Authors: E. Lockhart

Real Live Boyfriends (7 page)

7. Yeah. That’s true.

8. He’s not writing about
you
, anyway. He’s writing about phantom limbs and clocks. The poems could be about anyone.

9. 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.

10. 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.

11. Shouldn’t the Ruby Who Exists not be so demanding and just be thankful for the poems?

12. But when he doesn’t call me back I feel insecure!

13. He wrote you poems!

14. But he hasn’t called.

15. But he wrote you poems!

16. 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.

He seemed so perfect to me, I guess. An older guy who’s got it together. A guy so confident in himself that it seems impossible he’d have a hole in his skin.

A hole that might actually be bleeding.

“You can’t borrow one,” I told him. “But you can have one to keep.”

He laughed and I showed him into the houseboat.

Polka remembered him from the one time he’d been over to visit and slurped Gideon’s hands.

I went to the bathroom to get Band-Aids, but before I went back to the living room, I stopped and put on lip gloss. I thought:

1. What? I have no lip gloss on. My lips feel dry.

This lip gloss has nothing to do with Gideon.

2. Oh, fine. There is a shirtless college boy bleeding in my living room. I want lip gloss.

3. I can still be in love with Noel and want a shirtless college boy to think I am good-looking, can’t I?

4. Or maybe I can’t.

5. Maybe if you’re really in love, you don’t care if anyone thinks you’re good-looking besides the person you’re in love
with
.

6. Maybe it’s deranged to want college boys to think you’re hot when you already have a boyfriend.

7. Maybe I am a sex maniac slut like everybody says.

8. And then again, it’s just lip gloss.

I brought out a box of Band-Aids with pictures of sushi on them, along with some antibiotic ointment.

Gideon showed me a spot on his calf where the wakeboard had flipped and sliced him. It wasn’t big, but it would need two Band-Aids to cover it.

“Are you a sushi fan?” Gideon asked.

“No,” I said truthfully. “I just like silly Band-Aids. I got these at Archie McPhee. They have pirate ones and bacon ones, too.”

I squeezed some ointment on my finger.

Gideon looked surprised. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed.” You’re probably capable of putting a Band-Aid on yourself, aren’t you?

“I
am
experienced in that department.”

“It’s an impulse left over from babysitting.”

“Okay, go ahead.” He stuck out his leg. “So. You babysit?”

“Not anymore. I couldn’t take it. The kid I used to sit for was like a blood and vomit machine.” Gideon laughed. “A patent on that idea could make a fortune.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Or his parents could just rent him out. Like whenever anyone needs blood or vomit, they could just come over and rent out Kai.” All this while I was dabbing ointment on Gideon’s calf, which was tan and covered in light brown hair. I thought:

1. His skin is surprisingly soft.

2. But also hairy.

3. Gideon is practically an adult. I think he’s at least nineteen.

4. Is it horrible that I want to touch his leg?

5. I mean, Doctor Z says it’s completely normal at my age to have this level of Rabbit Fever, but what I really want to know is, am I being disloyal?

6. It is only ointment, after all.

7. And a Band-Aid.

8. Then again, I wouldn’t like it if Noel was spreading ointment on the bare calves of Ariel Olivieri.

9. Especially not if Ariel was wearing nothing but a bathing suit and a bead choker.

I was just putting a second Band-Aid on Gideon’s leg, and enjoying it more than I should have, when Hutch walked in from the greenhouse. I jerked back guiltily.

“Gideon Van Deusen,” Hutch announced, barely making eye contact while he went to the sink and filled his water bottle. “Rock on.”

Gideon looked blank. “Have we met?” he asked Hutch.

“This is John Hutchinson,” I said apologetically.

Hutch hopped up on the counter and swigged his water, still without making eye contact.

Gideon held out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

“We’ve met,” said Hutch, shaking it.

“I have a bad memory for faces.”

“We went to school together for ten years.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Gideon, obviously lying. “Out of context. Sorry.”

This is why Hutch is such a roly-poly. He has zero sense of what a warped little bunny he sounds like sometimes.

Yes, they had been at school together. But Gideon had graduated when we were freshmen, and seniors can’t be expected to recall every dorkface underclassman from three years ago. But there went Hutch, saying Gideon’s whole name like a semi-stalker, and then telling him to “Rock on,” not even saying hello like a normal person. And then what kind of conversationalist quick-calculates the number of years their Tate Prep careers overlapped and uses it to guilt the other person for not remembering?

“Did you finish getting the greenhouse set up?” I asked Hutch, to change the subject. “And is Dad presentable?”

“His face is dry, at least. And yeah. It looks pretty good in there.”

“Gideon’s boat ran out of gas,” I explained.

“Almost,” said Gideon.

We all stood around the kitchen for a moment. Not saying anything. Then Hutch said, “Nice lip gloss, Ruby,” jumped off the counter and went back outside.

What?

Why was he commenting on my lip gloss?

Since when did Hutch notice my lips anyway?

“Was that your boyfriend?” asked Gideon, plopping himself on our couch and stroking Polka’s ears.

“No,” I said, sitting down on the rocking chair.

“Why?”

“He seemed a little tense is all.”

“He’s—he’s a friend of my boyfriend’s,” I explained.

“He’s just being protective.”

Realizing: Oh. That’s what “Nice lip gloss” meant.

It meant, “Ruby, you’re going out with Noel, remember?”

“So you have a boyfriend?” Gideon asked. He leaned forward and touched the hem of my sundress with the tips of his fingers.