Before You Knew My Name Jacqueline Bublitz (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📖

We stand on the brink, making a choice whether to tip over into trust or disgust, and we remember all our training, the lifetime of it. The doctrine of nice, the fear of hurting someone’s feelings. In this moment, Ruby wants to back away from Tom’s prurient interest, wants to ask this pushy man to leave her alone for good—but she doesn’t know how. Like so many of us, she has never learned the right words, and so she smiles small, accepts his apology, lets his hand continue to rest on her arm.

‘Come,’ he says now. ‘Have that wine with me.’ He checks his watch. ‘It’s after eleven. And I’d say you very much deserve a drink, after everything you’ve been through.’

When Ruby nods, acquiesces, she feels as if someone is trying to move her head in a different direction. It is an odd sensation, but as she once again sits down across from Tom at the crowded cafe, her companion ordering two glasses of pinot grigio—‘Trust me, you’ll enjoy this drop’—the feeling persists. As if her every move is met with a force pushing her the other way.

You’re being ridiculous, she silently scolds herself. Over-cautious. Hypervigilant, as that PTSD doctor from Boston might say. This is what happens when you don’t trust anybody, least of all yourself. Sitting here with a perfectly nice man, you think everything is a dire warning.

And that’s no way to live in the world, unless you want to be alone forever.

With this thought, Ruby shakes her resistance off, visibly, though Tom misses her shiver. She concentrates on things that are tangible, real. The warm metal of the cafe table under her fingers, the smooth plastic of the cup Tom passes to her, the acidic wine she sips, then takes in a gulp. Slowly, purposefully, she comes back to herself.

‘It’s good, isn’t it,’ Tom says, tilting his own drink at her, and when she says yes, she almost means it. From here, he makes it easy. Tells her stories, orders more wine any time her cup gets close to empty. Compliments her accent and eyes and bravery for coming to New York on her own, and gets up from his chair when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom a few too many wines in. When she returns to their table, there is another wine waiting and a cheese platter has been set down on the table between them.

‘I’m clearly finding ways to keep you here longer,’ he says as she sits back down.

It is her fourth, maybe fifth drink, and Ruby’s limbs are now feeling loose. The tension coiled at her neck is gone. She considers this might be the New York she would have come to know earlier, had she not gone for a run that fateful morning. An uncomplicated New York, where she can drink wine on a weekday afternoon, sun-basking in the attention of a handsome stranger. This is the New York of romantic comedies and sitcoms on TV: wounded woman meets confident guy, puts up her guard, but he wears it down. A single lens on their responsibility-free lives, while people in the background go to work and do normal, everyday things to keep the city running. Extras making the movie look like real life.

Ruby bites down on the plastic edge of her cup, thinking about that lens. She is, she acknowledges, now quite drunk.

‘That’s an interesting face you made just now,’ Tom says. ‘What were you thinking about, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Movies,’ Ruby admits, too far gone to be self-conscious. ‘How life in New York seems like a movie. Or is a movie, and I just don’t know it.’

‘Interesting. So, what kind of movie would this be then?’ Tom reaches over the table and covers her hand with his. ‘Comedy? Mystery? Romance?’

Ruby stares at his hand over hers, takes in the yellowed nicotine stain of his index finger, and for the first time, the pale circle at the base of his ring finger. She pulls her hand away.

Tom flexes his fingers toward her, sees what she saw. Bringing his opposite thumb and forefinger to the shadow wedding band, he rubs at the skin and sighs.

‘Divorced,’ he says, not looking at her. ‘Only took my ring off over the winter. I guess these things leave a mark.’

When he looks up, his blue eyes are wet.

‘But I won’t depress you with the script for that particular drama.’

Ruby is unsure how to respond. Allowing herself a brief moment of imagining herself underneath this man, the beckoning of those blue eyes pulling her in. Just as quickly, the image morphs into tangled limbs, clumsy touches, awkward goodbyes. All the leftovers of sex without desire, and she silently berates herself for even considering this an option. The dangers of loneliness, she thinks, offering Tom what she hopes is a stop-sign smile.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Tom. Break-ups are never fun.’

‘You experienced your own drama recently, from the sound of it,’ he responds. ‘Finding that murdered girl, Alice Lee. That must have been terrifying for you.

‘Sorry!’ he quickly adds. ‘It’s clear you don’t like talking about it. I’ve just never sat opposite someone who found a dead body. In my own neighbourhood, too.

‘And to think,’ he continues, not sounding sorry at all, ‘they might never find out who did it. It’s enough to keep you up at night. What people can get away with, especially after what they say he did to her.’

Ruby thinks of Josh, of his statistics and suppositions, the way she could talk to him all night about the murder, and how he was always so respectful of Alice, and she suddenly resents this man before her. Refuses to offer Alice Lee up to Tom the way he seems to want her to. She realises, with a second jolt, that the wine, the cheese, the compliments, they were just a way to get them back to this. To another man fascinated with dead girls for all the wrong reasons.