“Um, yeah, sure,” Greg says, glancing up. He’s blinking a lot, dazed. “Stop by six for a second?”
The elevator dings for the sixth floor, and all the accountants pour out ahead of us. A couple of them give me a quick little up-nod. “Hey, Ruby,” one guy mumbles.
Greg and I get out and linger in the hall before the entrance to the open-plan-office part of the floor. He stares at the industrial blue carpet for a long moment before gathering himself to ask: “Is this really what you want?”
“Um.” I swallow hard, all thewin-win-winreasons from last night looping in my head. “Yes?”
“Then everything’s fine.”
“Okay?” I squint into the sun that’s coming through the tall windows behind him, with their view of the TKCORP parking lot and the old pool across the street. “Is it, though?”
Greg looks at the ceiling and sighs, like he’s fighting with himself.
There are so many things I want to yell right now, but maybe they don’t totally make sense. Things like:What do you want from me?AndWhy are you acting this way?AndI thought I was doing the thing that would preserve our friendship! Not ruin it again!
He gestures behind him, not looking at me. “I should get to work. Bye, Ruby.”
And he walks away while I stare at his back.
I run into the elevator and go straight to the bathroom on the eighth floor, tucking myself into the corner of the biggest stall so no one can recognize my shoes, like an old co-worker in New York taught me.
I don’t know why Greg is acting this way, and I don’t know why I’m acting this way, either. But as emotionally clogged as I am so much of the time, for some reason the tears are cominghot and ready, all this water springing onto my cheeks faster than I can wipe it off. I start laughing, even though I’m still crying.What the hell, body?
People come and go in here, politely ignoring my sniffling.
Someone slides a tissue box under the stall door, and I recognize Sarah’s perfectly manicured hand. But I’m slow to get to the door, and by the time I open it, she’s gone.
Chapter
30
The next week passes slow and strange.
After coming in so intense, wanting to spend all this time together, Mark Winterson is suddenly scarce, focused on some big project Erickson assigned. I send him a few texts, and some terse responses land hours later. A few days in, I start to wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.
Texting Greg is a similar experience—he takes hours, sometimes days, to reply, then says as little as possible. After work, I’m spending too much time alone with my spinning thoughts. I take longer runs around my neighborhood, down streets lined with jacaranda trees. The vivid purple blooms almost make me blush with their audacity. I’d forgotten about them while I was gone.
Unlike when I first moved back, I start jogging by Greg’s house, hoping to find an excuse to talk to him. But I get too scared to knock the first few times I pass by—and the third time, Sarah’s car is in the driveway, which scares me off for good.
The silent treatment reminds me of our years of not talking. By the time Friday rolls around, I’m so upset, I call in sick with a fake stomach bug.
And that afternoon, I get a text from Mark Winterson:
Mark Winterson:
come over tonight.
Ruby:
don’t tell Erica
i’m supposed to have a stomach bug
Mark Winterson:
i’ll never tell.
Ruby:
