“Same difference.”
Ruby rolled her eyes affectionately. “Control freak.”
“Guilty.”
The highway stretched ahead of them, the final leg of their journey. Ruby settled into the passenger seat with her tablet, pulling up a movie.
“Oh my God,” she said ten minutes in. “Okay, so the main character just discovered her husband is actually a time traveler, but he's from the future, not the past, and—are you even listening?”
“I'm listening.”
“What did I just say?”
“Time traveling husband.”
“Okay, fine, you're listening.” Ruby launched back into her narration. “But wait, it gets better. So he's from the future, right? But he accidentally changed something in the past—our present—and now he's stuck here and can't get back. And she's all 'why didn't you tell me' and he's like 'I thought you'd think I was crazy' which, fair point, but also, dude, you've been married for five years. Communication!”
Celeste laughed. “You're very invested in this.”
“I'm invested in good storytelling! Or in this case, bad storytelling that's so bad it's entertaining.” Ruby resumed the movie, keeping up a running commentary that was infinitely more entertaining than the actual plot. “Okay, so now they're in a warehouse. Is there some kind of rule that all action scenes have to happen in warehouses or abandoned factories?”
“I think it's in the screenwriting handbook.”
“Page one, probably. 'When in doubt, warehouse.' Oh no, she's going into the dark room alone. That's against rule one of horror movies—don't go into the dark room alone!”
“This isn't a horror movie.”
“It should be. It would be more interesting.” She made a face. “Okay, I can't with this anymore. The time traveling husband just did something incredibly stupid and I need a break from the nonsense.”
She turned off the tablet, setting it aside and eventually, her commentary slowed, then stopped altogether. Celeste glanced over. Ruby had fallen asleep, her head tilted toward the window.
Celeste reached over, removing the tablet from her lap and setting it in the cupholder. Her hand hovered near Ruby's hair, and unable to help herself, she smoothed back a strand that had fallen across her face.
What would it be like to have this, waking up every morning to Ruby's sleep-mussed hair and ridiculous sense of humor?
Almost without thinking, Celeste took her hand, lacing their fingers together. The contract ushered in a sense of rightness she couldn't explain and shouldn't feel, given their temporary arrangement. Yet holding Ruby’s hand felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Ruby's eyes fluttered open. She looked down at their joined hands, then up at Celeste's face, and smiled. “Hey.”
“We'll be in New Orleans soon,” Celeste said, too quickly. “Another hour, maybe.”
“That's lovely.” Ruby's thumb stroked across her knuckles. Then her eyes drifted shut again, but she didn't let go.
Celeste drove one-handed, unable to pull away. The landscape blurred past, trees and billboards and rest stops, but all she could focus on was the weight of Ruby's hand in hers.
What if they didn't have to end this? What if she was brave enough to want more than stolen moments in hotel rooms?
That was impossible, she thought. She had too much to lose. Moreover, Ruby deserved someone who could love her publicly. And Celeste couldn’t be that person, no matter how much she might want to.
But as she drove, Celeste allowed herself to hold onto this moment. What mattered was having a good time now. So she'd take these few days to hold Ruby's hand and make love to her and laugh at her ridiculous movie commentary.
She'd let herself be happy, even if it was temporary.
Even if it would break her heart when it ended.
Because the alternative—walking away now, protecting herself before the fall—felt infinitely worse than any pain that might come later.
At least this way, she'd have the memories.
