Page 8 of Stroked Long
It’s just Ruby, Eva’s friend. She’s not a reporter, she’s not a super fan, she won’t probe, and she is not here to dive deep and explore your demons.
I repeat that sentence a couple times in my head, take a deep breath, and open the door.
“Hi.” She smiles at me brightly with Tupperware in her hand.
The glitter that graced her face yesterday is no longer circling her big brown eyes, but instead, she is wearing brown-framed glasses that are modern but look vintage. Her long blonde hair frames her face and her thick full bangs cover the top of her eyebrows, draping her forehead in golden splendor. She’s wearing a red sundress paired with a green belt and a navy cardigan. She’s a kaleidoscope of colors, but it works for her, unlike me, who’s wearing gray jeans and a black shirt. There are no bright colors in my life. Besides grey, black, and white, I will wear green on occasion to support my A’s, but that’s pretty much it.
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside and quickly shutting the door and locking it. I then disarm my alarm system to make sure it doesn’t go off. After I type in my code, the itch to unlock and lock my doors again to make sure they are truly secure is overwhelming, to the point that my entire body feels itchy. I refrain from rechecking them to avoid embarrassment in front of Ruby. But that doesn’t mean I don’t take a look back at the door to make sure everything is in place.
Everything is locked.
“Wow, what a great space,” Ruby says, looking around.
“Uh, thanks,” I reply, grabbing the back of my neck with one hand while the other one goes to my pocket, trying to hide the nervousness shaking through my bones.
Turning and holding out her Tupperware, she says, “I made my famous oatmeal raisin cookies. They’re famous because they’re soft and chewy on the inside with just the slightest crunch for texture on the outside. Don’t even try asking for my secret ingredient.” She winks and pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t, so she carries on. “I know you said no dinner, but you never said anything about dessert. Whenever I am invited to another person’s house, I always like to bring something. It’s proper etiquette. Here you go.”
“I don’t eat sweets. It’s not in my diet plan.” The words slip out of me before I can be a gracious host and accept her gift.
Her face falls flat as she lowers the Tupperware full of cookies. “Oh, I didn’t consider that.”
Great. Not only do I feel like my skin is about to crawl off my body from nerves, but now I feel like the biggest dick on the planet.
“Um, I actually will take one,” I say awkwardly, holding out my hand.God, Banks, could this be any more uncomfortable and stiff?
“That’s okay.” She waves me off. “You don’t have to eat one. I should have asked before making them.”
“No, I would like one.”
Placing her hand on my forearm, she gently says, “Bodi, don’t worry about it. Just means I get to take them home and gorge on them while binge watchingUnbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.” Sighing, she looks toward the living room. “Shall we?”
Studying her, wondering if I should make one more attempt to eat one of her cookies, I see that her eyes ring with sincerity, so I drop it. “Sure.” I motion to the dining table where I’ve set up notepads, a pen for each of us, folders, and some reading materials, all precisely organized and straight where I made sure to line them up horizontally with the edge of the table.
“It’s so . . .” she pauses, and for some reason I wait with bated breath for her next sentence, “it’s so clean in here.”
Clean is a good thing; I pride myself on being clean. Clean and structured is the kind of life I strive for, one with repetition and order.
“Thanks.”
“I like the white walls.” She says this with no sarcasm or humor in her voice. I glance over at her to see if she’s smiling, but all I see is her observing her surroundings, taking in my home. “But where are your curtains?”
Thrown off by the question, I ask, “Curtains?”
“Yeah.” She sits down on one of the metal chairs that rests under the dining table and places the tub of cookies in front of her. “Don’t you know, Bodi? Curtains are the heart of a home. They make or break a living space. They can turn any ordinary living room into a homey one. They also feel like a protective shield from the outside world to me.”
“Curtains?” I fidget in place, uncomfortable with this conversation.Did my childhood home have curtains? Fuck, I can’t remember.“Um, I don’t need them.”
She shrugs. “I couldn’t live without curtains.” Clapping her hands together, she looks up at me, a bright smile on her face. “Where do we start?”
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. Tried to ask. It sounded like a demand. My mom used to sound so kind when she asked house guests . . .
“Sure, what do you have?”
I walk to the fridge and hold it open while I call off my drink options. “Water, fat-free milk, protein shake . . .” I cringe as I realize I don’t have anything really to offer her.I don’t do this. I don’t do well with people.
“I was kind of looking forward to a protein shake, but water sounds great.” She chuckles and I start to feel insecure at my lack of finesse when it comes to being social.
“Sorry. I haven’t gone to the store.” Grabbing two water glasses, I fill them with ice from the fridge’s icemaker and go for a water bottle when Ruby steps up next to me.
