even had to move my seat in Government because I couldn’t take sitting across from her anymore. The kid whose seat I stole was pissed until I told him I’d make sure his car passed inspection next month. See, I get that. I understand the whole one-hand-washes-the-other thing.

But I don’t understand caring about someone just for the hell of it, even if it hurts. I don’t understand wanting to change the world for people you don’t even know. And I sure as hell don’t understand having enough faith to say I love you and mean it, even when the other person couldn’t possibly say it back.

“I just need to keep busy right now.”

Billy wipes his face with a napkin. “Mm-hmm.”

He sounds like he doesn’t believe me, but it’s true. It helps. I’ve been working here nonstop, picking up extra classes at the studio, and practicing my pageant stuff 24/7. Charlene and I have been running interviews and walks and looks until I’m too exhausted to even move, but it still isn’t enough to keep my mind off Morgan.

Everything reminds me of her now. I hate it. I can’t even go to the grocery store for a Cup Noodles without walking by their stupid flower display and remembering our first date. I’ve been doing everything I can to ignore the absolute homesickness I’m feeling for that girl. But every time I stop moving, it all catches up to me.

Billy crumples his wrapper up, throwing it into the giant barrel he uses as a trash can and raising his arms in the air. “And the crowd goes wild!” He imitates the roar of people cheering before heading inside. I know Billy didn’t realize he was picking at a scab that’s barely healed, but I wish he’d just left it alone.

I keep telling myself that this is for the best, that not being together has to be easier on both of us. And maybe it is for her. I don’t know. Every time I see her, she’s off with Allie and Lydia, training or laughing about something. I guess “living her truth” has been good for her. I know I should be relieved, but . . .

The state meet is this weekend, and I’m apparently a masochist, so I’m planning to go. I know she’s going to win by a landslide. Just like I know there’s a whole side of her life that I was never really a part of. A happy life. A Division I kind of life.

Maybe I was the thing messing it up all along.

I stare down at the grain in the picnic table, the gray wood that should have been stained long ago and is just out here rotting away because no one’s taking care of it. People should take care of their things. Whether it’s an old picnic table or . . . or your person.

And all of a sudden, it feels like I’m going to explode, words welling up in my chest, like I’m choking, like if I don’t get them out immediately, I’ll drown in them.

I walk over to where Billy is working on the motorcycle, an old Harley one of his buddies owns, which he’s charging half price for even though I know he really needs the money. I clear my throat, and he stops, leaning back in his squat just enough to make eye contact and raise his eyebrows.

“I might be bi or something,” I mumble, the words falling out of my mouth like glass and smashing on the floor below. I expect him to act all weird or tell me to get out, but he just looks at me like he’s waiting for me to say more. But there isn’t any more. “I’ll go.”

“I kind of figured that when you brought the girl here,” he says, switching out his wrench. “She the one who’s got you all twisted up?”

I freeze. “You knew?”

He glances up at me as he tightens a bolt. “She looked at you like you hung the moon, and you had the dopiest smile on your face the whole time. Plus, she’s the first person you ever brought here to show your stuff to. I would have suspected even if you didn’t suck at being subtle.”

“Hey, I brought Everly here! And Tyler!”

“Yeah, once each, to use the lift and patch up their piece-of-shit cars.” He laughs. “Not to give them an introduction and a grand tour. You didn’t even let Tyler come in while you worked, remember? The lady across the street called the cops because he kept looking in the windows and she thought he was casing the place.”

He’s got me there.

“You tell your mother?”

I shake my head. “No, but she heard a rumor and wasn’t happy about it.”

“I bet.” He looks up at me, studying every inch of my face. “You okay?”

I shrug and look away.

“Ruby.” He stands up, and I can see a flicker of anger beneath his eyes. “Is your mom treating you right?”

I nod. Covering for her even now. Protecting the wrong person. Loving the wrong person. Always.

“Then what?”

“Morgan and I ended things. I couldn’t risk Mom poking around anymore, plus the whole pageant thing. I’d be screwed if they ever found out.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You hate the pageants.”

“I do, but this next one has a scholarship to a place with a good automotive program. I’m thinking about maybe doing that, if I can pull it off.”

“Automotive program, eh?” He smiles.

“Yep,” I say, feeling oddly proud of myself.

He huffs and mumbles something I can’t hear into the side of the bike.

“What?”

“I said”—he raises his voice—“I still think you’re a dipshit.”

I let out a startled laugh. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” he says. “If you’re telling me the reason you were walking on air was because of that girl, then you’re a dipshit for ending it, no matter how your mom acts or anyone else. Christ, I don’t have much, but you know I have a couch with your name on it anytime for as long as you need it, and I won’t ask shit about shit unless you force my hand.”

“Really?”

“I divorced your mom, kid, not you. You’ll always have a place to crash and food to eat while I’m on this earth. Now get your head out of your ass and start making some real plans for yourself, instead of just running scared, doing what your mom wants all the time.”

I open my mouth, intending to say, I don’t even know what, but all that comes out is a little gaspy inhale as I try not to cry.

“Now, don’t do that,” Billy says with an exaggerated stern face. “I can deal with a lot of things, but girls crying in my shop isn’t one of them. Don’t you have a car to fix?”

“Yeah.” I nod, wiping my nose. “Yeah, I do.”