Deconstructed(49)

“Well, thanks again, Dak,” I said, dropping my hand and feeling for the crossbody I had dropped onto the floorboard when we’d first left Mooringsport. My actions shifted me closer to Dak, and I felt his hand tug my hair.

I grabbed my bag and looked up.

“It’s been good seeing you, Ruby.”

He could have said many things—I could see that in his eyes. Maybe something inane, like Way to finally get your shit together, or encouraging, like You’re doing good, kiddo, or perhaps even sentimental, as in I wish things hadn’t ended the way they had. But Dak wasn’t prone to needless words. Never had been. So by telling me it was good to see me, I knew what he meant because I felt the same roller-coaster emotions, that vacillation between regret and acceptance, that small question of what if, that whiff of attraction, of longing, or wanting something that probably could never exist again because we were no longer those stupid kids who believed in white picket fences and staring off into the sunset side by side.

I lifted my body and looked him right in his pretty eyes and said, “Yeah, you too.”

My right hand groped for the door handle just as he leaned toward me.

My stomach tightened in expectation because I wanted to feel his mouth against mine. Part of me needed to taste what once was, revel in the desire I had always felt for this man. Part of me knew it would be bad because I could slide right down that slippery slope. But he bypassed my lips, instead brushing a kiss on my cheek. “Be well, Ruby. You deserve happiness.”

His words were like the swish of a hand over a fevered brow—desperately wanted but, at the same time, useless to do any good.

So I opened the door and climbed out. When he backed out of my driveway, I didn’t look back at him. Instead I took the bouquet of red roses nestled in baby’s breath and lifted it to my nose. They smelled of waxy nothingness. The card attached read, “Looking forward to tonight.”

I unlocked my door and took the flowers inside.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


CRICKET

Once upon a time I had loved going to balls. Mardi Gras, cotillion, or deb functions with sparkles, champagne, and the opportunity to judge the band procured for the Baron’s Ball against the one they used for the ARTini bash. This was always a fierce discussion topic among my friends for some reason. Oh, along with the flowers. Did they spend enough? Who did them? But at any rate, I had always looked forward to tugging on a fancy dress, painting my toenails blush, and fastening on my grandmother’s good jewelry. But after a few years, it was the same people having the same conversations around the same glitzy watering holes. I had begun to dread all social events that involved wearing heels and making small talk, but because of Scott’s reputation and because the bank depended on him to hobnob with people who brought him new business, I went for the prescribed two and a half hours and then massaged my feet all the way home, looking forward to pajamas and Netflix.

But for some reason that escaped me, I was looking forward to attending Gritz and Glitz tonight.

Okay, the reason didn’t escape me—I loved the way Ruby’s dress looked on me, and I relished the opportunity to brag on my assistant’s ability to create something bold, original, and, for all the Gen Xers out there, upcycled. I knew that people were going to be intrigued by me wearing something “so not me,” the way I knew that Scott wouldn’t be able to find his black dress socks and Julia Kate would want money for pizza that night.

So after finding Scott’s socks and leaving a check for Johnny’s Pizza, I sprayed my extravagant updo with something akin to shellac and stepped into my sexpot dress. I had already put on a pair of delicious black-heeled sandals that tied at the ankle in anticipation of not being able to bend down once I was zipped into the dress. I trailed out of my closet into the bathroom, where Scott was securing his cuff links in the mirror. The man always looked spectacular in a tux, which made me sigh just a little, but I tucked away any tenderness I felt for him when I saw the box with the fox butt plug winking at me from his own open closet.

Okay, fine. It didn’t wink, but I could see the corner of the box, and it might as well have been laughing at me.

“Can you zip me?” I asked, clutching my dress to my bosom, because though the man had seen me without clothes a thousand times over, I would be damned if he ever saw my size-DD boobs ever again.

He turned and made a face. “Where did you get that dress?”

“Ruby.”

“Your assistant loaned you a dress?”

“No. She custom-made this dress for me. She has her own label. She’ll be famous one day.” A bit of an exaggeration, but I believed in my heart that Ruby’s talent for refashioning couture could take her places. I was determined for her, and besides, having a bit of a project in Ruby kept me from thinking about how my life was unraveling like a bad hemstitch.

Scott tugged the zipper up as I sucked in. “There ya go.”

I readjusted my breasts, wiggling snug into the creation, and then turned to my reflection in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

I smiled at myself.

Scott was watching me, a glint in his eye. “You look good, Cricket.”

Smacking my red lips together and turning my head so I could see how my vintage updo made my neck look more elegant, I said, “I know.”

And then I grabbed the black Chanel evening bag my mother had loaned me and strolled out the door, leaving my husband staring at me bemusedly.