Their Freefall At Last by Julie Olivia

40

Ruby

My best friend—my best friend, my Bennett—smells like stupid freaking coconuts.

I was sad. I was so sad, and now, I’m just … God, I’m so …

I’ve crossed into the next stage of grief.

Anger.

It bubbles in me, so hot and irritating and wild that I can’t stop it. For once in my life, I might boil over.

I’m so fucking angry.

“Well, that was a soap opera.”

I twist on my heel, staring at Michael in the hallway. He leans against the threshold in a white T-shirt that fits him too well, running a hand through his beautiful, gray-streaked hair. Only ten minutes ago, I was cuddling close to him as he gave me a glass of water and turned on the TV to some random sitcom. I remember being disappointed that his hair wasn’t longer and messier, like my best friend’s. And I hated that it didn’t smell like strawberries.

But I guess Bennett’s hair doesn’t smell like that anymore either.

Michael tilts his head to the side. “You love him.”

“Shut up, Mikey.”

He chuckles. “I knew it.”

Michael is grinning, and it’s cocky and kinda cute, but, God, I also wish I could just punch the smile right off his face. Bennett was right. Michael truly does have a punchable smirk.

And then I laugh. I laugh at the absurdity of it all. How Michael freaking Waters is here, in my house, being the perfect gentleman even though I’m a sloppy mess. Younger me would be in heaven, especially when he’s as gorgeous now as he was then. My eyes sting because I think I might cry again, but I laugh through that too.

I cannot believe I’ve liked Michael for so long. He’s always been a prick, hasn’t he? But I’ve been so wrapped up in his coolness and the idea that someone—anyone—might like me, even as an awkward teen.

I’ve spent so much of my life in naivety.

With Michael.

With Bennett.

“Why not tell him you love him?” he says.

“Well, right now, I hate him.”

“Because you love him so much.”

“Seriously, screw off.”

“Y’know I think I might love you when you’re angry like this, Red.”

“I need more water.”

I rush into my kitchen. Michael’s eyes follow me. He looks like ever the cool guy in the doorway with his gorgeous crossed arms and charming smile. But not as charming as Bennett. Nothing about him could ever be as tantalizing as Bennett.

And I hate that. I hate it so much.

I turn on the faucet. I don’t have time for the slow-pouring fridge water with a filter that is probably way past needing changed. My hands are shaking.

“I’m so …” The water sloshes over the lip as I shake.

“Pissed?” Michael offers.

“Pissed,” I say out loud. And it feels good to say.

I am. I’m pissed. The man I was supposed to marry, who I had given everything to—my first kiss, my virginity, my soul—just proposed to another woman, and it wasn’t freaking me. And it’s all my fault.

It’s like all my emotions from years and months and minutes and seconds are catching up, and, God, did I always feel this angry? Have I ever felt this pissed in my life? My heart hurts, and the twist in my gut keeps knotting tighter and tighter. And before I know it, my glass of water is crashing to the ground.

I threw it.

There are little shards of glass all over my tiled floor, and my arms shake by my sides.

After a few seconds, Michael lets out a low whistle.

“Want to throw another?”

And that sentence alone reminds me of prom night—of Bennett asking if I wanted to throw another pillow at the door.

I thought there were more stages to grief, but leave it to Bennett to get them all jumbled in my head. I linger on anger for a bit because I’ve never felt it and it feels good. It feels empowering, and I like it.

So, I do what maybe I should have done when I was eighteen, and I grab another pint from my cabinet and hurl it to the ground.

Smash!

Michael grins, but to his credit, he does take a cautious step back.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Sorta.”

“Relieved at least?”

Looking at the messy and honestly dangerous floor, it feels less like relief and more like control. Like change. One second, that glass was fully functioning, and now, it’s … nothing. And I did that.

“Yes,” I finally answer with a gulp. “Yes. I feel great.”

“Okay then, what’s next? Wanna go for the plates?”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “No. But thanks.”

Michael smiles back at me, head leaning on the doorway, just like Bennett does. But it’s not as cute, and maybe nobody will ever be as cute as Bennett is or was or will be.

I look down at my pink string and suck in a breath.

If Ben Shaw can grow up, so can I.

It’s about time I get some courage in my life.

I dig through my purse, pulling out my phone to see a few texts from my dad and from my own employer, who lacks the decency to text my work number. I have a text from everyone but Bennett, and that just angers me more.

I shoot a text to my boss. A simple I quit.

I send one to my dad. Another I quit because he’ll know what it means. I’m nothing more than a stupid babysitter. Me. His daughter.

I throw my phone across the counter.

God, I’m tired of being a pushover. I’m sick of being a rug for people to walk on. I’m over craving approval and people-pleasing and trying to solve every problem in the world for everyone but myself.

I snatch my phone again and dial up Emory. It’s two in the morning, but he instantly answers. The man has insomnia because what great creative doesn’t?

“Ruby?”

“Hey, Emory. You know what? I’d really like that interview.”

I think I’ve officially entered the acceptance stage of grief.

That, or it’s my villain era.

We’ll see.

All I know is, it’s time to make some changes around here.