Ruby

 

 

 

My insecurity surprises me. Why don’t I trust him when he says he wants to hear about these things? Why do I keep feeling like a bother, like I'm boring him to death?

Because that's what I've been led to believe my entire life.

That I don't matter. That none of it interests anyone but me.

He looks at me expectantly, his eyes attentive, and his silverware resting on the table next to the plate of half-eaten food. His chin is resting in his hand as he observes me, patiently waiting for me to continue speaking.

I almost feel pressured to keep talking, just so he can continue eating his steak. I feel bad for making him pause. He was right when he said that he knows how to prepare a piece of meat. This piece of filet mignon is one of the best things I've ever eaten. I can't say the same about the sides, and I want to remember to tease him about that later, if only to do something to incur the punishment that I crave so badly.

"Well," he says. "I do want to hear about this - and I'm growing impatient over here. Trust me, that's not what you want to happen."

I nod. "Yes, but-"

"Your sister is different than you how?" he cuts in.

I smile. I still don't know what to make of this, but it's hard to deny that his interest in my stories reaches a part of my heart that hasn't been touched in years – or possibly ever.

"She's very... put together," I answer. "She's married, has a kid, a job. She never did anything out of the ordinary."

"Did she go to college?" he inquires. "Is that why you wanted a degree - to keep up with her?"

I can't stop myself from laughing at his question. His assumption couldn’t be further from the truth.

"No, she didn't," I reply. "In fact, she made fun of me for wanting to go to college and get an education, just like my parents did. They all regarded it as a way for rich people to spend their money, nothing useful for 'our kind', as they called it. My sister graduated from high school, and then she started working right away as a non-retail sales worker. Her main goal was to make enough money as soon as possible so she could move out and have a life of her own. And she’s doing very well; she was promoted to supervisor the last time I talked to her. Climbing the ladder instead of falling after the first two rungs over and over again as my parents did."

I pause as I recall that time she left our family home. The time right after my sister moved out was probably the worst of all. I was fifteen and still had most of the high school years ahead of me. I was dreading every single day of it, especially now that I was faced with having to deal with my parents all by myself.

"I was so fucking jealous of her," I recall. "To get out of that goddamn house. I wish I could've gone with her, I even asked her if I could, but she didn't want me. I was just a nuisance, a burden that she didn't want. And I get that, I totally do. To be honest, I would have done the same thing if I'd been her."

"You're not mad at her for leaving you?" he probes.

I shrug. I've never really thought about it that way, because I could empathize with her decision too much to hate her for it. She did what she had to do, and in the end, her decision wasn't that much different than what I would have done.

"Maybe I was a little mad at her at the time," I admit. "But she's not the one to blame. It wasn't her responsibility to take care of me. She never asked to be born in that household, just like I didn't."

He nods, casting a contemplative look out the window. There are big french doors to my left that lead out to a terrace and the rolling property that belongs with this estate. For miles and miles, there's nothing but wide-open countryside, a green valley with trees dabbled across it in a random pattern. I have no idea where we are, but I doubt that he'd tell me if I asked. It's clear I wouldn't get far, even if I was able to escape the house.

Unless he's gone or... unconscious.

The ideas have occurred to me again and again. I have a knife in my right hand, a sharp steak knife. It surprises me that he thought of chaining my ankles together, but yet had no issue with giving me a knife. Did he seriously not consider the possibility of me stabbing him? Or does he just not think I'd have the guts – or smarts – to do it?

I've been studying the knife, playing the scene through in my head, wondering if I could reach him over the table, if I could be fast enough to get out of his reach when he tries to stop me. He'd have no trouble overpowering me if it came down to sheer strength. Once he gets a proper hold of me, there'd be nothing I could do. And there's no way to predict what he would do if I tried to hurt him or escape.

I might be too scared to find out.

"I understand what you're talking about," he says, pulling me away from my dark thoughts.

His eyes are still on the landscape outside, but his face is darkened by sorrow. I feel guilty thinking about potential ways of hurting him or getting away from him, especially considering how emotionally engaged he appears in our conversation.

"You understand?" I ask. "How so?"

He turns to me, a somber smile gracing his handsome face.

"I have an older brother," he explains. "And just like you and your sister, we're not very much alike, but each of us carried a burden very different from the other when we grew up."

"Burden?" I wonder. "Did you grow up in poverty, too?"

He scoffs, shaking his head. I knew it. I didn't think he was one of those self-made guys. He's too nonchalant about all the luxury that surrounds him to be someone who just recently acquired it. He's obviously used to it and has been in a financially comfortable position for a long time, most likely his entire life time.

"Poverty isn't the only hardship one can endure while growing up," he says.

Now I'm the one huffing with indignation. "Well, it is a fucking big hardship, I can tell you that."

"I'd never deny that," he says, angrily. "And I'm not trying to play a who-suffered-more game with you."

I feel dumb for implying that he couldn't have possibly suffered any hardships himself just because he grew up in a wealthy family. It's a simple-minded assumption that comes across as convincing all too easily.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to-"

"I know we're not troubled by the same sorrow," he says. "In fact, our experiences are polar opposites when it comes to that whole college thing."

I cast him a quizzical look.

"You said you received little support when you decided to go to college," he elaborates. "For me, it was unthinkable not to go to college, because it was naturally expected of me, even though that was probably the only thing they ever expected of me."

"Doesn't sound too bad to me," I say, carefully. I'm still confused by all of this and don't know what to make of this conversation. It seems we couldn't be any more different, except for the fact that we're both the younger sibling, the one who feels like his or her burden was bigger than theirs. But there's one other thing we appear to have in common. Just like me, he doesn't seem to have anyone to talk to.

He smirks at me.

"I'm not trying to make it sound bad," he says. "I'm just telling you how it is. My older brother has always been treated differently because he's the heir to my family's empire, the one who's supposed to make sure our business will continue to thrive. Sadly, he's not very good at it."

"What kind of business is it?"

He looks at me, unsure whether he should confide in me.

"Construction," he says eventually. "My grandfather built the company, and my brother almost destroyed it."

"How?"

He sighs and shakes his head.

"That doesn't matter," he says, meaning that he doesn't want to tell me. Fair enough.

"What matters is that I was the one who helped him get out of the shithole he dug for himself," he continues. "And I'm the one who came out in a better position at the end, mostly because I'm not involved with his failing business."

My eyes widen in surprise. "You're not working for your family's business?"

He shakes his head. "I never really have. It wasn't what was intended for me."

"But...," I utter, gesturing around the room. "I mean... you're still...."

"Doing pretty well?" he completes my sentence. "Yes, I am, but it's built from my trust fund money and the compensation I received from saving my brother's ass."

He picks up his fork and cuts off another piece of steak, angrily stabbing at it.

"Construction has never really been my thing, anyway," he mutters before stuffing his face with food.

"So, what do you do?"

He looks at me, still chewing, and his facial expression changes to one I'm all too familiar with.

"You," he says. "As soon as you've finished your food."