Page 4 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘No need for you to be sorry. You’re not the one being an asshole,’ he said. He smiled, paused and added, ‘For a change.’
Ruth giggled, grabbed a cushion and hit him on the head with it in mock offence.
‘I’mneverthe asshole in this relationship.’
‘Of course not. Look, you want me to grab a glass and join you? I could blow off the guys for one night?’
‘No, it’s fine. I know you need your buddies. We can always do something tomorrow?’
‘We could go for a meal then catch a movie. My treat.’
‘That’s a date. Now go have fun.’
He held her tightly before letting go and getting up off the couch.
This was what Ruth had always wanted. To feel safe and secure in a lover’s arms. Her mother and father had split up when she was just seven. Ruth had no idea her parents’ marriage was even in trouble. Everything was fine and then it wasn’t. One minute they were all in matching PJs opening presents under the Christmas tree – the next she was seeing Dad every other weekend. Her eyes flicked to the wedding photo on the console table. Scott carrying her to the wedding car. Confetti and the blurred images of friends and family in soft focus framed their image. They both looked so happy. A layer of dust sat on the picture. In a way, Ruth found that dust comforting. They weren’t a new couple, still getting to know one another, still wondering what the other was really thinking.
Scott gave her love. But, more than that, he gave her safety and security.
And it was those feelings that Ruth prized most of all. That this wasn’t just a long but ultimately doomed relationship. They were stable. Solid. They had dust on their wedding picture.
‘Okay, I’m out of here. I love you,’ he said from the hallway.
‘I love you too,’ Ruth said. She thought about looking up an article on the effects of alcohol on sperm, printing it out and leaving it for Scott to find in the morning, as a joke, of course. She decided against it. She listened to his boots on the parquet floor of the hallway, the click of the deadlock sliding free, the brief blare of noise from a passing car and then a deep, resonant slam as the front door of their brownstone shut.
She took a long drink from her glass, set it down, went through to the kitchen. Standing on a chair, she retrieved a shallow, rectangular tin can from the top of the cupboard, brought it down and opened it on the counter. Rolled a joint, stood at the back door overlooking the small garden. You couldn’t really call it a garden. A six-by-eight patch of grass, but it added half a mil to the list price of the house. She held the joint in her lips to light it. She didn’t make a habit of smoking pot. Last time she’d lit up was Tuesday, just three days ago. She’d come out to the garden, while Scott was in bed, to watch the Tribute in Light – two spires of spotlights projected into the sky from the top of Battery Parking Garage in tribute to the lost lives from September eleventh. Like a lot of New Yorkers, that anniversary was hard, and she needed something to take the edge off.
The pot helped with her anxiety, and she thought one joint wouldn’t hurt. She wasn’t pregnant. The trash bag in their bathroom was filling up with negative pregnancy tests. With just a little more time, some more high-value clients on her roster, then she would feel better about taking the time off to start their family. She sometimes looked at little bootees and newborn outfits in the window of mother-and-baby stores and those things only gave her a feeling of excitement and warmth. Ruth took another hit from the joint. It was mild stuff, bought long ago. She remembered her second date with Scott. They met briefly at a party. One of Ruth’s old friends had invited him. They got talking and he’d asked for her number. For a low-intensity second date, he’d brought her to another party at one of his friend’s apartments in Brooklyn. They’d made small talk, standard second-date stuff, finding out more about one another, then Ruth had spotted some people with a bong in the kitchen. She’d taken a hit, and instantly regretted it. While Ruth had tried roll-ups, she’d never taken a hit before and it produced an instant coughing fit. Scott took her up to the building’s roof terrace. She could still remember the sky from that night. Only a few clouds, thin and wispy against a deep, blue-black sky and more stars than she’d ever seen before.
‘Take deep breaths,’ said Scott.
Ruth inhaled, and while her throat and lungs no longer burned, the intake of oxygen had provoked a strong feeling of nausea.
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m so, so sorry. This is a horrible date.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Scott. ‘Normally, my dates wait until they see me naked before vomiting.’
Ruth laughed and her head spun. She stumbled into Scott, her palm landing on his solid chest to steady herself. He had a good build; he was just being self-deprecating.
Gazing up into his face, Ruth said, ‘We’re on a rooftop in New York, I’m a little high, and we’re very close. Aren’t you gonna give me a cheesy line right now and try for a kiss?’
‘You want a cheesy line?’
‘The cheesier, the better.’
‘I think your father is a thief,’ said Scott, ‘because he obviously stole some of these stars and put them in your eyes.’
‘Oh my God, that’s soooo cheeeesssy,’ said Ruth. And they both laughed.
‘What did you tell me you do for a living?’ she asked.
‘I told you, I’m a prosecutor.’
‘Well, you should arrest yourself or something, because that was baaaaddd,’ she said, and raised her chin towards him, softly closing her eyes.
‘I think I should get you home,’ said Scott.
Within a half hour, a cab pulled up outside Ruth’s apartment building. They got out of the taxi and Scott joined her on the sidewalk.
