The Company You Keep
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I shook and shook and shook until my bones began to rattle like martini shakers beneath my skin. I remember clutching at my head as if I could keep my brain in my skull through sheer force of will, a weak and spidery fence around an oozing anxiety. The cold bit at my fingers where they threaded through my hair, scraping at my scalp until bits of dandruff built up beneath my nails. I hunched over for the barebones of warmth that was trapped between my torso and my thighs. I remember thinking, at that very moment, shivering so hard from the cold that I felt I could vibrate off the damp bench like a cellphone would convulse itself off a table, that nobody was coming for me. That night, fingers and toes numb, I stood up and walked two hours home, snow settling on my cheeks and melting into my skin, collecting on my hair in a crunchy white film. The door creaked open when I made it home and I worked feeling back into my toes over the course of a slow, vicious hour. I remember wondering if I ever made it home at all.
|
Laylah Richards
is a university student from Austin, TX majoring in English linguistics. |
It’s junior year of college, and after rushing back into the house and frantically spilling everything to Ruthie, she deadpans, “So what you’re saying is, you went all the way over to his place to fuck, and then you just ended up panic confessing to him that you think you’re gay and he took it well?”
“You didn’t have to sum it up like that,” I say. I feel the heat in my cheeks and neck and force deep breaths, chest rising and falling so visibly that Ruthie sits back and gives me a well-worn look that says calm down you freak.
“Well. What happened after?”
I sigh. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be talking with Ruthie about these kinds of things, given her reputation for not being able to resist gossip. But Ruthie crooks her head and wide-crosses her combat booted foot over her knee, and I tell her anyway. “I just. He just was like oh shit really and I was like yeah fuck I’m sorry about this and he said no tell me more and my brain just went blank. And then I told him more. And then we just sat in his bed while he still had a visible erection and talked about films and music and shit. Oh my fucking god, Ruthie, it was unbearably awkward.”
“Doesn’t sound like he thought it was awkward.”
“No he didn’t, but bro, why? Can you imagine a guy coming to your place after you meet on Tinder and he’s just like nevermind I’m gay?”
Ruthie considers this. Her dark-stained lips scrunch up and down until finally she says, “Yeah, maybe that would be strange. It’s a fun story though.”
“Maybe for him! Fuck.”
“Damn, Arden, maybe chill the fuck out. It’s only a big deal if you make it a big deal.”
My jaw clenches unwillingly and I stare at her. I think of the casual way she has sex with men, the casual way she talks about her future, the casual way she plans her wedding and talks about her boyfriends and oh, I’m shunned by society because I’m so alternative when really she’s just another straight, white, upper middle class woman desperate for a way to be different.
The vitriol spits its way through my thoughts, acid up my throat, but it’s something I would never say aloud because life isn’t a competition, my therapist would’ve said. And she’s right. But I still can’t help but think Ruthie would never fucking understand.
“You didn’t have to sum it up like that,” I say. I feel the heat in my cheeks and neck and force deep breaths, chest rising and falling so visibly that Ruthie sits back and gives me a well-worn look that says calm down you freak.
“Well. What happened after?”
I sigh. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be talking with Ruthie about these kinds of things, given her reputation for not being able to resist gossip. But Ruthie crooks her head and wide-crosses her combat booted foot over her knee, and I tell her anyway. “I just. He just was like oh shit really and I was like yeah fuck I’m sorry about this and he said no tell me more and my brain just went blank. And then I told him more. And then we just sat in his bed while he still had a visible erection and talked about films and music and shit. Oh my fucking god, Ruthie, it was unbearably awkward.”
“Doesn’t sound like he thought it was awkward.”
“No he didn’t, but bro, why? Can you imagine a guy coming to your place after you meet on Tinder and he’s just like nevermind I’m gay?”
Ruthie considers this. Her dark-stained lips scrunch up and down until finally she says, “Yeah, maybe that would be strange. It’s a fun story though.”
“Maybe for him! Fuck.”
“Damn, Arden, maybe chill the fuck out. It’s only a big deal if you make it a big deal.”
My jaw clenches unwillingly and I stare at her. I think of the casual way she has sex with men, the casual way she talks about her future, the casual way she plans her wedding and talks about her boyfriends and oh, I’m shunned by society because I’m so alternative when really she’s just another straight, white, upper middle class woman desperate for a way to be different.
The vitriol spits its way through my thoughts, acid up my throat, but it’s something I would never say aloud because life isn’t a competition, my therapist would’ve said. And she’s right. But I still can’t help but think Ruthie would never fucking understand.
It’s junior year of college, and after rushing back into the house and frantically spilling everything to Ruthie, she deadpans, “So what you’re saying is, you went all the way over to his place to fuck, and then you just ended up panic confessing to him that you think you’re gay and he took it well?”
“You didn’t have to sum it up like that,” I say. I feel the heat in my cheeks and neck and force deep breaths, chest rising and falling so visibly that Ruthie sits back and gives me a well-worn look that says calm down you freak.
“Well. What happened after?”
I sigh. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be talking with Ruthie about these kinds of things, given her reputation for not being able to resist gossip. But Ruthie crooks her head and wide-crosses her combat booted foot over her knee, and I tell her anyway. “I just. He just was like oh shit really and I was like yeah fuck I’m sorry about this and he said no tell me more and my brain just went blank. And then I told him more. And then we just sat in his bed while he still had a visible erection and talked about films and music and shit. Oh my fucking god, Ruthie, it was unbearably awkward.”
“Doesn’t sound like he thought it was awkward.”
“No he didn’t, but bro, why? Can you imagine a guy coming to your place after you meet on Tinder and he’s just like never mind I’m gay?”
Ruthie considers this. Her dark-stained lips scrunch up and down until finally she says, “Yeah, maybe that would be strange. It’s a fun story though.”
“Maybe for him! Fuck.”
“Damn, Arden, maybe chill the fuck out. It’s only a big deal if you make it a big deal.”
My jaw clenches unwillingly and I stare at her. I think of the casual way she has sex with men, the casual way she talks about her future, the casual way she plans her wedding and talks about her boyfriends and oh, I’m shunned by society because I’m so alternative when really she’s just another straight, white, upper middle class woman desperate for a way to be different.
The vitriol spits its way through my thoughts, acid up my throat, but it’s something I would never say aloud because life isn’t a competition, my therapist would’ve said. And she’s right. But I still can’t help but think Ruthie would never fucking understand.
“You didn’t have to sum it up like that,” I say. I feel the heat in my cheeks and neck and force deep breaths, chest rising and falling so visibly that Ruthie sits back and gives me a well-worn look that says calm down you freak.
“Well. What happened after?”
I sigh. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be talking with Ruthie about these kinds of things, given her reputation for not being able to resist gossip. But Ruthie crooks her head and wide-crosses her combat booted foot over her knee, and I tell her anyway. “I just. He just was like oh shit really and I was like yeah fuck I’m sorry about this and he said no tell me more and my brain just went blank. And then I told him more. And then we just sat in his bed while he still had a visible erection and talked about films and music and shit. Oh my fucking god, Ruthie, it was unbearably awkward.”
“Doesn’t sound like he thought it was awkward.”
“No he didn’t, but bro, why? Can you imagine a guy coming to your place after you meet on Tinder and he’s just like never mind I’m gay?”
Ruthie considers this. Her dark-stained lips scrunch up and down until finally she says, “Yeah, maybe that would be strange. It’s a fun story though.”
“Maybe for him! Fuck.”
“Damn, Arden, maybe chill the fuck out. It’s only a big deal if you make it a big deal.”
My jaw clenches unwillingly and I stare at her. I think of the casual way she has sex with men, the casual way she talks about her future, the casual way she plans her wedding and talks about her boyfriends and oh, I’m shunned by society because I’m so alternative when really she’s just another straight, white, upper middle class woman desperate for a way to be different.
The vitriol spits its way through my thoughts, acid up my throat, but it’s something I would never say aloud because life isn’t a competition, my therapist would’ve said. And she’s right. But I still can’t help but think Ruthie would never fucking understand.
“...and I was kinda worried about it? Like the management is really weird so far, I feel like they don’t care about my safet—”
“Oh, you know what? Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, but do you know what Owen said to me earlier? I was telling him how I wanted him to take me to dinner on Sunday and he said I don’t want to spend money, like what?” Ruthie shakes her bangs out of her face as she inspects herself in my passenger-side mirror. “He still lives on his parents’ allowance because he pretends he’s too busy with school to get a job. The least you can do is spend your parents’ money on one fucking meal for me.”
“Ah. That sucks,” I say. I switch on my blinker approaching the last stoplight before we turn into our apartment complex. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“Just, like, fucking Applebee’s? I don’t know? It’s not like I wanted him to take me to Melting Pot or some shit. Like he’s not even willing to spend ten dollars on a meal at Applebee’s for me?”
“Damn,” I say. I’m running out of commiserating words to share with her about her ongoing boyfriend troubles. The light is taking too long. “What did you say to him?”
Ruthie sighs and bangs her head into my headrest. “I didn’t know what to even say. I just. I was like...fine. I figure we’ll talk about it on Friday or Saturday. Or something. I don’t know.”
The light finally turns green. “Well. If he doesn’t take you to dinner then I’ll take you.”
Ruthie slumps. “No. I would just be thinking the whole time about how Owen couldn’t be bothered.”
“Ah. Yeah,” I say. When we finally arrive in front of our building, Ruthie says, “You were saying something, right? Was it important?”
“I don’t remember,” I lie.
“Oh, you know what? Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, but do you know what Owen said to me earlier? I was telling him how I wanted him to take me to dinner on Sunday and he said I don’t want to spend money, like what?” Ruthie shakes her bangs out of her face as she inspects herself in my passenger-side mirror. “He still lives on his parents’ allowance because he pretends he’s too busy with school to get a job. The least you can do is spend your parents’ money on one fucking meal for me.”
“Ah. That sucks,” I say. I switch on my blinker approaching the last stoplight before we turn into our apartment complex. “Where were you thinking of going?”
“Just, like, fucking Applebee’s? I don’t know? It’s not like I wanted him to take me to Melting Pot or some shit. Like he’s not even willing to spend ten dollars on a meal at Applebee’s for me?”
“Damn,” I say. I’m running out of commiserating words to share with her about her ongoing boyfriend troubles. The light is taking too long. “What did you say to him?”
Ruthie sighs and bangs her head into my headrest. “I didn’t know what to even say. I just. I was like...fine. I figure we’ll talk about it on Friday or Saturday. Or something. I don’t know.”
The light finally turns green. “Well. If he doesn’t take you to dinner then I’ll take you.”
Ruthie slumps. “No. I would just be thinking the whole time about how Owen couldn’t be bothered.”
“Ah. Yeah,” I say. When we finally arrive in front of our building, Ruthie says, “You were saying something, right? Was it important?”
“I don’t remember,” I lie.
Her name is Winter. I don’t find out her last name until weeks into our correspondence. The first day I meet her in class, she compliments my hair and then respectfully disagrees with my tentative suggestion on sociolinguistics and proceeds to suggest a better, more eloquent, and much more nuanced theory. I swear to the heavens that I fell in love with her right then. Only a few weeks later, I tell Ruthie that I’m going to ask her out so that I can’t back out of it.
WEDNESDAY 9:56AM
ruthie i’m gonna do it
i’m gonna ask her out today
who? the asian girl?
??? her name is winter
and what other girl would i be
talking about
when? like during class?
probably after class idk
good luck then. if she rejects
you i’ll find out where she lives
not necessary but thanks
you think i won’t?
okay goodbye go to class
i’ll do it
i’m gonna ask her out today
who? the asian girl?
??? her name is winter
and what other girl would i be
talking about
when? like during class?
probably after class idk
good luck then. if she rejects
you i’ll find out where she lives
not necessary but thanks
you think i won’t?
okay goodbye go to class
i’ll do it
Since Ruthie had not calmed my nerves at all, I took to pacing in the little vestibule between the side doors of the language arts building and the hallway to the actual classrooms. Several students pass me without notice until Emilie from my rhetoric class says “You alright?” and I splutter my way through saying I’m okay I’m just pacing to shake off my nerves for this thing I have coming next class and Emilie clearly wants clarification but doesn’t have time to properly ask.
My knees feel like they’re shaking when I sit down near her. Winter has touched up her roots since I last saw her on Monday. Knowing how busy she is, I wonder how she made the time, and I wonder how her project on queer-coding in the media is going and whether she has gotten the amount of survey results she needs yet. I could help her if she needs, send her survey to my friends back home and my other classmates here. I wonder whether she ended up getting that Starbucks drink she was thinking about trying on Monday. I wonder whether she worked up the nerve yet to ask for two weeks off work for winter break so she could visit her family in Seattle.
I wonder if she ever wonders about me, too.
I startle when I realize she’s looking back at me. I pat at my cheeks to keep the heat down and that little look on her face, the smile in her eyes—god. She’s so.
“Hey,” she says. Class starts so soon and she usually waits until after to really talk with me. “Did you get that essay done on Monday?”
“Ah,” I say. “Yeah, I turned it in just in time. How about your surveys? I know your data logs are due in a couple days, do you need any more responses?”
Winter nods, and her soft bangs bounce a little over her eyes. She has glitter under them, today, little dots of silver beneath her eyeliner. She’s so cute I can’t stand it. “I’ve met the minimum sample size but I’m hoping for at least 20 more responses.”
“I can give the link to a few people?” I’ve leaned forward without realizing and now we’re in each other’s space with less than a minute until Professor Sørensen will tap her mic as usual and say testing. I pick a little at the likely hundred-year old peeling upholstery on my fold-out chair.
“That would be nice,” she says. “You still have the link?”
“Of course. Yeah.”
“Good, good. Do you want to get coffee with me sometime?”
I swear my heart stops in my chest.
“You know, as a date,” she clarifies.
My mouth wants to open and close while I sit there and process the utter straightforwardness of Winter Wen but, thank fuck, it just goes straight ahead and says, “I would like that.”
“Testing,” Professor Sørensen says. Winter looks so pleased and her little dimple makes an appearance before she turns to pay attention. Focus evades me for the rest of the hour and fifteen minute lecture.
My knees feel like they’re shaking when I sit down near her. Winter has touched up her roots since I last saw her on Monday. Knowing how busy she is, I wonder how she made the time, and I wonder how her project on queer-coding in the media is going and whether she has gotten the amount of survey results she needs yet. I could help her if she needs, send her survey to my friends back home and my other classmates here. I wonder whether she ended up getting that Starbucks drink she was thinking about trying on Monday. I wonder whether she worked up the nerve yet to ask for two weeks off work for winter break so she could visit her family in Seattle.
I wonder if she ever wonders about me, too.
I startle when I realize she’s looking back at me. I pat at my cheeks to keep the heat down and that little look on her face, the smile in her eyes—god. She’s so.
“Hey,” she says. Class starts so soon and she usually waits until after to really talk with me. “Did you get that essay done on Monday?”
“Ah,” I say. “Yeah, I turned it in just in time. How about your surveys? I know your data logs are due in a couple days, do you need any more responses?”
Winter nods, and her soft bangs bounce a little over her eyes. She has glitter under them, today, little dots of silver beneath her eyeliner. She’s so cute I can’t stand it. “I’ve met the minimum sample size but I’m hoping for at least 20 more responses.”
“I can give the link to a few people?” I’ve leaned forward without realizing and now we’re in each other’s space with less than a minute until Professor Sørensen will tap her mic as usual and say testing. I pick a little at the likely hundred-year old peeling upholstery on my fold-out chair.
“That would be nice,” she says. “You still have the link?”
“Of course. Yeah.”
“Good, good. Do you want to get coffee with me sometime?”
I swear my heart stops in my chest.
“You know, as a date,” she clarifies.
My mouth wants to open and close while I sit there and process the utter straightforwardness of Winter Wen but, thank fuck, it just goes straight ahead and says, “I would like that.”
“Testing,” Professor Sørensen says. Winter looks so pleased and her little dimple makes an appearance before she turns to pay attention. Focus evades me for the rest of the hour and fifteen minute lecture.
At the start of eighth grade, Ruthie and I had been placed in our math class together by coincidence. She leans over to me one day and says, “Don’t you think Nat looked better with long hair?”
I pause in my note taking and glance over to Nat, hunched over her notebook and full brand new pixie cut on display. I had noticed, of course, when I saw her get off the bus earlier today but hadn’t really thought anything otherwise.
“Why?” I ask Ruthie.
“I dunno. Just, she looks a little…”
She stops there as if I’ll just inherently know what she’s getting at.
I pause in my note taking and glance over to Nat, hunched over her notebook and full brand new pixie cut on display. I had noticed, of course, when I saw her get off the bus earlier today but hadn’t really thought anything otherwise.
“Why?” I ask Ruthie.
“I dunno. Just, she looks a little…”
She stops there as if I’ll just inherently know what she’s getting at.
In eleventh grade, Ruthie asks me to plan her seventeenth birthday party. I spend a couple weeks trying to find people to come, trying to come up with ideas and gifts based on things I knew she liked to do. I had pizza planned, games planned, and the house decorated ahead of time so that I didn’t have to worry about it the day of, right on my exam day for AP Biology.
Three hours before the party is meant to begin, Ruthie texts me out of the blue. hey arden sorry!! my parents just got me a car so i’m gonna go visit my boyfriend today instead! hope you dont mind!
“Mom,” I say. I’m tired enough from my exam this morning that a small part of me is relieved. A much bigger part of me is just sad. “Party’s off.”
“What?” My mom’s voice rings from across the house and she appears from down the hallway. “Did something happen? Is Ruthie okay?”
“She’s fine,” I say. “Just canceled. Thanks for helping me though.”
“But—”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I start listing names of the people I had invited into a new groupchat. “I promise. I can just take the decorations down in a bit. I might nap first.”
My mom comes forward to rest her hand on my shoulder. The little candle, sandalwood and pine and fir, crackles in the silence. “Just lie down. I’ll get some dinner started. Unless—”
“Pizza,” I say, and we laugh together.
When I wake up from the nap, the decorations are already down along with the sun. My mom and I eat pizza and popcorn together and watch a movie instead.
“Arden,” she says, when the movie has come to an end and we’re staring at the rolling credits without reading a single word.
“Yeah.”
She shifts around for a moment. I can see her fingers tighten around her mini popcorn bowl before she says, “Why are you still friends with her?”
I close my eyes.
“Mom,” I say. “She needs someone who knows her worth.”
My mom’s little intake of breath tells me she has plenty to say to that. But she lets it sit unsaid, for now, hanging cold with the sound of the orchestral movie soundtrack.
Three hours before the party is meant to begin, Ruthie texts me out of the blue. hey arden sorry!! my parents just got me a car so i’m gonna go visit my boyfriend today instead! hope you dont mind!
“Mom,” I say. I’m tired enough from my exam this morning that a small part of me is relieved. A much bigger part of me is just sad. “Party’s off.”
“What?” My mom’s voice rings from across the house and she appears from down the hallway. “Did something happen? Is Ruthie okay?”
“She’s fine,” I say. “Just canceled. Thanks for helping me though.”
“But—”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I start listing names of the people I had invited into a new groupchat. “I promise. I can just take the decorations down in a bit. I might nap first.”
My mom comes forward to rest her hand on my shoulder. The little candle, sandalwood and pine and fir, crackles in the silence. “Just lie down. I’ll get some dinner started. Unless—”
“Pizza,” I say, and we laugh together.
When I wake up from the nap, the decorations are already down along with the sun. My mom and I eat pizza and popcorn together and watch a movie instead.
“Arden,” she says, when the movie has come to an end and we’re staring at the rolling credits without reading a single word.
“Yeah.”
She shifts around for a moment. I can see her fingers tighten around her mini popcorn bowl before she says, “Why are you still friends with her?”
I close my eyes.
“Mom,” I say. “She needs someone who knows her worth.”
My mom’s little intake of breath tells me she has plenty to say to that. But she lets it sit unsaid, for now, hanging cold with the sound of the orchestral movie soundtrack.
“Ruthie,” I say. I’ve locked myself into the bathroom and I’m only eighteen and how did I even get here, I don’t even--no. My phone presses hard into my cheek and Ruthie immediately hears the urgency in my voice.
“What’s wrong? What?” She says. There’s rustling and muffled voices and then silence.
“Ruthie, I...I don’t know why I’m calling you and not the police? I don’t...fuck. But I’m alone at work and this guy won’t fucking leave me alone, he’s said some weird shit and nobody else has showed up and he won’t take his hands out of his pockets, I—”
“Arden, breathe,” she says. I try to deliberately slow my panicked, stuttering breaths, and I’m partially successful until I remember that the old man is standing outside still, probably at the register, and our business is slow enough that there’s no guarantee that anyone else will walk inside and scare him away. “You said work, right? Just hold on.”
She hangs up. And fuck, I know she’s coming or doing something or anything to help, but sitting back in the silence and just knowing the guy is outside, after what he said to me—the weird sexual things followed by the vague threats—the silence is suffocating. I can barely breathe again. I’m hunched next to the toilet and the light is buzzing and flickering and none of it helps, not the smell or the light or the--
My phone rings quietly and I immediately answer.
“Arden,” Ruthie says. “Give us five minutes. Are you safe for now?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m in the bathroom, I don’t even know if he’s still outside but I’m too scared to—”
“Don’t leave the bathroom,” she says. “Just don’t risk it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
“Fuck, Arden, I told you, you should have quit that job so long ago—”
“Ruthie, I know—”
“Everyone in this town knows the girls work there alone at night with hundreds in cash on them, it’s so fucking unsafe—”
“Ruthie, I know, I’m sorry—”
“Do the managers even let you have pepper spray? Fuck, working at that place at night you should be fucking armed—”
“Ruthie!”
“—and the amount of shit you’ve already told me about the weird fucking customers and then this, too, I swear to god your managers don’t care about you at all—”
I sigh and she keeps talking and yeah, I know, I should have quit and I’ve felt unsafe the entire time I’ve worked here but I was just waiting to hear back from another job before I quit this one, and right now the lecture just makes me want to cry, and I don’t even know if this creep is right outside the bathroom door or has already left the building.
Eventually there are noises outside, and Ruthie is hanging up the phone and I place my hands on the filthy ground to push myself up. My fingers hover over the doorknob for a minute before I’m finally able to open the door.
Seth is standing nearest the bathroom door while Owen has his arms crossed over his chest, beefy and intimidating, and Seth’s friend Hakim is saying casually, “You already got your coffee, what are you just standing around for?” to the older creep, who is starting to make his way outside. Ruthie looks so angry it blazes over her eyes and through the white of her skin where her fists are clenched at her sides.
Ruthie hovers at my side while I recover from the prolonged anxiety attack, and then their squad of four sits at my only table for the remaining nearly three hours of my shift.
Ruthie tells me, later, when I’m still reeling from how skin-crawlingly uncomfortable the man’s sexual comments made me feel, “You are worth way fucking more than what that creep said about you.”
It’s Ruthie’s usual brand of blunt eloquence. It’s more comforting than anything else she could have said.
“What’s wrong? What?” She says. There’s rustling and muffled voices and then silence.
“Ruthie, I...I don’t know why I’m calling you and not the police? I don’t...fuck. But I’m alone at work and this guy won’t fucking leave me alone, he’s said some weird shit and nobody else has showed up and he won’t take his hands out of his pockets, I—”
“Arden, breathe,” she says. I try to deliberately slow my panicked, stuttering breaths, and I’m partially successful until I remember that the old man is standing outside still, probably at the register, and our business is slow enough that there’s no guarantee that anyone else will walk inside and scare him away. “You said work, right? Just hold on.”
She hangs up. And fuck, I know she’s coming or doing something or anything to help, but sitting back in the silence and just knowing the guy is outside, after what he said to me—the weird sexual things followed by the vague threats—the silence is suffocating. I can barely breathe again. I’m hunched next to the toilet and the light is buzzing and flickering and none of it helps, not the smell or the light or the--
My phone rings quietly and I immediately answer.
“Arden,” Ruthie says. “Give us five minutes. Are you safe for now?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m in the bathroom, I don’t even know if he’s still outside but I’m too scared to—”
“Don’t leave the bathroom,” she says. “Just don’t risk it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
“Fuck, Arden, I told you, you should have quit that job so long ago—”
“Ruthie, I know—”
“Everyone in this town knows the girls work there alone at night with hundreds in cash on them, it’s so fucking unsafe—”
“Ruthie, I know, I’m sorry—”
“Do the managers even let you have pepper spray? Fuck, working at that place at night you should be fucking armed—”
“Ruthie!”
“—and the amount of shit you’ve already told me about the weird fucking customers and then this, too, I swear to god your managers don’t care about you at all—”
I sigh and she keeps talking and yeah, I know, I should have quit and I’ve felt unsafe the entire time I’ve worked here but I was just waiting to hear back from another job before I quit this one, and right now the lecture just makes me want to cry, and I don’t even know if this creep is right outside the bathroom door or has already left the building.
Eventually there are noises outside, and Ruthie is hanging up the phone and I place my hands on the filthy ground to push myself up. My fingers hover over the doorknob for a minute before I’m finally able to open the door.
Seth is standing nearest the bathroom door while Owen has his arms crossed over his chest, beefy and intimidating, and Seth’s friend Hakim is saying casually, “You already got your coffee, what are you just standing around for?” to the older creep, who is starting to make his way outside. Ruthie looks so angry it blazes over her eyes and through the white of her skin where her fists are clenched at her sides.
Ruthie hovers at my side while I recover from the prolonged anxiety attack, and then their squad of four sits at my only table for the remaining nearly three hours of my shift.
Ruthie tells me, later, when I’m still reeling from how skin-crawlingly uncomfortable the man’s sexual comments made me feel, “You are worth way fucking more than what that creep said about you.”
It’s Ruthie’s usual brand of blunt eloquence. It’s more comforting than anything else she could have said.
Winter talks with me over coffee and then over dinner and then over coffee again. We kiss for the first time in the parking lot after the third date, her hands gentle at the back of my neck and mine at her cheek and shoulder. Her skin is soft and her lips softer. Her wispy bangs tickle my nose when we part.
“I’ll see you in class tomorrow?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. Exhilarated with it.
“I’ll see you in class tomorrow?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. Exhilarated with it.
Owen is being a shithead again and Ruthie complains at me on the couch again and I can’t think of anything to say except just break up with him if you can’t stand him so much again. She lies back with her head crooked uncomfortable against the couch, her Docs leaving dusty footprints all over our black coffee table. She huffs at something else Owen no doubt just texted her and she says, apropos of nothing, “God, I wish I could just like girls.”
I look at her.
“They’re so much nicer. You lucked out not having to deal with men.”
“Hm,” I say. With my tea-stirring finished, I come and sit by her on the couch and prop my socked feet up next to hers.
“Did you wear that shirt all day?”
“Hm? Oh.” I look down past my tea warming my hands at my green crop. “Yeah.”
Ruthie, in accordance with her years-long tirade of brutal honesty, says, “It’s not the best. Maybe with a different bra next time? But I don’t know. You look a little.”
I shift.
Ruthie startles at her phone and says what the actual fuck and we’re back to her issues with her boyfriend, again. Again, again, again.
I look at her.
“They’re so much nicer. You lucked out not having to deal with men.”
“Hm,” I say. With my tea-stirring finished, I come and sit by her on the couch and prop my socked feet up next to hers.
“Did you wear that shirt all day?”
“Hm? Oh.” I look down past my tea warming my hands at my green crop. “Yeah.”
Ruthie, in accordance with her years-long tirade of brutal honesty, says, “It’s not the best. Maybe with a different bra next time? But I don’t know. You look a little.”
I shift.
Ruthie startles at her phone and says what the actual fuck and we’re back to her issues with her boyfriend, again. Again, again, again.
Amidst the chaos of the good and the bad, I find myself in a secluded little hallway in the Organic Sciences building with my feet up on the wall, my shins a convenient little tabletop for my phone to rest on. The counter for the phone conversation has surpassed half an hour and I’ve only seen one person pass me. Signs of a liberal arts-focused school.
“—and then she quit again.”
“She what?”
“Yes!” my mom says. “She begged me to give her job back, saying she would never do anything like that again, and then she just did it again. Arden, when I tell you I have never felt so betrayed in my life before. Oh my god.”
“Yeah! You just trusted her and she took that trust and just—”
“Right! I could strangle my past self for believing her—”
“Mom, you know it’s not your fault for trusting her. You were the better person there.”
“Better, maybe, but not exactly smart.”
“Mom,” I say. “If I catch you blaming yourself for this again I will personally fly back to Oregon and talk some sense into you. You know how intimidating I can be. You will be thoroughly convinced.”
“Okay, okay,” she says. “It’s not my fault. Although you coming back to Oregon for a bit doesn’t sound too bad—”
“I’ll see you at Christmas, I promise! I just have a gallery to get through and then I’ll be there for a week.”
“Speaking of, how are things with Ruthie?”
I sigh. “We can talk about it when I’m home.”
“Arden.”
“Mom.”
“...Okay. I’m holding you to that.”
“I love you. I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you too,” she says. “Take care of yourself.”
“—and then she quit again.”
“She what?”
“Yes!” my mom says. “She begged me to give her job back, saying she would never do anything like that again, and then she just did it again. Arden, when I tell you I have never felt so betrayed in my life before. Oh my god.”
“Yeah! You just trusted her and she took that trust and just—”
“Right! I could strangle my past self for believing her—”
“Mom, you know it’s not your fault for trusting her. You were the better person there.”
“Better, maybe, but not exactly smart.”
“Mom,” I say. “If I catch you blaming yourself for this again I will personally fly back to Oregon and talk some sense into you. You know how intimidating I can be. You will be thoroughly convinced.”
“Okay, okay,” she says. “It’s not my fault. Although you coming back to Oregon for a bit doesn’t sound too bad—”
“I’ll see you at Christmas, I promise! I just have a gallery to get through and then I’ll be there for a week.”
“Speaking of, how are things with Ruthie?”
I sigh. “We can talk about it when I’m home.”
“Arden.”
“Mom.”
“...Okay. I’m holding you to that.”
“I love you. I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you too,” she says. “Take care of yourself.”
Winter goes back home a week earlier than me and after spending so much time together it feels lonely, again, like there’s nobody else here I could possibly share my time with.
Ruthie sits and watches in the living room as I scramble some food together for the gallery in an hour.
“You’re still okay with picking me up later, right?” I start to zip up all my little bags and stuff them in a single larger one. It has an embroidered depiction of the little cricket from Mulan stitched onto the front. The buses stop running an hour before the gallery ends, and I can’t really afford to pay the ridiculous parking downtown. All for a three-credit winter-term English class.
“Yeah,” Ruthie says. “For sure.”
“Thanks.” I hook my bag over my shoulder around my barebones winter coat. “It should be around 10 or 10:30, I’ll text you and let you know.”
“Okay. Sure. Real quick, have you heard from Seth recently?”
“Seth? No, not at all—”
“Have fun at your gallery! I’ll see you at 10 or 10:30.”
“Okay…”
I lock the door behind me as I leave and Winter texts me good luck at your gallery, don’t suffer too much! ^.^ just as I start down the stairs to head to the bus stop. And through the bus ride and the gallery she helps me with my mandatory questions and encourages me and it feels so incredible, to be cared for. As the gallery comes to a close, I ask her about her grandparents, how her mom’s recent wrist surgery went, and she tells me all is well and that her grandma complimented her Chinese, for once, since she had been taking Mandarin classes in school.
At 10:08 I text Ruthie.
Ruthie sits and watches in the living room as I scramble some food together for the gallery in an hour.
“You’re still okay with picking me up later, right?” I start to zip up all my little bags and stuff them in a single larger one. It has an embroidered depiction of the little cricket from Mulan stitched onto the front. The buses stop running an hour before the gallery ends, and I can’t really afford to pay the ridiculous parking downtown. All for a three-credit winter-term English class.
“Yeah,” Ruthie says. “For sure.”
“Thanks.” I hook my bag over my shoulder around my barebones winter coat. “It should be around 10 or 10:30, I’ll text you and let you know.”
“Okay. Sure. Real quick, have you heard from Seth recently?”
“Seth? No, not at all—”
“Have fun at your gallery! I’ll see you at 10 or 10:30.”
“Okay…”
I lock the door behind me as I leave and Winter texts me good luck at your gallery, don’t suffer too much! ^.^ just as I start down the stairs to head to the bus stop. And through the bus ride and the gallery she helps me with my mandatory questions and encourages me and it feels so incredible, to be cared for. As the gallery comes to a close, I ask her about her grandparents, how her mom’s recent wrist surgery went, and she tells me all is well and that her grandma complimented her Chinese, for once, since she had been taking Mandarin classes in school.
At 10:08 I text Ruthie.
10:08
the gallery just finished! i’ll
be at the bus stop since it’s a little
busy right here
10:32
ah shut arden i forget
forgot
sory i got drnk at the ppub
with owen n seth
??? you what
u cn just call winte r tho
ruthie she’s in seattle
what the fuck ?????
she’s whaaat
that’s not
that’s not even the point
ruthie how will i get home
?? ask someoe else jesss
i do evryething for you alr
the gallery just finished! i’ll
be at the bus stop since it’s a little
busy right here
10:32
ah shut arden i forget
forgot
sory i got drnk at the ppub
with owen n seth
??? you what
u cn just call winte r tho
ruthie she’s in seattle
what the fuck ?????
she’s whaaat
that’s not
that’s not even the point
ruthie how will i get home
?? ask someoe else jesss
i do evryething for you alr
I have nothing to say to that. And instead of dwelling on it I call two more people, one of whom is out of town and one who I know goes to bed early because of his morning shifts at work. Here, in the snow, a two hour walk home ahead of me, Ruthie fucking trashed, my mom two states away and Winter much farther than that. I shiver as I walk home and I work feeling back into my toes and I can’t even muster up the energy to take a hot shower or anything, I just lie in bed and can’t even think. I can’t.
Two days later, Ruthie hasn’t come home from Owen’s place. She hasn’t called or texted or anything, either. I’m packing my bags for my flight in four hours. I call the front office of our apartment and ask about the process of breaking lease early, and I take thorough notes on my phone while front desk guy nervously explains. I figure my mom and I will work it out while I’m home.
I miss her and I miss Winter. I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve missed Ruthie in the same way.
I miss her and I miss Winter. I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve missed Ruthie in the same way.
“Arden,” Ruthie says. She’s seventeen and her words are slurring, enough that I know something isn’t right. “I think I fucked up...I…”
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m at my boyfriend’s party and I just...I had an edible maybe and I feel so fucking anxious can you please—”
“I’m on my way,” I say, and I immediately take my mom’s car to drive half an hour there after calling Ruthie’s dumbass boyfriend to pester him for their exact location. I drive half an hour back while Ruthie hovers over a plastic bag, and we pull over twice for her to throw up on the side of the road. When we get home I tuck her into bed while her hands shake and shake, and three blankets later she’s warm and asleep.
I drive there again with Ruthie so she can pick up her car two days later. She tells me everything about the party, how horrible the experience was and how she broke up with her boyfriend after he pressured her into eating an edible and I listen, and listen, and I keep listening.
“God,” she says. It’s days later and we’re lounging in the art classroom to eat lunch. “I’m so glad I had you to call.”
“Yeah,” I say. I plop a purple grape into my mouth, one of the small ones, and it’s much too sour. “You know I’m here if you need anything.”
“I know,” she says.
We move on.
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m at my boyfriend’s party and I just...I had an edible maybe and I feel so fucking anxious can you please—”
“I’m on my way,” I say, and I immediately take my mom’s car to drive half an hour there after calling Ruthie’s dumbass boyfriend to pester him for their exact location. I drive half an hour back while Ruthie hovers over a plastic bag, and we pull over twice for her to throw up on the side of the road. When we get home I tuck her into bed while her hands shake and shake, and three blankets later she’s warm and asleep.
I drive there again with Ruthie so she can pick up her car two days later. She tells me everything about the party, how horrible the experience was and how she broke up with her boyfriend after he pressured her into eating an edible and I listen, and listen, and I keep listening.
“God,” she says. It’s days later and we’re lounging in the art classroom to eat lunch. “I’m so glad I had you to call.”
“Yeah,” I say. I plop a purple grape into my mouth, one of the small ones, and it’s much too sour. “You know I’m here if you need anything.”
“I know,” she says.
We move on.