The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free

air. I feel a strange gratitude to whoever put the CD in my bag. It’s as if somehow, this person knew what I needed.

    When I walk through our apartment’s door, breathless from three flights of stairs, Layla’s in the kitchen, baking. Her violet cotton tunic is covered in flour, and her hair, slipping from an orange silk scarf, is splattered with bits of cream. A paper-thin sheet of dough is spread on thecounter, surrounded by mixing bowls and bags of sugar and flour.
    “Hello, love! I’m making
mille-feuilles
. Pastries with a thousand leaves!” She holds up a ball of dough in one hand and a pastry roller in the other. This kitchen is better stocked than any other we’ve lived in, and Layla’s determined to figure out what every last utensil is for and use it. “Want to help, Z?”
    “Nope.” I dump my bag on the snow-white sofa. Our apartment matches the town—creams, buttery yellows, silvers, pale pinks, whites. This is one of the only furnished apartments we’ve lived in, probably because it’s the richest country we’ve ever lived in. In the past, our apartments didn’t even come with toilet seats or stoves, for fear the tenants would run off with them. This apartment has all the bells and whistles, from lemon zesters to stacks of glossy art magazines to framed prints on the walls. The closet is full of fluffy white towels and neat plastic caddies for cleaning supplies and toiletries.
    I was proud to offer Wendell such luxurious accommodations, but now it doesn’t matter. I pull my clothes from the antique chest of drawers in the living room and carry them by the armful to the bedroom.
    “What are you doing, love?”
    “Moving my stuff back into the bedroom.” I work quickly, wanting to get it over with. “Change of plans. Wendell’s staying with a host family.”
    “Why?”
    “His parents wanted him to.” I keep my voice flat, emotionless. “Something about too much pressure.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry, love.” Layla sweeps into the living room, gives me a floury hug, and kisses my head.
    I stiffen. “Every time I’m happy, something happens to end it. It never lasts.” I grab an armful of shirts from the bottom drawer. “I should be used to it by now. I don’t know why I thought this thing with Wendell would be different.”
    Layla gets on her Rumi-quoting face—raising her eyebrows slightly, half closing her eyes, giving a spacey hint of a smile.
    Before she starts talking, I’m already rolling my eyes.
    “
You must have shadow and light source both,
” she says. “
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
”
    “I’m not laying my head anywhere,” I snap, slamming a drawer shut. “I’m going to start listening to my head instead of my heart. Getting rid of any delusions I had about things going perfectly this summer.”
    As Layla lowers her eyelids and opens her mouth to respond, I add, “And no more Rumi, please.”
    She closes her mouth, walks back into the kitchen, and rolls out the dough on the counter, spritzing it with a little water bottle. After a moment, she says, “Well, maybe it’s best he has his own place.”
    I snatch a stray sock off the floor and stare at her. “You actually agree with his parents?”
    She pushes a strand of hair from her face with her wristand squeezes doodles of white cream onto the sheet of dough. “It’s been nearly a year. People change. It might take some—”
    This is an unexpected twist. She hardly ever takes the responsible, maternal route. “We e-mail five times a day, Layla! I know him much better than I did last summer.”
    So much for getting along like sisters. Although, maybe this is how sisters get along. As the sisterless, brotherless product of a one-night stand, I wouldn’t know. Since that fateful night, Layla has only once come close to a long-term relationship. And thanks to Layla, I have absolutely no idea what it’s like to have a romance that lasts more than a month. I can’t help mustering up some