Page 120 of Let It Be Me

I stare at my dad, but what I’m seeing is Lorenzo standing in the driveway at his mom’s birthday party, telling me this would happen. He could be my dad’s speechwriter. “Grateful you’re giving me a job out of pity? Or grateful you found a new way to control me?”

“What is it you want here?” my father demands. “We’d have loved to relinquish control of you years ago, but you didn’t turn out to be the type of child who could handle that. And while you sit here throwing around accusations, we’re trying to course-correct for all the years we failed to keep you in line!”

An admission. A blathering, passive-aggressive admission, but still.

As usual, my mom cuts straight through the bullshit. “We want you taken care of, Ruby. Somewhere we can see that you’re doing all right.”

It’s only when I feel the weight of it crushing me that I realize how hard I was trying to believe in anything but the truth.

“I have been doing all right.” I can barely stand the petulant sound of my own voice. “My grades are up. I’m in touch with my advisor. And—” I stop. It’s like déjà vu. I’ve spent my life trying to convince them to see things my way, and they stopped listening a long time ago. There’s so much I need to say—how much I like my life, how much I like who I am when I’m not reacting to them. I’m overflowing with words and the energy to unleash them, but for once I won’t do it. I need that energy elsewhere. I stand up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the job.”

“Sit down,” my mom says calmly.

“If I sit down, this is ending in a screaming match, don’t you think? So I’ll leave instead.” I turn and grab my bag.

“Don’t ruin a good thing,” she warns. “You won’t get this chance again.”

It’s meant to scare me and it does. I won’t get this chance again: money, comfort, a secure job no matter how inept I turn out to be. I have no other prospects. Except freedom. “I understand.”

My mom sits back and crosses her arms. “Then what will you do? It doesn’t sound like you have anything else.”

“I’ll figure it out like I always do.”

“Ruby.” My dad stands, his hands up in a placating manner. His voice is shaky, and I realize what I’m seeing in his eyes is fear. “Now look, we’ve been doing this your whole life. Us telling you how to be, and you fighting tooth and nail to be anythingbut. We get it, all right? We get it. You’re not going to do what we want.”

I stop in the doorway. I don’t want to hear this, but here I am listening.

“You can be who you are, Ruby, and you can still take this job. You don’t have to prove anything to us anymore. We see you.”

They don’t, though. They see what I’m not—not a success, not a source of pride, not the daughter they hoped for. But they don’t see who I’ve become.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say, and I am. I see the pain in his face. It’s taken me years, but I understand that this is the best way he knows how to love me. It’s just not good enough. “But I don’t need this job. Do you understand that? I don’t need it anymore.”

For once I’ve silenced him. I look at my mom, but she looks unmoved.

She raises one brow in a challenge. “Suddenly you’re too good for this job because we can’t give you an hour-by-hour breakdown of your duties?”

“No. I was always too good for this job.”

As I take the front steps, I think about all the screaming matches I endured in this house with Lorenzo waiting for me on these very steps. I remember the last time the four of us sat around a table together, that fierce look on his face when he defended me. When he told them he loved me. His absence makes me feel scooped out, hollow. I want him here to witness it, to put his arms around me and reassure me I’m not wrong for walking out like this. I don’t feel strong enough to do this alone.

I’m doing it, though. I said the words, I’m halfway to my car, and I’m not taking the job. So maybe I’ve already done it all by myself.

FORTY-SEVEN

ruby

Ricotta meatballs,a giant salad, and a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery. That’s what’s inside the Styrofoam cooler I slide into the narrow patch of shade on Lorenzo’s front porch, hoping it won’t face more than a couple hours in the late-August heat.

He won’t be my friend, but I’m still his. I’ll still cook his favorite meal to celebrate his football season starting even though he’s not playing yet. And even if he won’t know it, to thank him for giving me the strength to walk away from my parents.

Cooking the recipe this morning, I couldn’t believe how much joy and energy I suddenly had, still high off what I said to my parents. But standing at Lorenzo’s front door and knowing I can’t go inside brings me crashing down to reality.

I don’t know how tobewithout him. Now that he’s out of my life, I see how much it revolved around him. Unhealthy, I guess. I don’t have any other close friends. But I didn’t need them. Between Lorenzo and me, I had everything. Now I just have me.

Bree texts on my way home.

Bree: Want me to pick you up for the meeting? I’m dying to show off my new ride. Lol.

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