Lost King by Piper Lennox (moboreader txt) 📗

know. It doesn’t give me that sense of accomplishment you’re describing.”

“What does?”

I feel my forehead crease. My mind’s a complete blank. I wish I could blame it on being put on the spot, but that’s not it.

“You don’t know,” she says, holding her coffee in both hands under her chin. I watch the steam roll past her eyes.

“Probably a symptom of Bored Housewife Syndrome.”

“Bored Rich Housewife Syndrome. It’s a hallmark trait.”

“What’s your deal with rich people, huh?” I steal the edges of her crust and slide her my plate of, by this point, pretty much nothing but filling. “I get it, we’re not the best group to work for, sometimes—”

“Most times.”

“—but I get the feeling it runs a lot deeper than that.”

She finishes her coffee, then shakes her head when I offer her mine. I watch her shiver lower in the booth and pull her sleeves over her fingers.

“I’m just saying, wealth contributes to the syndrome. A lot. When you have everything and more, what do you work towards? They don’t just go out and get any old job or hobby.”

“You’re saying rich people can’t clean houses or wait tables?”

“I’m saying they’ve got no need to do those things, so they never would. Because no one would, if they didn’t have to. But when there’s a need you have to meet, you do whatever it takes to get there. You take paths you wouldn’t otherwise take. And you might realize, along the way, that you actually enjoy it.”

“That didn’t work for my dad.” I flick an apple off the table into a napkin. “He loved zoology. Then he had different needs to meet—or wants, depending on how you look at it—and it changed the entire trajectory of his life.” I pause. “Of all our lives.”

Ruby studies me closely, picking at split ends in her hair without looking at them. “That’s because your dad gave up what gave him a sense of purpose. And that’s really all I’m saying, here: being rich, to the point where every last need is met, will leave you miserable if you forget about the things money can’t buy you. Like family, and friends...feeling like what you do matters. Even if it only matters to you.”

I sit back in the booth and consider this while Ruby flags down the waitress for our check. She doesn’t let me pay.

When we’re back outside, shivering as she digs for her keys, I say, “Piano.”

“Huh?”

I scoop up her keys when she drops them, steering her to the passenger side instead; she looks sleepy, whereas my energy’s still at daytime levels. “You asked what gives me that sense of accomplishment,” I explain, once we’re inside. “I think that’s playing piano. And writing music.”

“You compose, too?”

“Used to.” I start the ignition, flexing the numbness out of my fingers against the wheel. “But then one day I woke up, and I realized everything’s been done before. No matter what I created, there was something just like it already out there.”

Ruby’s quiet a minute, then snorts. “That’s such a stupid mindset.”

I laugh too, as a reflex. “Excuse me?”

“Who cares if it’s been done before? So has everything.” She points through the windshield, at the neon sign reading “Fresh Pies, Baked Daily” in the diner window.

“Like, okay: how many diners and pie shops exist on this planet, do you think? Millions? But new ones keep opening, every single day.” She drops her hand. “You shouldn’t create something in the hopes of being the first to do it. You create it with the goal of being the best.”

“I don’t think pies and music are all that comparable, first of all.” As I back out of the space, putting my arm behind her seat as I twist, I purposely graze her neck. “And second, you’re proving my point. Not only has everything been done before, but there’s always someone doing it better.”

“You don’t have to be the best to the whole world, you know. Just to one person.”

I stop and look at her. The red and purple neon of the shop’s sign paints this addictive nightlife wreath around her head.

“Who?” I ask, my voice way quieter than I expected it to be.

She sits back with her shoes against the dash. “Anyone. A friend, a stranger...even just yourself.”

I get quiet, then start driving. The scent of dough and apples and cinnamon gets rinsed from our clothes in the dry air of the heater.

“Not yet,” she says, when I put on the signal to turn into my neighborhood. She points ahead. “I still have some ideas. And your birthday still has four hours left.”

15

I direct Theo the same way I did on our first date, sans coin-flipping: silently nudging or pointing at each intersection until, at last, we reach our destination.

“An ice rink?” He laughs under his breath. “Does it stay open this late, when tourist season’s over?”

“It does when you know the owner.” I give him a smug smile when, upon entering the lobby, I get an effusive greeting from Marcus at the rental counter.

He gives us our skates and waves off my money. “You wanna pay me back,” he says, “you tell your aunt to message me on Facebook.”

“Give it up,” I laugh over my shoulder, as Theo and I lace up on a wobbly bench by the rink entrance. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, Marc. Why are you still trying to land Thalia? She’s not interested.”

“You can land any fish you want, with two things. The right bait, and patience.”

“You’re halfway there, then.”

My joke earns me a smile, a middle finger, and a loud slam of the rental counter window.

Theo laughs