The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free Page A

sarcasm. “I forgot. A hundred flings in a decade makes you queen of love advice.”
    She shrugs and smooths the cream with a spatula.
    I toss the clothes into the wardrobe in the bedroom, not bothering to fold them. Then it occurs to me. I walk out of the room and look at Layla. “What if Wendell’s worried I’m like you?”
    “Huh?” She licks cream from her finger.
    “That I just flit from one guy to another.” Breathless, I clear out the last drawer and pile the pants and jeans into my arms, stomping into the bedroom.
    “I don’t think he thinks that,” Layla calls.
    I cross my arms, slump against the doorframe. “Why else would he do this?”
    “The reason he gave you.” She gives a resigned smile. “Just roll with it, Z. He’ll still be living in the same town as you.”She holds out a spoonful of sweet cream. “This’ll make you feel better. Have some.”
    I shake my head and take a long breath, trying to put this into perspective. It’s true, Wendell and I can still spend all our time together when he’s not in class.
    “Hey, Z!” Layla tries again. “Why don’t we blast some monk chants and just be happy he’s coming, okay?”
    “Fine. But not monk chants.” I grab the little clock radio/CD player and flip through our case of bootlegged music. Most of our music is homemade by Layla’s ex-boyfriends. The didgeridoo player in India, the yodeler in Thailand, the whistler in Brazil. I’m trying to decide between those last two when I remember the mystery CD. As I rummage through my bag, I call out, “Layla, did you put a CD in my bag at the café today?”
    “Nope.”
    “Well, whoever put it there stole your motto.” I read from the case, “Make every day a song.”
    “My kind of guy.”
    I pry open our ancient CD player, hoping it will work. Layla bought it at a flea market in Chile, and we’ve dragged it around six countries since then. It’s on its last legs, but we can’t afford any new music-playing devices. In Ecuador last year, we vowed to save nearly half of our income for college, investments, retirement, and emergencies—which leaves little money for luxuries. I put in the CD and press play.
    The music starts slowly, one delicate guitar note pluckedafter another. Behind my eyelids emerges a single star, then another, then another. Each note is pure and bright, each as huge as a sun and as tiny as a snowflake all at once. And then comes a cascade of crystalline notes, and then the chords, deep and wide and resonant. The crescendos send me flying, weaving through galaxies, spinning like planets.
    It’s only one song, no words, but at the end of it, I realize my eyes have closed and I’m holding my breath. In the silence after the song, I press pause and look at Layla.
    She’s leaning against the kitchen doorframe, a far-off look in her eyes. “Whoever gave you that must be completely smitten.”
    “What?”
    “That music exudes love. It’s made of love. Someone’s got it bad for you, Z.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Layla looks skeptical.
    “I have a boyfriend, Layla, in case you’ve forgotten. I haven’t even looked at another guy.” As I say this, I realize I’m not being entirely truthful. There was that unusually handsome accordionist. But everyone was looking at the band, not just me. He’d have no reason to think I noticed him.
    “When did you find it?” Layla asks, spinning the pastry roller thoughtfully.
    “In Nirvana. But someone could’ve put it in my bag on the square.” I flip the case open and closed, frowning. “I don’t think it’s an admirer.”
    “Then who?”
    I search for a more logical explanation and, giving up, say with a wry grin, “A
fantôme.
”
    “A ghost?” Layla spreads another thin sheet of pastry on the
mille-feuilles
and shoots me a mischievous smile. “Then Monsieur le Fantôme chose the perfect music to reach right into your heart.”

S omeone is watching me. I’m sure of it. And I’m guessing it’s