Page 38 of Stuck With the Best Man

It’s a decent idea, but I’m surprised she’s even mentioning it. I was just wondering if she might call the army and have herself airlifted out of here in order to get to New York City faster. Apparently, she’s willing to be a little more practical.

“Let’s do it,” I agree. I squint through the deafening downpour as we pass a big blue sign that lists the nearby eateries located off the next exit. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Same.”

Twenty minutes later, after traveling a distance that should’ve only taken us a few minutes at most, we pull into the parking lot of a classic small-town diner. It looks like the sort of thing that only exists on television, but that’s probably just because I don’t spend that much time out in rural places.

The diner is crowded, but the waitress finds us a small booth in the back and wastes no time in taking our order. Ruby gets right down to business, ordering a cheeseburger with no bun, a side salad, something called a Mediterranean wrap, and a chocolate milkshake with two cherries. When the waitress turns to me, she looks relieved when I tell her I’ll just take a burger and fries.

Ruby plays with her straw wrapper while we wait, folding it into an accordion. She’s antsy when she’s anxious—unable to sit still. I wonder if she’s always been that way, or if it’s a result of being an elite athlete. She’s used to constantly moving.

“You can sleep for the rest of the drive, you know,” I blurt out. “I won’t mind.”

“What?”

“It’s going to be late when we finally get there. If you need to make sure you’re rested for whatever you’ve got on your schedule tomorrow, feel free to nap.”

Ruby shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean, I do have a class at eight in the morning, but I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep until I’m actually back in the city.”

I nod. It’s a bad idea to miss class. It might seem strange to outsiders, but ballet dancers take classes several times a week throughout their entire career. It keeps them in prime shape and allows them to master their craft down to the tiny details. They wouldn’t be reprimanded for missing class—not if they have a good reason—but it’s just not a wise move.

When our food arrives, I watch in awe as Ruby dissects the wrap to dump the hummus, lentils, and grilled peppers onto her salad, then neatly folds the leftover soggy tortilla into a napkin. I smirk to myself. Extra protein without the added starch. It’s not really a question of health, but necessity. The way she does it so casually also suggests that she hardly even thinks about it. Her perfectionism is instinctive.

Maybe if I was more like her, my family wouldn’t consider me such a failure. Or, maybe not. I have a feeling that being the disappointing black sheep was always my destiny.

I pick up my burger to take a bite at the same time that Ruby starts cutting into her bun-less burger with a knife and fork.

She narrows her gaze when our eyes meet. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmph.”

“Did you always want to dance for the New York City Ballet?”

Ruby bites her lip, pausing before answering as if she isn’t sure she wants to answer. I raise my eyebrows in question.

“I also auditioned for American.”

“Ah.”

American Ballet Theatre is also one of the best ballet companies in the world. I’d bet that thousands and thousands of people have gone blue in the face arguing that it’s better than the NYC Ballet. They’re both in the city and they’re both extremely prestigious, but they aren’t quite considered competition. American is more classical—married to tradition. If I was on their Board of Directors, they’d probably flay me alive and turn my bones into pointe shoe shanks for removingGisellefrom the program.

“Why didn’t you choose American?” I ask. Because there’s no way that a dancer as skilled as Ruby auditioned for ABT and didn’t get in.

“I was told that it’s harder to get promoted in ABT, especially to principal. Some seasons, they invite guest principals from around the world to dance with the company, so you’re not only competing with your own colleagues but also with stars from Russia and Europe. Even when I was younger, I knew I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on myself.”

I like the way she chatters easily about ballet. I bet she doesn’t get to talk with many people about it outside of her circle of fellow dancers. She stabs at her customized salad as she talks, and I find myself marveling at the grace with which she does every little thing—including impaling leaves of spinach.

“Well, I’m glad the NYC Ballet has you,” I tell her.

I offer her a fry. She takes it without hesitation. I offer her a second one. She cracks a small smile and accepts it, but shakes her head when I hold up a third.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” she murmurs.

“Pardon?”

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