Chapter Twelve
Jem
Ruby’s creeping into my life; the way the morning sun shines through the curtains and crosses the bed until eventually the light shines in your face and you can’t hide anymore. The brightness is outside? waiting. You just have to get up and let the warmth in.
Her presence in the house isn’t just the scent of her perfume that drifts toward me when I walk through the door; but little things like somebody else’s food in my cupboard, bits and pieces of her life spread across the kitchen counter. Ruby tidies after herself, attempting to minimise her impact, but however hard we hide from each other and stick to minimal contact, we’re clearly sharing the same space. The last person who stayed here was Bryn and that was for three days. Ruby’s been here over a week now.
Usually, I’m out until the evening, but I arrive home early from a meeting and come across Ruby sitting on the floor of the downstairs lounge with paper surrounding her, lidless coloured marker pens spread across the table. Her guitar is slung over her skinny shoulders, hair pulled on top of her head in a loose bun. When she looks around in surprise, the thing that hits me the most is her face is clear of make-up.
With her pale lips and eyes free from heavy eyeliner, Ruby’s vulnerability shows through. She looks her age for once; but in her eyes, she’s older. We’re caught in one of our moments, and this time I can see more of her because she’s only half Ruby. Is this Tuesday? She rubs her long fingers across her lips and, as ever, I wish I could taste them.
“Sorry, I’ll clear up.” Ruby pulls her guitar from over her shoulder and gathers the pens from the table.
“You don’t have to, I was going upstairs anyway.”
“To your den?” she asks with a smile.
“To my den.” I pick up a red marker. “Sweet pens. I didn’t realise you liked colouring.”
“Ha, ha. I’m writing.” Ruby lifts up a piece of paper containing unintelligible lines in different colours.
“Secret code? Cool.”
“I guess it is.”
I take the paper and examine the markings. I know what this is; and if I’m right, this is something else I wish wasn’t part of Ruby. “I can decipher this.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “Sure you can.”
Sitting on the leather sofa, I pick up her guitar. Ruby opens her mouth to protest, as I would if somebody picked up one of mine. They’re an extension of myself; touching them is like touching me. “Pass me a sheet,” I say as I loop the strap over my neck.
Ruby’s way of writing the notes is different, the scrawl harder to decipher because her colours are different. I play a couple of notes attempting to figure out which colours they match. The chords fall into place and I strum the opening lines of the song she’s writing.
“How can you know that?” she asks quietly.
“This is music. It’s a bit tricky because your E chord is yellow, that’s the colour of my C,” I tell her. “And your C Minor is orange, mine’s green. Some of our notes match though.”
Ruby lowers herself onto the glass coffee table and continues to stare. “You have synaesthesia? You see music as colours?”
I nod and concentrate on playing. “This is half-decent. Did you write this today?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you always write music like this?”
“The only way I know how, I taught myself.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “You are kidding me?”
“No. And thanks, a compliment from you means something.”
“Sure does, I don’t deal them out much.”
The look that passes is too heavy with the unsaid, the opportunity to talk about what else we have in common. I’m not sure what Ruby sees in my eyes, but she looks away.
Ruby carefully places the lids on the remaining pens. “But, really? You have synaesthesia, too?”
“Yeah, all the best musicians do, you know. For instance… me.”
“Sure, Jem Jones.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was weird, seeing colours when I listened to music until someone told me what it was.”
“I guess that makes us both weird then.”
I can’t. She’s pushing at the edges of my world, another part of Ruby slipping through and joining me.
“I’ve never met another like me before,” she says.
“Oh, I’d say we’re unique people.”
“I doubt that’s the word most people use.”
We know the truth here, we’re unique; but so similar it threatens. If she were Dylan or Jax, I’d grab my guitar and join her in playing, write a song with her. But not Ruby, no more. The pale-faced girl came here because she needed to escape, needed my help and protection. I’m not tangling with another broken girl.
I hand Ruby the sheet and pull her guitar off me. “Cool, well, I’ll look forward to hearing the song when you’re finished.”
The thread of connection snaps, springing back and Ruby attempts to hide her disappointment that I’m not staying to chat.
“Back to hiding?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
She points upwards at my bedroom. “In your den.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“It’s safer there.” She gathers her pens. “Nobody can touch you.”
Of course, she understands.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the sun streaming through the window. The sound of Ruby’s song travels upstairs, through my open bedroom door, following me. I close my eyes and lie back on the unmade bed. Individually, the notes have the colours from her sheet; together the song has another, a rich purple that fills my mind.
Why does she have to be so much of who I am?