I’m not busy. What can I do for you?”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know,” he rumbles again, laughter creeping into his voice. “Knee that douchebag in the balls? That could be fun. That’s him, right? Chad the chode?”
“Yes, but I’m not a proponent of violence,” I say, frowning as the meaning of his words penetrates my annoyance fog. “Where are you?”
“By the berries. For some reason, I’m having a craving for strawberry.”
I glance to my left, spying in my peripheral vision a long, lean silhouette with delicious forearms—a silhouette that sends warmth rushing through my chest.
He followed me to try to fix things, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Jesse and I don’t argue often, but when we do—usually about something stupid like whether a gallery is pandering to dumb trends or if it’s okay to feed someone veggie meat without telling them about it first—we don’t let the sun go down on our anger. We both have too much respect for the capriciousness of fate to put off making up for long.
You never know when a chance to apologize might be your last.
I run my hand over my back pocket, the list crinkling beneath my fingers. You never know . . .
You really don’t.
So, why not? Why not jump into this list headfirst?
What’s the worst that could happen? The water is shallower than I expect, I knock my head on the bottom, pass out, and drown, which would be especially horrible seeing as drowning is number one on my list of ways I don’t want to die?
But deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. Jesse wouldn’t let me drown. Or even flounder. I have faith in him. So much faith, I whisper, “I’m thinking number five.”
“Number five?” he echoes, making a considering sound as he connects the dots. “Do something unexpected? What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see. Just . . . go with me?”
“Always,” he promises and ends the call.
And I believe him. He will always go with me. Even when I do things that are a little crazy.
Or maybe a lot crazy.
But hey, you know what they say—if a little’s good, a lot ought to be better.
6
Jesse
Intrigued—and relieved that Ruby seems to have had a change of heart—I tuck my phone into my back pocket and fold my arms over my chest, ready for whatever comes next.
Or so I think.
I’m decidedly not ready for Ruby to step forward, take Chad’s face in her hands, and say in a firm voice loud enough for the entire market to hear, “The only things that are ugly when they’re small are hearts, Chad. My boobs are exactly the size they’re supposed to be. And, as someone who cares about other women, I would encourage you, from now on, to be gracious and grateful for whatever boobs come into your life. No matter what their size, they’re more than your itty-bitty heart deserves.”
“Yeah, girl! You tell him,” the woman manning the juice bar calls out, while the checkout boy laughs, two older women in the soap aisle applaud politely, and the girl stocking the salad behind me nods with a soft, “Amen.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, my boobs and I have places to go and great things to accomplish.” Ruby removes her hands from his cheeks and dusts off her palms like she’s just touched something kind of gross—which she has.
Chad is absolutely gross, and now he’s profoundly embarrassed.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen cheeks that red before. He looks like a boil about to pop. Ha. Serves him right for saying anything to Ruby about her chest except, “Thank you, sex goddess, for granting me this sample of boob-enhanced paradise.”
I’m so proud of her. Then Ruby starts toward me, her eyes going wide as she mouths “Oh my God, what just happened?”
I grin so hard my cheeks hurt. “You happened,” I whisper as she stops in front of me, her face flushed and her eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in ages. “You’re absolutely right. And you just marked number five off the list.”
“You didn’t expect me to stand up for the small boobs of the world in the middle of the grocery store?” I can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face but is too keyed up to make the deadpan bit work this time.
“Not even a little bit,” I say, making sure I’m not looking anywhere near her breasts as I add, “And for the record, your chest is perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Completely fucking perfect,” I say,