Losing Ruby

chapter eleven

Losing Ruby

Copyright © 2020 Kelsa Dixon

All rights reserved

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[Brody]

I replayed the message just as I had her voice all night.

"Hi Brody...." The way she could say my name after all this time and still make me weak in the knees.

It's where I should've been the day she walked out—in the kitchen days ago. Down on my knees; pleading. Instead, I'd stood there each time, unable to say the words to keep her from leaving.

I didn't have anyone to blame but myself; I'd been the one to teach her how to do it. It was simple, you turn your back and you walk away. And you forget everything you left behind.

"It's Ella..."

Her words were quiet and still heavy somehow; they came out slow and hesitant. I barely heard anything she said; it was her voice—that lyrical sound—that I'd always craved. Even in broken glimpses during the nights I couldn't really remember, clouded by a sticky haze of liquor, I would wake up remembering the peace of such a soft resonance.

I played the message again.

"....if you need anything...please call—I'm here."

I wouldn't. I wouldn't have any idea what to say to her. How to begin to address the miles and years and moments that now lay between us. Thrust in front of me like she'd appeared at the wake had been different. Asking so much of me now? To face her consciously; to confront everything I'd done; everything we'd been through—how could I?

I was a coward.

My hand dropped to my chest, and the room went dark. I turned my head to the empty space beside me. I could remember watching her sleep as if she'd been in bed with me this morning; a memory vivid and vibrant. The way her soft lips parted as she breathed rhythmically, the melody she hummed in her sleep. I could picture the smooth curve of her back as it rose and fell peacefully. Her features were always gentle, but when she slept, they were angelic. 

I didn't think of her as often now as I had when she first left—I didn't allow myself. But occasionally, when I had too much time on my hands, I let my mind wander back to the nights we'd spent in a bed like this on the bad side of town. My lips had kissed every inch of her, and I'd long since memorized every dip and curve; which ones had her nails curl into the sheets and my name come out the loudest.

My hand slipped across my ribs, and I counted up, four from the bottom, to find the tattoo. E.R.S.—Ella Rose Scott. My Ro. My heart felt heavy as I wished they still meant as much to her as they did to me.

It was that thought that dragged me out of bed and away from the memories it suddenly held. I showered, shaved and now I sat at the kitchen table, amongst the mess of my apartment, attempting to enjoy a bowl of cereal that had less flavor than a slice of bread.

I peered over my bowl, watching Chloe flit back and forth from her bedroom to the bathroom. She was back to school today, and judging from her frenzied state, I wasn't entirely sure was emotionally ready—really I wasn't sure either of us were.

I didn't know what her routine looked like. Was her, running around like she hadn't gotten herself dressed for school eighteen hundred times before, normal?

Was I supposed to make her breakfast? Had mom?

Was I to go down the checklist each morning—homework; textbooks; lunch; practice gear—like mom used to? Had mom even done that for her? Had it been as unnecessary for her as it'd been for us?