Page 45 of What It's Like in Words
Two, I said. He’s being very different now. Ruth cut a knob of butter, then licked the knife. She asked me what had changed and I said that there had just been a shift. The stove clicked and settled. The smell of melting butter and cocoa permeated.
Did he explain why he was a dick?
I said that I overreacted to some of the situations in Kenya. I’ve been a bit intense about the relationship and it freaked him out.
Ruth paused. Intense?
I explained that he hated drama.
Ruth paused again. Drama?
I poured the melted butter into the bowl. Ruth, please stop repeating words.
Grabbing a wooden spoon, she said: But you’re notdramaorintense—you’reyou.
I know, I’m explaining it wrong.
Okay, Laa.
Ruth handed me the spoon and told me what was on the schedulefor bad-movie night. Once a month we made cocktails and watched a movie just to make fun of it. Normally a romantic comedy. The more popular the better. It always resulted in us pressing pause repeatedly, in peals of laughter. Ruth was always steadfast in her sarcasm but I fought not to get drawn into the romance.It’s the soundtrack that always gets you, she would say.
Ruth scooped peanut butter into a measuring cup, and I used the spoon to scrape it into the mixing bowl. She hovered her head over it.
Don’t eat it yet, Roo.
I asked how her new job was, and she said that she was assigned a desk next to a man who claimed to have invented putting googly eyes above cats’ tails to make them look like elephants’ trunks. I asked her how long she expected to stay there, and she put a spoonful of the mixture into her mouth, tilted her head, and grinned.
We put handfuls of the batter onto a tray and slid it into the oven. As we washed our hands, Ruth asked if I wanted to come to bingo next weekend. Unless you’re doing something with him? I threw the dishcloth to her and said that I was only seeing him once a week.
Did I tell you that he’s working at a bar now? He’s struggling because he’s not worked in a bar since his twenties.
Ruth didn’t say anything, she just reached for the cocktail shaker.
Roo, I know you’re judging me but I’m really trying not to fuck this up.
She asked where the ice was.
Freezer.
Cointreau, vodka, cranberry juice?
Fridge.
Ruth began mixing cosmopolitans. Listen, she said over the sound of the ice, I’m genuinely happy that things are going well, but I wish that it wasn’tyoudoing all the trying. I don’t want you prioritizing his happiness over yours. Happiness is so precarious, you know?
Ruth was choosing each word carefully and handing them to melike they were glass, like they could shatter if she was too forceful. I told her that I was meeting Steph and Patrick on Monday. Ruth stopped shaking. Really? Well, that’s something.
Itwassomething. Patrick would tell him that he approved of “this one,” and Steph and I would become friends, which he would pretend to hate but secretly love. Later, he would tell me that he loved me because his friends did.
I got the martini glasses, and Ruth poured. I sat on the sofa, and Ruth turned off the kitchen strip light. She joined me, and I handed her the remote but she didn’t take it. Change of plan, she said. We’re dancing.
Oh no, I really don’t feel like going out, Roo.
Who said we were going out?
Ruth connected her phone to my speaker and dragged the coffee table to one side. Come on, she said, holding out her arms.
In the holidays, we would do this when I was struggling. My grandparents never knew what to do, but Ruth would put on MTV. Catherine had a chest of clothes that belonged to her mother, and we would wear them, with hats and scarves from thrift shops.
