Girls Like Us

1
RUBY
The air ratchet sends vibrations running through my hand as I mess with this stubborn bolt.

The sensation travels up my arm and through my body until I swear I can feel it buzzing inside every single one of my bones. I’m going to scream if I can’t get this part unstuck. I drop my arm and wipe some sweat off my brow—I’ve probably just smeared grease across my forehead, but I don’t even care. I need a second to recalibrate before I hoist the air ratchet again. Still, I have to get this done fast . . . or else risk dying of heatstroke.

It’s usually cold in the garage these days, despite it being fairly mild for early January, but my stepdad—and boss—Billy got a new heat pump for his office and moved his old space heater out here into the main bay. He’s helpfully pointed it at me as I shift around on my creeper, the small platform with wheels I use to slide back and forth beneath vehicles. That means it’s a steamy two thousand degrees in here today, or at least it feels like it, all while I’m stuck wrestling with a shitty stripped bolt beneath this old Jeep Wrangler instead of kiss­ing Morgan on her last full day home for winter break.

In a perfect world, I’d be glued to her side, like I have been almost every second since she got home last month. Her par­ents even came up here for the week of Christmas, since the old house still holds a lot of bad memories for her. It was nice to have everyone together, even if it does kind of suck to think that Morgan still feels like she doesn’t belong in the town she grew up in.

I’m pretty sure my brain short-circuited when my girl­friend informed me that, actually, she didn’t think it sucked at all because I felt like home to her.

Jesus. You can’t just walk around saying stuff like that and expect me not to be a ball of electrical current and dirty thoughts. Unfortunately, she said this on Christmas Eve, in front of her parents, so I had to sit there acting like everything was fine and Morgan hadn’t just flipped my universe on its head again.

Her parents went home a few days later, and I’ve pretty much had her to myself since then. I mean, we aren’t rude or anything. We hang out with her brother, Dylan, and his girl­friend, Keisha, who has become just as big of a staple around his apartment as I am. But mostly, it’s just me and her, soaking up every single second we can.

I’m trying not to begrudge her parents for coming back up for dinner last night, which I was invited to, and then staying over to take her out shopping today “one- on-one”—which I’m pretty sure was a polite way of saying no Rubys allowed.

I get it, fully, and I’m not mad or anything . . . but Morgan had already made afternoon plans with Danny, a friend of hers from the LGBTQ+ resource center that she used to work at. He’s been basically spearheading the Rainbow Athlete Coalition they started last year ever since she left for school in August. I guess they need to start figuring out how to adjust things to keep it running, now that he’s going to be graduating and going away to school this year too.

Like I said, all good things, but I wish it wasn’t so hard to balance friends and family time. I know it’s not fair, but if I could keep her all to myself? I selfishly would. I only get to see her for a few short weeks, and then she’s gone again, four hours down the highway. A whole hour closer for her parents, I might add, who go and watch her races at school all the time.

With my class and work schedule, and her class and practice schedule, Morgan and I rely on FaceTime and texting to keep the spark alive. It definitely doesn’t help that my old Ford Torino is awful on gas and hates long drives. Billy’s mostly using whatever cars we’re working up on the side as his daily driver—a 1978 Dodge Adventurer in his case, and a 1972 Chevy Camaro in mine—so he’s no help either. I took the bus down once last semester, and she took it home once too, but it’s a far cry from how much time we used to have together.

I’m just glad Billy had this job for me to do today to help pass the time. I had originally planned for today off until I heard about Morgan’s parents’ impromptu shopping trip. I’m counting down the time until I can see her tonight—just seven more hours and I’ll have her all to myself. But . . . yeah, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her all to myself now and later.

I lift the air ratchet and get back to work.

Before I can get too lost in my head about it all, someone gently kicks at my sneaker, the only visible part of me while I work on the car. I slide out from under it, fully expecting it to be Billy telling me it’s time for my lunch break, but I’m delighted to see Morgan there instead. And not just Morgan, but Morgan holding up two greasy bags of takeout from Mama’s.

I’ve never ripped my earbuds out so fast in my life.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, grinning as I sit up and grab a rag to clean my hands.

Her returning smile nearly knocks me off my feet. God, she’s beautiful, I think as she holds up the bags of food, and suddenly I’m hungry in a whole different way. I take a step closer, getting in one, two, three kisses before she takes a step back with a very amused look on her face.

“Later.” She laughs. “I only have a few minutes. I was hop­ing we could sneak in a quick lunch date before I have to meet Danny. If this is a bad time, though—”

“It’s not!” I say. “It’s a very, very good time, actually. Although it’s taking all my willpower not to tackle you into a hug right now.”

“Well, remind your willpower that this is your favorite sweater of mine, which will be ruined if we get grease on it. Maybe that will help,” she teases.

I blush, because yeah, that white fuzzy sweater, the one that hugs her in all the right ways and has a very, magically deep neckline, truly is my favorite thing that’s come out of this holiday season. Sure, Morgan’s friend Lydia gave it to her as a Christmas present, but honestly, Merry Christmas to me too.

It’s possible that I made her wear that the last time we—

“Get your head out of the gutter, Ruby Gold,” she says, shoving me toward the sink while she heads over to the picnic table that Billy has dragged into the garage for the winter. It’s become a sort of break room area, especially during the holi­days, when so many of our regular clients brought us cookies and other treats.

Taking the hint, I head to slather my hands in Gojo and scrub them under the faucet, trying not to think too hard about the fact that this is going to be the last time she shares lunch with me for weeks, if not months. Who knows how many weekends together we’ll be able to pull off this semes­ter. It’s been a nice routine the last few weeks, eating with her, I mean. The domesticity of it all—I used to think stuff like that would be mind-numbingly claustrophobic for me, but instead it’s just kind of . . . nice.

We plan to at least be together for spring break, but there’s no way I want to go that long without seeing her. We’ve already got big plans for it, even—a trip to DC where I’ll be soaking in all of the automotive exhibits at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, and she’ll be setting up meet­ings to talk with representatives on Capitol Hill. Apparently, that’s a thing that you can just . . . do? Even though she said most of the meetings will end up being with staffers, I still think it’s pretty cool.

I drop down onto the bench across from her and then think better of it, opting to slide in beside her instead. She smirks at me, pressing her leg against mine, and I press back, enjoying the closeness that I hadn’t thought we would have until tonight.

“I missed you,” she says, hooking our pinkies together the way she does whenever one of us needs reassurance. “I don’t want to go back tomorrow.”

“Quit school and stay here,” I tease, opening up my sand­wich with my free hand. “What’s one more person living at Billy’s?”

She rolls her eyes. “My parents would kill me.”

“I happen to know a guy who loves to take in parentless strays. You’d fit right in.”

I’m joking, of course. Well, about trying to get her to stay at Billy’s, not about him taking in parentless strays. I still haven’t talked to my mom since our big blowup. Not for her lack of trying, though. She’s been texting me a couple times a week, every week . . . but I’m just not ready. And I’m not sure her intentions are pure either, if I’m being honest, especially considering how she keeps sending me registration links to pageants with captions like “just in case” and “FYI.”

Morgan leans into me, swallowing her bite. “I can’t wait until we can be together all the time again.”

I turn to study her eyes, lost in the sincerity I see in them. She tilts her head, parting her lips slightly in invitation as she apparently gives up her “no time for kissing” stance. Don’t have to ask me twice. And sure, we both smell like onions from our subs now, but I don’t even care. There is less than twenty-four hours before she’s gone, and I’m not about to let a little sandwich breath stop me.

She deepens the kiss, clearly thinking the same thing, and I slide closer, holding the side of her neck as I trail my thumb against her cheek, chasing the sensation of her skin against mine. She gently nips my bottom lip and then lets me inside.

I’m a millisecond from laying her down on this pic­nic table, decorum be damned, when Billy clears his throat behind us. We jump apart, both turning guiltily to look at him.

“I was gonna see if you wanted me to grab you anything for lunch while I was out,” he says, crossing his arms as he looks between the both of us. “But I can see you all have plenty to eat.”

“Oh my god, I should have gotten you something,” Morgan says, thankfully missing the innuendo. “I’m so sorry, Billy. I wasn’t thinking—”

He holds up his hand. “It’s fine. I’ve got some parts to ship out right now anyway,” he says. “I was already planning on swinging by Mike’s Hot Dogs for lunch after.”

“I bet you are,” I say under my breath, which earns a kick to my side of the bench from him. I fight my smirk as Morgan covers her laughter with her hand. We both know his sudden and constant need for Mike’s Hot Dogs is only because he’s got a crush on the new manager there.

I may or may not have gone and scoped her out with Mor­gan when she first got back from school, feeling a little over­protective. It’s not that I don’t trust Billy; it’s just that, well, he did decide to marry my mom once upon a time. Like not just date her, but actually marry her! Sure, they eventually divorced, but can you blame me for being worried that his partner picker is broken?

The new manager, Shelby according to her name tag, seemed nice enough. He must have shown her pictures of me or something, because she gave me extra fries from day one and introduced herself saying that I must be “Billy’s Ruby.”

Billy’s Ruby. I liked the sound of that, as if I belonged here and wasn’t just some rando he felt bad for. Between that and the extra fries, I was fully on board the Shelby train. Billy was mad I went on my own, because I guess he wanted to formally introduce me to Shelby himself. He insisted on taking me right back there the next day after work to do so, but I think he regretted that pretty quick. At least, he sure looked like he was dying when I asked him right in front of her if this meant she was going to be my new mom. He’s too easy to troll sometimes.

“Tell Shelby we say hello,” Morgan says, looking at him innocently. We’ve been working her name into convos as much as possible lately just to see him trying to hide how pink in the face he gets from it.

“Oh, fuck off, both of you,” he groans. “If you’re done yank­ing my chain, I’m gonna head out. Don’t do anything I would do,” he says, his favorite parting refrain, as he heads to his truck.

Morgan checks the time on her phone, and I try and fail to ignore the way she frowns and then quickly types out a text.

“Do you have to go already?” I whine, crumpling up the wrappers of our now-finished sandwiches and tossing them in the trash.

She looks up at me with mischief in her eyes as she says, “Hey, do you think Billy would ever make out with someone at your station?”

“Ew, gross, absolutely not. Why would you even ask that?”

She flicks her eyes toward the makeshift office that Billy set up for me, just a couple temporary walls around my old workspace. It’s not much, but it gives me a place to do my homework in peace even if people are moving around in the shop.

“Because . . .” She smiles. “I may have just told Danny I was running about twenty minutes late.”

I look at her, baffled. She widens her eyes like I’m ridicu­lous for not getting it, and maybe I am, because it takes me another few seconds before it hits me.

“Right,” I say, tugging her up from the table. “We’re not supposed to do anything Billy would do.”

She taps me on the side of my head. “Glad you caught up, Ruby Gold. Only nineteen minutes now.”

“Then we better make them count,” I say, grabbing her hand and running to my “office.” And if we’re both laughing too hard to let things get too heated, well, I don’t even mind. Being alone with her, hell, being near her, is all I need. Swal­lowing each other’s laughter with our lips is just the icing on the top of a very, very fantastic cake.

2
MORGAN

I slide my messenger bag over my head and drop it onto the chair by the side table in my brother’s apartment, before sitting down to take off my shoes. One of the perks of Dylan being in a serious relationship with Keisha is the addition of a little bench in the entryway so we don’t have to try to kick off our shoes without losing our balance. She even added a cute little boot tray under it that’s perfect for these dreary, wet winter days.

Other fabulous additions include supersoft throw pillows, plus, like, some of the posters in the living room are down . . . or at least framed. Dylan is still the same old Dylan—she’s not trying to change him or take over—he’s just slightly more domestic. Less of a bachelor and more of a former feral who’s finally embracing things like soft pillows and clean towels. She hasn’t officially moved in yet, but she’s here so much I suspect the change in address won’t be too far off. I can only imagine how much more awesome the place will get with all her stuff here. The girl has taste.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call out, setting my shoes on the tray and then padding across the living room.

Dylan pokes his head out of the bathroom down the hall, where he’s clearly in the middle of brushing his teeth. He holds up his finger and then disappears, blessing the apartment with the sound of him spitting, followed by water running.

“You could shut the door, you know!” I shout after him. His hand sticks out into the hall, middle finger raised. It’s nice that we’re back to the annoying big brother / bratty little sister dynamic now that I’ve graduated and don’t live here full-time.

I’ll always appreciate the way he stepped up to help me last year, but the panicked-parent vibe he took on when I first moved in with him got old pretty soon after graduation. Like, he’s still my best friend and go-to person for life advice, but also, we bicker again like old times and he’s stopped treating me like I’m made of glass.

“Keisha coming over?” I ask when he comes out wiping his mouth on his sleeve. So much for domestication.

“Why do you think Keisha’s coming over?” he asks. “But you’re not wrong.”

“I knew it as soon as I saw you brushing your teeth.” I laugh, heading into the kitchen to grab a can of Bubly—Dylan stopped buying LaCroix when I left for school and is firmly a Bubly man now. I suspect this is another change we can credit to Keisha the Great. It smells amazing in here, and I spy what looks like pasta sauce simmering on the burner. The oven timer is on too. I hope I’m not interrupting a date or something.

Dylan walks over to the stove, aggressively stirring the sauce. “I always brush my teeth, Morgan! Don’t act like I’m some gross frat boy you met on campus.”

“Yes, in the morning and at night,” I say, kicking the door to the fridge closed and opening the can. “But not at 7:17, out of the blue, when I can tell you’ve definitely been cooking Mom’s pasta sauce recipe all day. Also, do frat boys really not brush their teeth? I don’t think that’s true.”

He playfully shoves me out of the way, reaching into the cabinet to grab some seasonings. “You tell me. I went to bar­ber school, remember? Not too many frats there.”

“Liberal arts lesbian, remember?” I laugh, pointing to myself with both thumbs. “Not hanging out with a lot of, or any, frat boys, but . . . you do remember your girlfriend was the president of her sorority, right? That makes you almost, like, a frat boy–in-law.”

He rolls his eyes as he stirs the sauce, before quickly pull­ing a fresh spoon out of the drawer beside him. He scoops a little out and passes it to me. “Here, stop talking and try this.”

It tastes just like Mom’s, and I grin. “You’re getting good at this,” I say, and Dylan preens a little.

“I’m glad you like, because it’s for you.”

“What? Seriously? I was legit going to ask you if Ruby and I should try to stay at Billy’s tonight. I figured it was like an anniversary or something with Keisha.”

My brother raises his eyebrows. “It’s your last night home and you thought I was making your favorite food for some­one else? Be for real. Keisha is coming, but this is all for you. I thought we’d chow down and maybe watch a movie or some­thing, if you can. I’m sure Ruby’s coming over, but I thought maybe we’d all . . . Whatever, either way.” He goes back to stir­ring, angling his face away.

“Dylan,” I say, “are you . . . are you sad I’m leaving?”

“No,” he says, before huffing out an aggrieved sigh and turning back to face me. “Maybe a very little bit. Like microscopically.”

“You’re microscopically sad I’m leaving? Sure, sure,” I say. “For what it’s worth, I’m going to microscopically miss you too.”

“Good. Now that that’s settled,” he says, “what time is your girlfriend coming? Mine’s almost here.”

“Pretty soon, I think. I texted her when I was on my way back from the meeting,” I say, with a little frown.

Dylan furrows his brows. “Hey, what’s that face for? Do you want it to be just us tonight? Or . . . Oh shit, did I com­pletely misread that? If you want Keisha and me out of the house so you two can—”

“No, shut up,” I say, blushing furiously. It’s one thing to abstractly know that your brother is aware of your physical relationship with your girlfriend, but it’s another for him to mention it in front of your dinner.

He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, I’m just saying!”

“Well, stop saying it!” I say, raising my arm like I’m going to fling my seltzer at him. “I wasn’t upset because of that. I’m upset because I . . . I’m going to really miss you, more than microscopically, and it’s going to be really hard to leave Ruby too. As great as all this is, it just feels a little bittersweet.”

“I get that,” he says, holding his arms out for a hug.

I step into them, knowing that if I don’t, I’ll regret it when I get to school. Dylan and I got so much closer since I moved in with him last year. Like, I had no idea he could give Dad-level hugs until then, or that he’s a total wife guy . . . er . . . girlfriend guy? He’s going to make a great partner and parent someday, probably (hopefully) to Keisha.

He pats me on the back a few times and then turns to check on the sauce before I make it awkward by doing some­thing like bursting into tears from his kindness. “You guys have been glued at the hip this whole break,” he says. “I get how that might be making things harder for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I say, dropping into a chair at the table. “You’re so lucky your girlfriend lives across town and not across the state.”

“Hey, I did the long-distance thing at barber school. Remember Alexa? We were together for a while. I know what it feels like. It sucked when we broke up. Most long-distance relationships do, though,” he says absentmindedly, and then, seeming to realize what he just said, he scrambles to overcor­rect. “I mean, not most! Some! Not you and Ruby, obviously. Me, mostly; I couldn’t hang. But Alexa and I broke up, like, weeks in. Weeks! You guys have a whole semester under your belt already. I’m sure you’ll be fine. But even if you guys aren’t fine, you’ll still be fine, you know?” He hangs his head back and lets out a groan when he sees that I’m wincing. “I’m gonna shut up now, if that’s cool. That was supposed to be a pep talk.”

I snort. “Wow, your pep talks still kinda suck, Dylan.”

“I am very well aware, Morgan,” he says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “That’s why I give the hugs, and I let Keisha or Owen do the talking.”

“Where is Owen anyway? Is he coming tonight too?” I ask.

Owen is my brother’s best friend and business partner. They own a barbershop together, but he also swings by for din­ner sometimes—especially on spaghetti nights. Owen loves to say, “I’m not your stepbrother; I’m the brother who stepped up.” I haven’t bothered pointing out that being Dylan’s best friend doesn’t make him my stepbrother, but I also can’t tell if he’s being serious when he says it. Either way, Dylan’s right; he does give good pep talks—way better than Dylan’s. But if I’m being honest, Keisha’s always take the cake.

“He wanted to, but he can’t. His cat’s super sick, and he doesn’t want to leave her alone.”

“Not Mogwai!”

“She is eighteen,” my brother says sadly. “But hey, we’re not worrying about that today, okay? Today we’re celebrat­ing a great visit home and getting excited for next semester, right?”

“That would be easier if you didn’t keep saying sad stuff!”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” he says. “I’m serious about you and Ruby, though, so forget what I said. You two can and will make it work, as long as you both want to. Look at Mom and Dad. They were high school sweethearts and went to different col­leges too. It happens.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I know we’ll be fine,” I say, because I des­perately hope it’s true.