Losing Ruby

Copyright © 2020 Kelsa Dixon

All rights reserved

— • —

[Brody]

I stood in my living room—in the middle of my apartment—and there was shit everywhere. For days it had been like this. Days we spent going back and forth from our parents house, twenty-five minutes away, to dump another pile of boxes across my wide-plank oak floors. Half of every one of them still left unpacked.

Blankets that had adorned our parents' couches now haphazardly covered the leather ones I currently stood between. My coffee table had disappeared under a pile of magazines and small baskets of nail polish and an assortment of candles all burned to various heights. In front of me, the once bare TV console whose sole purpose was to house my sound bar and WiFi receiver now bore the weight of stacks and stacks of books. Clearly it wasn't large enough based on the brown paper grocery bags that sat beside it labeled: BOOKS.

My eyes shifted left to the front door. On the once bare coat rack I'd screwed into the brick wall, now hung several of Chloe's coats. No mind that it was the middle of August and any cool weather remained months away.

I followed the wall to an onslaught of dark cabinets and a set of appliances that had gotten more use in the last few days than they had in the year I'd lived here. Four stools nestled beneath the island and a picture window flanked the far wall flooding the countertops with light. Concrete counters that were buried beneath piles of cookware that I hadn't previously owned. Under a blender and a juicer and a dutch oven—which I only knew the name of when I'd asked if we would ever be making the absurd amount of food that it could hold.

It was mom's and therefore it was now ours. I didn't ask again.

Beyond the window that I'd once stood peacefully in front of, in my nearly empty, silent loft, drinking my coffee each morning was a metal balcony. Slight steel arms extended from the building, providing a small amount of cover for the now plethora of furniture and potted plants I'd never had before.

A round dining table with four chairs—ironically, just the right number for our family now—sat between the kitchen and the area rug, defining the space I currently stood in. It too was lost beneath a heap of unpacked, some unmarked, boxes and bags. Clothes draped over the chairs, shoes piled in some, and bags—an endless amount of purses of different sizes and shapes—littered in every direction. Some hung over the flaps of boxes, others had been collected and then dismissed onto the edge of the table. And still others slung across the backs of the chairs.

Fortunately, in the far corner, tucked at the back of the apartment was my bedroom. And of all the space I no longer had for myself out here—in this open, once barren expanse of a home that was no longer my own—my room had remained untouched. For now. I'd seen her eyeing the closet I kept half empty yesterday.

The stairs just outside my bedroom door though, those were also hers. A box was set upon each step, pushed to the side, making a path only large enough for Chloe to climb to the open loft where I used to keep nothing at all. Now it collected the mass of her shoe collection, and they were no longer contained to a box, a bag, or any type of luggage. They were scattered in every direction across that suspended floor. Although, yesterday she'd decided we'd purchase an extra mattress and set of linens for whenever Luca or Noah wanted to spend the night. The situation was becoming cozier by the day.

A desk, tucked neatly underneath the open loft, in front of a two story picture window that mirrored the one in the kitchen, held stacks of her school supplies. Notebooks, binders, packs of pens and pencils. Paper, a printer, her laptop. A backpack that appeared empty hung limp over the back of the desk chair.

It was startling to realize how little I had; how empty the place had been. Chloe questioned the first time we came here if we had the right apartment, that it didn't look like anyone lived here.

It did now.

The laundry closet across from my room held piles of clothes from the few short days we'd been home. They were sorted into lights and darks and colors and towels and delicates, already ready to be washed when she found the time. Judging by the state of the place, it wouldn't be anytime soon. I half wondered if she expected me to do it for her, but decided it wasn't a question worth risking the answer for.

Trailing the far wall of my living room was suitcase after suitcase—easily half a dozen—all packed with clothes. And this was the second trip we've made to the house with these same ones. Summer, fall, winter, spring—clothes for every season. Swimsuits, cover ups, shorts, dresses, jackets, jeans, sweaters, tights, hats, gloves and mittens. Work out clothes, sweatpants, pajamas, volleyball gear. I cut her off when she started slurring the lists together at the rate she was spitting them at me. Each bag had a purpose and was in line with how she was planning to unload it into the room just down the hall.

My temples started to pulse as I craned my neck to see around the wall, attempting a glance at the bathroom that was just out of sight. Drawers and shelves and the counters had remained relatively vacant over the last year. It was similar to the excuse I'd given Chloe; I hadn't been here long enough to get truly settled. She filled up the space with ease.

Honestly, I wasn't sure where she was at the moment. An easy three guesses: at the bottom of her closet sorting through a small array of shoes, attempting to find their perfect arrangement; laying on her bed reading a magazine, ignoring everything that was causing my blood pressure to spike; or in the shower running the hot water cold. But being that I hadn't heard the pipes in the wall rattle, I'd assume the former two were safer bets.

"Chloe!" In all honesty, she could easily be behind a stack of the equipment she'd yet to put away in the kitchen. Or hunched over the mounds of shoes in the loft.

"Yeah?" The sound came from her room.

I'd always been good on my feet. Probably that bloodline our grandfather so generously graced us with, and years of honing those skills in practice, then in the ring. Now I watched them as I stepped over a can of hairspray that I hadn't the slightest idea how or why it'd made its way into my living room. I maneuvered through the throngs of shit, watching every careful step I took before I reached her door.

Sure enough, she was sitting with her legs crossed on the floor in front of her closet. Gold chains, long and short, filled the floor around her. A pile of it sat in her lap. "They got tangled," she frowned. I stared at the mess that was equivalent to the one in the rest of my place.

"I was going down to the basement. Are you okay up here?"

She sat up straight and turned her undivided attention to me. "What about dinner?"

"It's three, I'll only be an hour."

She held my gaze.

"We'll make dinner when I'm back."

Her gaze dropped. "Mom always made dinner Sunday nights. No matter what."

My shoulders slumped. "I know she did. Noah and Luca will be here at six."

She didn't say anything.

"We'll have it ready. I promise."

She peered up at me and seemed more vulnerable than I'd seen her through all this. I hadn't figured out why this of all things was eating at her. Why, of all the things she has to be upset about, this dinner—making sure we have dinner together every Sunday—was the thing to make her look the saddest she's been.

"If you need me here...to help with...." I wasn't sure what with, and I wasn't sure what I was really offering. What good would I be at any of this? "I can help." I'd try, though.

"No." She quickly turned away, her hair rustling in a whoosh behind her. "I'm good." There was pep back in her voice and I yet again wondered where she'd mastered the quick change. Noah was the only conclusion I'd come up with so far. "I'll finish this and put away the stuff in the kitchen so we can get started when you're back."

I briefly wondered if she'd considered where we'd eat. If she'd take a look at the dining table in passing and realize that too needed to be cleared off. Or the stuff in the living room if she wanted anyone to stick around to watch a movie with the pile of garment bags laid across the backs of the couches.

"I won't be long."

The back of her head bobbed in acknowledgment.

— • —

The basement was where I'd escaped half a dozen times in the week we'd been home. I itched to beeline for the door the second the walls felt like they were moving in on me; the boxes and piles of her belongings becoming larger, creeping into every corner of untouched space. Quickly, I'd announce where I'd be, and Chloe would grunt in recognition from somewhere I couldn't see her, nor detect where the sound was coming from. Then I'd slip out the door and didn't seem missed when I returned an hour or two later from the homemade gym two floors down.

I wasn't needed when Luca or Noah used my front door like a turnstile, coming and going as they pleased. Truthfully, I didn't mind. Luca generally kept his usual disappointed comments to a minimum, and Noah, in most instances, ignored my presence altogether.

Chloe made an effort though. She tried to drag me into conversation when they were there. It usually dried up pretty quick when I couldn't draw up the memory they were discussing. Or when the discussion would shift to a team dad had been a part of, inherently one that had become like another family for Chloe. A team for a school Noah attended, a team Luca played—started— for. A college—any college at all—I'd never attended.

Yet another severed tie to a family I looked at from a distance.

Chains rattled as I slammed my shin into the faded brown bag. Twirling, it swung away from me. I hit it with a left hook on its way back to me. The room vibrated with a heavy beat from my sound system. This was the closest thing I came to fighting anymore. An inanimate object swinging in front of me.

Two years. It'd been two years since my last fight. Two years since Josh gave me a proposition: go half in buying a run down duplex with leaky pipes and mildew coating the windows several blocks from anything good in this neighborhood. Or fight until either someone finally killed me, or I let the drink finish me off.

The business contract he'd drafted dissolved my fifty-percent ownership if I ever stepped foot in another ring. It wasn't written in layman's terms, that would've been semi-idiotic considering the loan we were requesting. The money I had put away, from the fights I began winning when I started fighting back, had been taxed through the tips I'd claimed from the bar I spent all my other nights at and the tattoo shop I worked at during the day.

It was washed. Laundered. Taken care of. Any amount that seemed legitimate coming from the dive bar it had been anyways. I was still paying cash for untraceable things; gas, groceries, food on the rare occasion I went out. Liquor the nights I spent alone on my balcony.

The tattoo shop we ran on the street front, and the other three apartments next to mine that we rented out paid the bills now. Paid back the renovation loan and the mortgage, bit by bit. I did the art, Josh managed the finances. Within a year, we'd hired employees and the streets four blocks over, bustling with art studios and cafes began spreading in our direction. Coffee shops littered every corner, and what was once a run down area of town started coming to life.

I should've been happy—grateful.

The bag in front of me slowed to a stop. My chest heaved with panting breaths. My biceps nipped with the adrenaline I'd just released. Streaks of sweat raced through the lines and swirls of my tattoos. I couldn't be happy. Ruby was never going to come home. Now neither would our parents. A wrong that had never been righted, and it was my fault yet again.

I used my teeth to pull apart the Velcro of my wraps and they unraveled, piling in pools on the floor. I hit the power on my stereo, and sagged onto the wooden bench against the wall. There were only windows at the top of the wall, peeking out into the wooded backside of the property. It was private, and quiet. How I chose to spend most of my time.

Chloe wasn't quiet. Life with her, sharing the small space that was my loft, wouldn't be simple anymore. Brothers I barely spoke to, coming and going like they'd been a constant all along, would be unnerving. But it was a step. I braced my elbows over my knees and pushed my fingers through my damp hair.

A step to rebuilding what I'd turned and walked away from. Maybe it was a shove in the right direction. One I didn't truly deserve, but had been given none-the-less.

So I stood. I draped the discarded wraps over the bar by the door and headed upstairs. I showered before Chloe even realized I was back and when I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, in the midst of the small appliances she had still done nothing with, I decided to take charge. To help her get settled and make this feel a little more permanent for her. Maybe it would make her feel welcome.

Although it wasn't as if I hadn't offered to help every morning that I woke up and the place seemed more a wreck than when I'd gone to bed. But she assured me she had her methods and I instantly backed off.

Jumping in now—probably not entirely smart on my part.

"What are you doing?" She seemed to appear out of thin air these days; stealth like a fox, popping up from behind boxes. I didn't appreciate the talent—moving in silence. It was something I'd once mastered at her age to help me out of the house in the middle of the night. I didn't want to know why she was so good at it. I wrote it off as a volleyball skill, she'd always been light on her feet on the court.

I set down the mixer I'd just lifted awkwardly into my arms. "I was getting the kitchen ready, so we could make dinner." Like you said you wanted to do.

"And I said I would do it."

My shoulders tightened, and I glanced down at the small appliance in front of me. "I can help with getting this stuff put away, Chloe."

She moved to take the piece from me and I stepped away. "And I said I can do it myself."

I watched her struggle with the size of the metal bowl and stand as she crouched. She kneed open a cabinet, sliding it to the back. Far corner cabinet, shoved all the way to the wall—we'd never use it.

"Then I'll start getting dinner ready." Lasagna was what she'd mentioned earlier in the week. I pulled open the once empty fridge, that was now filled with ingredients and produce and condiments labeled organic. Milks and cheeses and yogurts, all plant-based, made with ingredients I didn't even know could produce milk. We'd spent two hours yesterday at the grocery store, and if the food hadn't been cold, we probably would've left it with the rest of the bags and boxes to be unpacked later.

Pots and pans clanged behind me. Cabinets knocked open and closed and then Chloe was beside me, yanking on the handle. "I'll do it."

She wanted to do all of it. So I didn't move as she tried to shove me out of the way. "I'll help."

"You don't need to."

"I want to." Surprisingly, she suddenly relaxed. "You get the ingredients, I'll wipe down the counter." Now that it was actually free of clutter.

She didn't say anything more and for the next hour we worked seamlessly. She gave me small tasks—boiling a pot of water, opening the jar of tomato sauce, cutting up vegetables I wasn't aware belonged in lasagna. I scooped ricotta cheese as she directed so she could spread it with her hands (just how mom did it). When I almost questioned the meat she was browning in the pan I thought better of it, noticing once more the plant-based label on the packaging.

"Are you vegetarian?" I finally asked as she put the pan into the oven.

She didn't look at me, in fact she seemed to busy herself more. "Yeah."

She'd tried too hard to sound casual.

I opened the dishwasher for her as she started to rinse the bowls and cutting boards. As she handed them to me, I didn't take them and it forced her to look at me. "Why did you just make that seem like a weird thing to ask? Should I have known?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I've been vegan for almost a year."

So, yes. Yes, I should have. My face fell. "I don't care if you are, if that's what you're worried about. I'll eat whatever."

She scoffed and the corner of her mouth tilted up. It wasn't a smile though. "Noah will not eat whatever, so if he asks, the left half is beef."

The buzzer by my front door went off. A quick glance at the security camera angled on the keypad outside told me Luca was here. My chest tightened the way it always did when he was around. The anxiety—the anticipation of what might happen between us. What might be said—that in any moment something could be said or done to finally sever that final thread.

Chloe gripped my wrist and I found my fingers white as I clenched the counter. When I looked over at her she was already staring back at me. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me do this the way I need to." She glanced around the apartment. "The unpacking, the cooking—"

I cut in. "You don't need to thank me. We're both figuring this out as we go."

She seemed to let out a sigh that toppled the wall she normally kept stacked so high, and suddenly her head hit my chest as a set of arms circled around me. For a moment I was caught off guard and I found myself staring at the top of her head. It'd been a long time since I'd hugged anyone so fiercely—since I'd been hugged so intensely. I'd nearly forgotten the feeling. When I squeezed her back I could almost feel the better parts of that life I left behind.

Her lashes fluttered and a tear dropped to my arm.

"Chloe?" She clung harder when I tried to find a glimpse of her face. I gave up the fight easily. "I'm not going anywhere this time." Not like the last time.

The front door I generally left unlocked swung open and as quickly as Luca appeared, Chloe jerked away. She took her stance back at the sink, dropping silverware into their respective slots in the dishwasher. It happened so fast, it left me questioning if it'd actually happened or I'd imagined it on a whim of wistful thinking.

But Luca had noticed and he was moving, his energy like a tidal wave in our direction. His eyes flickered from Chloe to me. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The question had been aimed at me, but she answered. "Nothing's wrong, Luca." I heard the lack of energy she had to go a round like this with him. He gripped her shoulders and spun her around, his eyes scanning her face, her head for anything that might be out of place. Not a single hair was amiss.

Her face was dull and uninterested. "Can I not hug my brother, Lu? I'm not the one who has a problem with him."

He released her and stiffly stepped back. But he hovered, watching her; watching for whatever it was he thought he missed. He didn't bother with another glance in my direction, not a single word. And although it was me Chloe had technically defended, I still felt like the one on the outside once again.

I didn't question his concern though. She'd been the picture of perfection since the funeral. A tear slipped here and there, but no meltdowns, no desperate pleas to bring them back. I'd taken note of it, too; how quickly she'd seemed to have moved on. Noah didn't seem to care the way he'd railroad any of us, including her, with his insensitive remarks. Or maybe he just wasn't paying enough attention to notice.

But the hug he'd just witnessed was more emotion she'd displayed since the accident itself, and the second she stepped away from the sink, he stepped into her path again. His brawny arms strained across his chest as he stood tall. They silently stared at each other until Chloe's perfectly arched eyebrow rose in challenge. His arms slackened to his sides and his face pinched in concern once more. "How are you today, C?"

She let out an exhaustive breath. "I'm fine, Luca. Just like I was earlier this afternoon when you called. And this morning. And yesterday."

He said nothing, attempting to call her bluff.

"I promise—I'm fine." She gave his arm a gentle squeeze for reassurance and he took it as his opportunity to gather her into his arms. She got lost in the size of his broad chest and built biceps. He squeezed until she seemed to lose all oxygen and had to tap out.

He let her go, but held her at arm's length. "You can always talk to me...." It was by way of a plea; really it sounded like he was begging. Begging her to come to him, to let him in. Maybe he was the one feeling lonely.

"I know." She was quick to assure him; even I heard the dismissal that it really was. "I know," she said again, gently.

If he felt defeated, he didn't let me see it. Instead, Chloe told us we had thirty minutes before dinner was ready and asked us to help her clear off the table. She actually asked for help, and Luca was quick to agree. He was always quick to do as she asked, questioning her about her day. I didn't miss the subtle ways he was still trying to get her to open up. I don't think she did either as she'd turn the questions on me.

I'd stumble over my words, the shock wearing off a little more with each off-handed question that pried directly into the last seven years of my life. Any response I gave, Luca offered his disapproval via an eye roll; a scoff; an unnecessary, sneered response.

For the first time in the days we'd been in my home, I felt the tension threatening between us. It was bubbling beneath the surface and I couldn't tell what would be the thing to finally set him off. I was praying it wouldn't be tonight. But then the timer on Chloe's phone went off and Noah still hadn't shown, and our focus shifted to when he'd arrive.

"He is never on time," Chloe griped as she pulled down the plates.

"You say that like you're just figuring that out," Luca said.

"Maybe it's because I hope that one day I won't have to say never."

Luca scoffed. "Wishful thinking. He's never going to change."

"So should we wait for him then?" I asked. Because no one was making a move otherwise. The plates were out. Water glasses and silverware were on the table. A spatula stuck out of the dish waiting to serve us.

Luca stepped in front of Chloe. "No. If he can't be decent enough to show up on time, we're not waiting around out of respect for him."

Chloe sighed.

It wasn't until we were half-way through the meal that the buzzer rang and thirty seconds later the front door blew open, a panting, huffing Noah bent over the threshold. "Timed it. Thirty-two seconds from the bottom step to the door."

"Should we be impressed?" Luca didn't bother to look up.

Noah flung the door shut behind him and strode through the apartment. "Made up for lost time, didn't I?"

"Four seconds of the forty minutes you're late?" Luca's fork clanged to his plate and he mockingly offered two claps.

Chloe draped her hand over his, pushing them down. "It's fine," she said, quietly.

"No. It's not fine, Chloe." Luca intentionally raised his voice. Chloe slouched back in her seat.

"This better not be that bland, fake veggie, bullshit," Noah griped as he dug through the once neatly constructed lasagna.

Chloe didn't bother to look over her shoulder. "Left side's beef."

He hefted the entire left side of the pan onto his plate before he took his seat between Chloe and Luca. It opened the door for Luca to start in on him again.

"It does matter, Noah. Chloe worked hard to make us dinner and you can't be sure to show up when it matters."

His head inched sideways before he cast a glance in Luca's direction. "Who died and made you dad?"

Chloe gaped, and my heart skipped a beat. Was that a joke? What was the punchline—I didn't pick up on it. Luca seemed to, though, as his jaw clenched.

"Brody helped," Chloe piped up. Her voice sounded shaky, I wondered if they noticed, too.

"Oh." Noah's mouth curved in humor. "Then my apologies, B."

I shifted in my seat at the lack of empathy his words actually held.

"Chloe—" Luca started again, but Noah's gaze drifted to her and he cut him off.

"How is Chloe today?" Her posture went straight, but her shoulders slack.

She moved the food around on her plate and refused to meet a stare that felt intense even from here. She bit the inside of her cheek and suddenly I was holding my breath. When her eyes met Noah's they were clear. And watery. "Okay," she whispered.

Noah didn't look away and somehow I felt like there was something more being said that I wasn't able to see. Or understand. I glanced at Luca and he was fuming, aware of what they were doing. Like a silent conversation that suddenly ended, Noah broke away first. "Good." Was all he said and she sat forward again, picking at her meal once more.

Luca's fingers, clenched around his fork, started to lose their color. He was still glancing between them as I tried to redirect the attention. Flow the conversation to something different, toward more neutral territory.

Luca cut in first. His hand gripped the collar of Noah's hoodie and he jerked Noah in his direction. The bite Noah had held mid-air dropped to his plate, his other hand caught on the back of Luca's chair. "Next time you choose to be late, spend the extra time to wash off the stench." His narrowed eyes dropped to the exposed part of Noah's neck. His tongue clicked in disgust at the small string of bruises. "I can still smell her on you."

Her. But who was her this time? I didn't know much about a lot of things. Noah's...problem—if we wanted something casual to call it—was one thing I was more familiar with than I'd care to be.

When Luca released him, Noah didn't fling backwards into his seat. Instead, he didn't move—not an inch—and as his chillingly, depth-less gaze raised to Luca, he grinned from ear to ear. "I'll keep that in mind." A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, as he slowly eased back. "For next time."

As he turned away from Luca, the fork he'd dropped stabbed at the mess of food on his plate. A bite later it clattered back to the plate and he shoved it across the table. Hard enough that it slid into mine. "All of that miserable meal is cardboard."

Chloe's head rolled back, her arms went limp at her sides.

"It's not bad," I shrugged. It was not a meat alternative, it tasted nothing like beef. But it was...edible.

He threw a finger at Chloe. "You might have to eat it...." Then the finger was aimed at me. And Luca. "And you two may eat it just to kiss her ass, but it tastes like stale dirt and I will not."

"Then don't eat at all, Noah," Luca spat back.

All I could think about among their bickering was the way she'd practically flinched when I'd asked about it earlier. Why she'd suddenly seemed so timid about it. Why did she have to eat that way? was a question that circled my mind.

But my thoughts were disrupted when my phone lit up and began vibrating across the table. The name that glared back at me had my heart skip a beat before it began pounding out of control. Why was she calling—why was I suddenly consumed with both hope and dread?

I hadn't spoken to her since that wistful moment in my parents' kitchen; and I'd tried my damndest not to think about her either. Though it hadn't been my best attempt, I'd failed on several occasions as the thought of a simple kiss led to other memories I couldn't so easily shove to the back of my mind.

"You gonna answer that?" Noah was bent over the table, eyeing me. Luca and Chloe were now in the kitchen; when had they stood and left me here? Quickly, I dropped the phone face down on my thigh.

"No."

He smirked. "It is Ella, isn't it? Your Ella."

"She's not my Ella." Not anymore—I was quick to defend her. I wasn't sure why, it sounded less convincing than if I'd simply ignored him.

It vibrated again and this time it slid off my thigh onto the chair between my legs with a thud.

"Right." Noah winked. "That's why she keeps showing up."

When he stood and I was alone at the table, I stared at the voicemail notification on my screen. Adrenaline flushed through my veins at the thought of her voice. To hear such a familiar, comforting sound after so long. To be reminded, if only for a moment, what that had once felt like.   

— • —

• losing ruby •

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