Lost King Piper Lennox (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📖

Theo brushes this off, suggesting the wound is old. “Anyway, I guarantee it was my dad’s receptionist. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Did he mention it when he called you?”

Theo glances at me again, then looks away.

“Shit.” I tip my head back against the doorway. “He didn’t even call, did he?”

“Twenty-three is too old to need cake and presents on your birthday,” he mutters with a laugh. “Too old to actually care about your birthday much at all, let alone expect other people to remember. Don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think that. And you shouldn’t either.” I walk myself up the doorjamb and help him to his feet. “Everyone should have someone to celebrate with on their birthday.”

“I got phone calls and stuff. And it’s not so much that Dad forgot my birthday—just that he forgot the date in general. It happens.”

“Yeah, well. It shouldn’t.” I brush the dust off my jeans and punch my sleeves into my coat, then grab a black jacket from a hanger and throw it to him. “Let’s go.”

He eyes me with totally fair suspicion. “Two seconds ago you were storming out of my house with no explanation whatsoever. Now you’re forcing me on some mystery birthday trip?”

“Don’t question it.” That’s what I plan on doing, since I can’t make sense of my own light switch moment either.

Yeah, getting out of that godforsaken bedroom helped—but I think it was mostly that gift, all those empty sheets comprising such an empty gesture, that calmed me down. I stopped feeling like the spineless little kid I used to be...and suddenly remembered I’m adult Ruby, now. The one who stopped taking crap from people a long time ago.

And half-assed attempts from absent fathers? Call it a pet peeve. I refuse to let that be the high point of anyone’s birthday, even Theo’s.

“I’ll drive,” he says, as we step onto the porch.

I hold up my key fob and beep my car’s locks. “Nope. I’m driving.” Halfway to the driver’s side, I stop and stare back at his house.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Lock your front door,” I tell him, swinging my way into the car.

He opens the passenger side and leans down to look at me. “I never lock it.”

“I know. And it drives me insane.” I gun the engine and point to his door again. “Humor me.”

Theo’s smile draws up to one side, almost a laugh. He flips through his key ring for a while, studying each one in the light: key after key for houses he never calls home, and thus never feels the need to protect.

I get it, kind of. Rich or poor, I think everyone’s lived in a place like that. You’d almost welcome a fire, just for a solid excuse to start your life over.

Still, I relax when he steps back from the door and rattles the handle, proving to me that it’s shut up tight.

“What about that?” I ask, pointing to the security panel.

“All for show,” he confesses. “Our main security system hasn’t worked in years. I don’t even remember the code, anyway.” He jingles his keys in my face before pocketing them and buckling up. “But, you got what you wanted. That house is impenetrable. Happy?”

“Not yet,” I tell him, purposely spinning my tires on his father’s expensive stone driveway as we leave. “But I will be, once we celebrate your birthday properly.”

14

“Okay, you were right. This is the best pie I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Ruby points her fork at me. “Including your grandmothers’ world-famous, top-secret recipes, right?”

“Neither of my grandmas baked much,” I tell her, sucking some cinnamon crust out of my molars, “so, yes. Definitely.” I thank the waitress when she refills our coffees (decaf; Ruby’s insistence), then watch her start into another slice. I don’t want to admit that the sugar is messing with a cavity at the back of my mouth, so I pick at my second one.

Truthfully, I think I’m just dragging this out. It’s fun. I’m not ready to go home and wait out the rest of my birthday alone.

“You come here a lot, I’m guessing?” I ask, when another regular enters the pie shop, camps at the counter, and waves to Ruby with a smile. That’s the fourth one in twenty minutes.

“Every week.” She waves back. “Less often in the summer, though. Work got too crazy. I was exhausted by the time I clocked out, most days.”

“Speaking of”—I shove my cavity-aggravator away and pull my coffee closer, leaning down until she looks at me—“why cleaning houses? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Ruby’s gaze drifts from mine down to the booth’s inoperable mini-jukebox, then through the large glass window beside us. We can’t see much. It’s so bright in here, all we really catch are our reflections.

“Good money,” she answers, finally, “and always in demand. And I genuinely like cleaning, believe it or not.”

“Are you, like, super Type-A?”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” She scrapes up some apple filling and lets it melt across her tongue, looking thoughtful. I can’t wait to kiss her later, all that cinnamon and sugar caught on her lips.

“I’m actually pretty go-with-the-flow,” she continues softly. She pulls the fork from her mouth in slow-motion. The tines leave quick, subtle imprints that make my heart race. “It’s not the sense of perfection or control I like about cleaning. It’s just...calming, I guess? I like resetting things. Shit gets messy, so you fix it. It’s satisfying.”

“Can’t say I agree.”

“Liar.” She smiles, then hides it with the mug.

“Okay,” I relent, “it’s nice having things clean, after the fact. That’s satisfying. But actually doing it? I don’t