June went to Ruby's on Sunday to collect the pages.
Ruby had printed the original account. It lay on the table in a plain folder, June's name visible at the top of the first page. June hadn't looked at it for months. Seeing her own words without Ruby's face or Eli's voice made her want to close the folder immediately.
She did.
“I've deleted the copies,” Ruby said. “From the phone and the computer. Eli's said he's done the same. There isn't a continuation.”
June put the folder in her bag.
Ruby was wearing an old sweatshirt with one sleeve pushed up. The room wasn't made ready for a difficult conversation. There was washing in a basket, a shopping receipt on the table, an apple with a bruise turned upward. June had come into rooms like this hundreds of times and put down the things she was carrying.
Today she kept the bag beside her feet.
“I wanted to say it without everybody,” Ruby said.
June nodded.
Ruby stood for a while, then sat opposite her.
“I'm sorry I took it. I knew it was private. I didn't accidentally forget that.”
June looked at the folder inside her open bag.
“And when you noticed,” Ruby continued, “I wanted you to help me keep it. I kept asking. I made you feel like you weren't being a good friend unless you said something that would work for me.”
She stopped. June didn't help her find another sentence.
“I miss talking to you,” Ruby said. “Then I hear myself saying that and it sounds like I'm asking for something again.”
June looked at her. “I miss it too.”
Ruby's mouth trembled. She didn't smile.
“When we were at the auditions,” June said, “I thought we'd got an afternoon back.”
“I know.”
“I liked the singer. I wanted to go with you to see her.”
“She'll be in the second night.”
June nodded. They both knew where the conversation would usually go: tickets, dates, whether they should eat first. Neither took it there.
Downstairs, someone opened the dry cleaner's door. They could hear the bell through the floor. Ruby looked toward the hall.
“The woman downstairs asked about my birthday bag,” she said, then stopped. “Sorry. That isn't—”
“The dumpling one?”
Ruby nodded. “I finally took it in.”
“What did she say?”
“She said they do suede, not lunch.”
June laughed before she could remember that laughing would hurt. Ruby laughed too, one surprised burst. For a moment they looked at each other the way they had outside the shop and in the dark cinema, sharing a thing nobody else needed to understand.
Then June lowered her head. The laughter had left her with tears. Ruby pushed a tissue packet across the table, not into her hand. June took one.
“It doesn't mean it's all gone,” Ruby said softly.
“No.”
“I don't know what to do with that.”
June wiped her face. “Neither do I.”
They sat while the bell sounded again downstairs. Ruby's phone lit up beside the apple. She turned it over without looking.
“I've got work tomorrow,” she said. “Normal shift.”
“Good.”
Ruby looked at the table. “Some people have been kind. Some haven't. I keep wanting to tell you each thing.”
June put the tissue in her coat pocket.
“I can't be that person now,” she said.
Ruby stayed still.
“I don't want daily messages. I don't want us to keep making plans and seeing whether I can manage them. I can't be your closest friend after this.”
Ruby nodded, then had to nod again before speaking.
“Okay.”
June wanted to add something about someday. She couldn't know it, and she didn't want to leave Ruby holding a word she had said because she couldn't bear the silence.
“I did love you,” Ruby said.
June looked up. “You made a lot of days better.”
It was true enough to hurt them both.
Ruby began to cry quietly. June sat for another minute, letting her do it without moving her chair nearer.
Then she took the bag and stood. Ruby stood too. At the door, they had to pass close to each other. Neither tried to hug.
“You've got the pages?” Ruby asked.
“Yes.”
“All right.”
June went down the stairs. Ruby stayed in the doorway above her. The bell sounded as somebody went into the shop, and June stepped aside to let him through with a suit bag.
Outside, she took the shorter way home. Halfway there, a poster in a window advertised the revue. She stopped to find the singer's night.
She still wanted to hear her. She could buy one ticket when she was ready.