Bridget reaches into her fanny pack and pulls something out, hiding it in her fist. “I have a surprise,” she teases.
I suppress a groan. I love Bridget, but I hate surprises.
She smiles knowingly. “Trust me,” she insists. “It’s a good surprise, Ruby.”
“Trust me,” I echo back. “There’s no such thing.”
Ryan angles for a peek. “What is it?”
Bridget’s mischievous gaze meets mine. I pray she isn’t holding what I think she’s holding. A few years back, she brought out “low-dose” gummy-bear edibles, and I woke up spooning a bag of Pirate’s Booty, unexplained frosting on my cheeks.
Luckily, all she reveals is a folded-up piece of paper, its scraggly edges clearly ripped from a notebook. “Please tell me that’s not a note from high school,” I say, pulling a face.
“Better,” Bridget teases, unfurling the page slowly for dramatic effect. “It’s a precious artifact from sleepovers of yore. A game of MASH from seventh grade, lovingly preserved by yours truly.”
That pulls a laugh out of me. “No way.”
I haven’t thought about MASH in years. We used to love playing the fortune-telling game. Sitting cross-legged on our sleeping bags, we’d imagine who we might become someday, painstakingly trying to rig the game to make it match our ideal futures, as if any of the options we listed might actually come true.
“What’s mash?” Connor asks.
“Mansion, apartment, shack, house,” Ryan says.
“You pick four choices for different categories,” Bridget explains. “Your future partner, your job, your car, pets, how many kids you’ll have—”
“How many pools,” Ryan adds.
“How many pools?” Connor asks, bewildered.
Ryan throws up a hand. “Yeah. It’s a whole thing.”
“—and then you get a number, you cross off items, and you’re left with your future,” Bridget finishes brightly.
Connor’s brow furrows, as if he’s trying to understand the appeal.
This is what I love most about him. He’s not a roll-the-dice, leave-it-to-fate kind of guy. He sets goals and achieves them. The future Connor and I mapped out together isn’t a game; it’s a plan. A shared folder full of spreadsheets, every color-coded table outlining what we’ll do in a month, a year, five. He does what he says he’ll do, as predictable as the drunken dance party Ryan will start before the night ends, my brother’s enthusiastic Macarena always on standby.
Connor William Reynolds III is the safest bet I’ve ever made.
Bridget clears her throat, brandishing the loose-leaf page like it’s a medieval scroll. “Lady and gentlemen, twenty-two years ago, here’s where thirteen-year-old Ruby Wynne was headed.” She smiles to herself. “Ruby lives in a mansion here in Lakeville withnot one but two pools, and she drives a tie-dye Jeep Wrangler.” A pause for our laughter. “She has zero children, exactly thirteen pet fish, and an illustrious career as—drumroll, please—a roller-skating waitress.”
I burst out laughing, my hands covering my face, when Ryan knocks his shoulder into mine. “How did I forget about your big dreams of opening a roller-rink restaurant?”
I’d forgotten, too.
There used to be a small rink at the edge of town, and in middle school, we’d skate in the afternoons before eating at the diner next door—one of the few spots that offered allergy-friendly options for Ryan. I wanted to combine the two places. Back then, it seemed like the perfect way to spend a day: gliding among the booths, carrying trays of food to friends.
On a laugh, Connor’s head juts back. “ThisRuby wanted a roller-rink restaurant?”
Connor went to our rival high school, and we didn’t date until we connected in our early thirties, so he didn’t bear witness to my awkward years. Or my dumb ones.
My cheeks flush. “It was silly. I wanted neon lights and tables that glowed in the dark.”
“So, the obvious path was accounting,” Ryan deadpans.
I grin, but as Connor squeezes my knee, I feel the strange gap between then and now.ThisRuby hasn’t been on skates in years.ThisRuby chose finance and Connor for a reason: Real life doesn’t leave room for silly games.
“Time for Ruby’s other half,” Bridget says, gathering the group’s attention. “Believe it or not, that title belongs to…” She arches an eyebrow. “What do you know? Penn Hayes.”