Page 45 of Stuck With the Best Man

We left Mermaid Shores at noon.

I kick off my shoes and stare at the dark television screen. Ruby is in the corner of the room, already digging through her suitcase. The rain hammers against the windows. There’s a disconcerting creaking noise whenever the wind blows particularly hard, but I try not to think too deeply about it.

A knock on the door signals Martha’s arrival with the cot. We exchange only the necessary pleasantries as she pushes it into the room and instructs me on how to unfold it and fold it back up. When she leaves again, I turn to face Ruby.

She’s sitting on the floor next to her suitcase—one leg propped on a foam roller. Of course. Always a ballerina first, and normal human being who admits to being too tired to move second. You wouldn’t know she traveled to attend a wedding if you took a look at all the ballet-specific items spilling out of her suitcase.

“You brought pointe shoes with you on vacation?” I ask.

Ruby frowns up at me from the floor, then switches to rolling out her left hip.

“It wasn’t a vacation.”

“You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

“That’s not what I said.”

I sink back down onto the edge of the bed. I’d sit on the cot, but it looks a little rickety, so I’d like to prolong putting all my weight on it for as long as possible.

“When’s the last time you went on a vacation?” I ask.

“I went to Paris recently.”

“How recently?”

Ruby purses her lips. “Last spring.”

Over a year ago. “And what did you do on this vacation to Paris?”

She’s silent. She goes so far as to put her back to me as she starts rolling out her other thigh, balancing carefully on one hand. She probably has more strength in one finger than I do in my entire arm. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. I maintain a consistent workout regimen, but it doesn’t even come close to what Ruby does on an average day at work.

“Hmm?” I press. When she doesn’t answer, I smirk to myself. “That trip to Paris wouldn’t have been for the spring intensive program at the Paris Opera Ballet, hosted in collaboration with the New York City Ballet, would it?”

Ruby glares over her shoulder at me. “How did you know that? That was before we met. Before you joined the board.”

I shrug. “Because I was also in Paris during that time. The Hawthorne family sponsors their pre-professional academy.”

“Of course you do.”

I laugh at the playful sarcasm in her tone. If I’m not mistaken, she even cracks a smile before she turns away again.

“That’s not a vacation, though,” I continue. “If you went for work, it doesn’t count.”

“I had a few free days while I was there,” she counters.

“A few?”

“Okay,one.”

“So, you’re telling me that you’ve taken one vacation day in the past year?”

“I get days off at the company. Usually one or two a week, depending on what time of year it is. You know that.”

“That doesn’t count. A day off from work isn’t a vacation. Not when you probably have to spend it getting groceries and running errands and doing laundry… when was the last time you actually had fun, Ruby?”

“Well, I hadsomuch fun today.”

She finishes her task—the foam roller gripped in both of her hands like a weapon. I wonder if she’s debating whether or not she wants to hit me with it.

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