Oh.
Wow.
That.
For me.
How can you be mad at a guy who writes you a poem like that?
Most people would say you can’t. Noel was so honest on the page. When I first read his words, I felt like he was reaching out to me through them.
Except, when I thought about it later–he wasn’t. Not really.
He loves me! Poemy poem goodness! Romance!
No. If he loved you, he’d call you back.
Maybe his phone broke.
Then he’d e-mail you that his phone broke.
But a poem! Two poems! Romantic poems!
Yeah, but what’s stopping him from writing you back about Hutch’s going-away party? He needs to write back about that. A real live boyfriend would write back about that.
Yeah. That’s true.
He’s not writing about you, anyway. He’s writing about phantom limbs and clocks. The poems could be about anyone.
In a way, it’s like he’s writing to an idea of some ideal Ruby who’s not really the same as the Ruby who exists.
Yeah. Because the Idea of the Ideal Ruby loves the poems and feels fulfilled, but the Ruby Who Exists really wants to talk to him about Hutch’s party.
Shouldn’t the Ruby Who Exists not be so demanding and just be thankful for the poems?
But when he doesn’t call me back I feel insecure!
He wrote you poems!
But he hasn’t called.
But he wrote you poems!
But he hasn’t called.
And so on. I was driving myself even more insane than on an ordinary day.
Finally, I just planned the party for Hutch without any input from Noel, and tried to go about my life ignoring the shaky, needy feeling in the center of my chest. I only allowed myself to call Noel’s cell once a day.
He never picked up.
At some point I stopped leaving messages.
1 I missed his calls because I am the last person on the planet without a cell phone. My parents insist that if I want one I have to pay for it. But I got the video camera instead.
Distraction Caused by a Bare Chest!
a video clip:
Finn Murphy—barista, soccer stud-muffin, Meghan’s boyfriend—stands behind the counter at the B&O Espresso, wearing an apron over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His light blond hair has grown out a bit from his crew cut, and he smiles shyly.Roo: (behind the camera) You ready?Finn: Unless a customer comes in.Roo: I’ll be quick. So, what’s your definition of love?Finn: Oh. Ah. Love is trust, I think.Roo: How so?Finn: Love is when you give someone else the power to destroy you, and you trust them not to do it.Roo: Ag.Finn: Why do you say ag?Roo: What if they do destroy you?Finn: You have to trust that they won’t.Roo: But what if they do? Was it love, then?Finn: I don’t know. I guess if you trusted them not to, then what you felt was love, yeah.Roo: But what if they didn’t destroy you for a while, and then all of a sudden they did destroy you? Was it love for them, before they suddenly went all destructive?Finn: (laughing) What?Roo: What about the other person? If they start destroying you, does that mean they never loved you?Finn: Ah. Maybe?Roo: Or could they be destroying you by accident, because they love you but don’t understand you?Finn: Ruby—Roo: Or do you measure love by how they felt in the trust department? Like, they could totally destroy you, but they still loved you because they trusted you not to destroy them, and that’s what love is.Finn: Can this be over now?Roo: Are you sure we should be giving anyone the power to destroy us?Finn: Ruby.Roo: What?Finn: Can this please be over?Roo: Why?Finn: I have an unsold piece of yesterday’s dobosh torte in the back. You can have it for free if this can be over.
One day, while all that badness was happening with Noel not answering his phone, Gideon Van Deusen showed up shirtless on the dock of our houseboat. I was helping in the greenhouse, because Meghan was off with Finn as usual and Dad was seriously behind in photographing his summer blooms for the newsletter. Instead of working, he was moping around all day saying stuff like: “My mother always kept her kitchen sink clean.” And “My mother will never get to see this year’s gardenias.”
I was trying to make a short video for his blog (Container Gardening for the Rare Bloom Lover had finally gone digital) that would rotate 360 degrees through his greenhouse, enabling all six of his maniacally loyal fans to have the full-surround experience of the “plant haven” he has been writing about. Hutch was hiding the junky old CD player and various other unsightly things that would mar the beauty of the shot, and I had just stepped out to film the exterior when I heard a speedboat putt-putt up to the dock.
Gideon hopped out wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts and a bead choker. His dark brown hair was wet and hung over his face. I had never seen him without a shirt on and for a second I didn’t recognize him. Maybe it was the wet hair and maybe it was the bead choker of my seventh-grade fantasies. Or maybe it was just his extremely nice-looking bare chest. In any case, I thought: It’s Tommy Hazard.
The surfer-boy version of Tommy Hazard, all grown up.
I must be hallucinating.
But then he said, “Ruby, hey. How are ya? We’re nearly out of gas. Isn’t there a station up at the top of the hill?”—and I realized it was Nora’s brother.
“Hi, Gideon,” I said. Meaning: Nice abs. “Yeah, there’s a station. Do you have a can to put the gas in?”
I looked at the boat, where two more shirtless guys were tying up to the dock. They headed toward us, one dark-skinned and slightly heavy with long dreaded hair, one Caucasian and beaky, carrying a presumably empty gas can; both were clearly friends of Gideon’s from Evergreen. I could tell by their sideburns, hemp bracelets and sandaled feet.
“Yeah, we got a can,” said Gideon. “We were wakeboarding in the middle of the lake when I suddenly realized we’re on empty. It didn’t seem safe to try to make it all the way across to fill her up. We might have gotten stranded. So we docked here.”
The two guys waved at me as they headed up the hill carrying the gas can, while Gideon shook the water out of his hair and smiled down at me. Very Tommy Hazard. “What are you filming?”
“I’m making a video for my dad’s gardening Web site,” I said. “How come you’re not going with them?” I tipped my head to where his friends were pushing through the gate that led to the street.
Gideon laughed. “I didn’t bring any shoes.”
“Well. It gets you out of having to hike up the hill to the station.”
“True. Hey, do you have a Band-Aid I can borrow?”
Now this is going to sound insane, but a part of me was surprised that Gideon Van Deusen, who traveled the world for a year before starting college, who questioned the teachings of his Sunday school back in ninth grade, who played guitar badly and didn’t mind being bad at it, who folded his laundry so neatly, who had been class speaker at Tate Prep the year he graduated and who obviously spent quite a serious amount of time doing sit-ups—I was surprised that Gideon Van Deusen, who seemed so well-balanced and comfortable in himself—would need a Band-Aid.